This will hurt me...

Someone may be able to guess what today's photo is of, you can find them on a lot of streets around these parts. I know that certain readers (well, one, hello Julie ), have been asking for more poems, and I felt a bit guilty just stopping like that. But as I said before, poetry was only ever a diversion, as I generally consider myself a prose man. I've got books filled with little bits an pieces, beginnings of things, endings of things, dialogue, short stories, complicated narratives, simple word play, outlines of novels never written; you name it, I've started it. So, instead of giving you a poem that I am probably less than happy with, I'd share an experiment in prose from the dark ages of 1998 that I remember liking at the time. I've edited it slightly, chopped a bit here, fiddled with a word there, so let's call this a "2008 re-mix". Now, some people might find this tricky to read, but my advice is to just let it flow, don't stop too long firs

Launceston and back today. Throw in a baby screaming all evening, a stroppy, whining toddler and we're talkin' good times ! Maybe the marathon yelling session will mean an equally long sleep. One can dream, can't I?

Let’s face it, I love meat. If I worked at Woolworths, it would be in the meat department (another good name for a gang). So I must apologise in advance to any vegan, vegetarian or ovo-lactarian readers out there. It’s just that animals are so very, very tasty . Some hold that ‘the cuter the beast, the greater the feast’. I myself abide by the maxim ‘a happy animal is a delicious animal’. In this vein, I make every effort to source my meat (ooh err etc ) from sensitive, metrosexual, new age butchers. Now I do not shy away from the plain facts about meat, and – by and large – am prepared to eat creatures with heads still attached (provided they are BBQ’d or roasted; no boiling). Oh, and I don’t like tearing the heads off king prawns. The shifty little buggers stare at you like you’ve just farted or something. I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could spit ‘em. Anyway, to the question! For your money, what do you think is the world’s tastiest animal? If you just can’t bring yourself to

Here is a lovely image with which to start your day. Isn't he lovely? His chubby little thighs are like marshmallow manna from heaven. Now that he can smile, the screaming is slightly more tolerable .

Who knew when taking this photograph this morning, on the brief walk to the bus stop, that such a transformation would occur? Destiny thrusts herself – like a drunken and horny uni student – upon me! Prudency and constraints of time render it difficult to expand, but in some respects I feel like Napoleon after the Egyptian expedition . France is in dire straits. Rudderless, she drifts toward a precipice. In times of disorder, opportunities present themselves. Does one seize power from such disarray? Might one better consolidate one’s own position amongst a cabal of like-minded souls? Decisions, decisions. Interesting times are afoot...

A child of my time, throughout my life I have on occasion taken to imagining my daily humdrum existence in cinematic terms. I’d think about lighting, angles, character arcs and plot development. This was no more prevalent than in those blissful days of University. Not very healthy, perhps, but it managed to pass the time when all one had to do was drift into university, crap on a bit, and then back home for an extended session of Syphon Filter 2 on the Playstation with a glass of cider set to one side and a jazz cigarette at the ready. In those heady days of youth (well, early-twenties), life was terribly easy : lots of reading; writing the odd poem or bit of prose; waxing lyrical on the subject of political theory and historical understanding a few hours a day; exceptional [if I do say so myself] marks and – most importantly – scholarship money . Of course, this lifestyle afforded moments of deeply serious reflection amongst a select group of esteemed colleagues , very few of them a

Henry again. I love the little bloke an awful lot, and very much enjoy his company, but by golly he is always 110% full on. There isn’t a lot of down time when he’s awake and firing on all cylinders. Take the scene above: I’ve just spent five minutes setting the baby, but now Ezra is screaming again and Jen is attempting to calm him, I’m cooking dinner, and all I have to do is toss the couscous (ooh err...?) and we are done. I’ve already given the lad a cheesy spaghetti thing that he seems quite taken with. He’s being nice and quite which means “I must check on him”, and wouldn’t you know it, cheesy spaghetti everywhere! That said, I am supremely confident that as he grows, Henry will turn out a fine young man. Dictatorial tendencies aside, he already says "please" and "thank you (well, "ta") unprompted, and has a terribly sweet nature underneath all of the vigour. All we need to do is channel the vitality towards good , rather than evil .

I'm not entirely sure what this building is used for, all that I know that it looks too haphazardly arranged for my liking. It’s all jutting edges and there are too many windows where the sun is completely blocked out. Looking at it closely, for some reason my mind slips into a gear that I like to call "New York Taxi Guy” it’s still me, but I feel the need to express myself through an imagined character "You wanna know what I think? Lemme tell ya what I think. I think that they should knock it down and build a great big waterslide. Yeah, a waterslide , that's right. A really curly wurly one that goes on and on and on. With a theme. Maybe convicts. Yeah, convicts, that’s the ticket. They wanna tap into that whole Van Diemen’s Land convict vibe. But it’ll never happen. Nuthin’ ever happens in this goddamn place. The problem with this town and these goddamn people is that they just don't dream big enough. No sense of the possibilities. And it’s a goddamn shame, th

I am not too proud to admit that deep down I’m a bit of a flag fancier . Now, this shouldn’t be confused with a flag waver , who have a tendency to annoy me. Similarly, I’ve never died for a flag (as it strikes me as a pretty silly thing to be dying for). But from an aesthetic and sartorial perspective, a flag can make or break a country when it comes to style . A number of years ago (1999?), I was very much amused to find Josh Matthews’ review of all the national flags in the world. I must admit, that I like his method, and think that he makes some very good points. At the very least, clicking the link to see his grading of national flags will give you a compact page featuring all the flags for your perusal. Of course, flags are not limited to countries, so feel free to include sub-state flags if you wish. So with this in mind, please consider my two pronged question of the day: Do you have a favourite flag? Is there a flag that makes you blush at the blatancy of its fashion faux par

I couldn’t help but post a second photo for the day. I see this one as the counterweight the one I think of as Henry as Vladimir Ilyich Lenin . Consider for a moment that unyielding gaze. That firmly clenched fist. This is a fellow not to be taken lightly.

The title today is a favourite of mine from Abe Lincoln (the President, although it does rather sound like the astute gentleman from Brookville, Ohio ). I think that captures very well my feelings toward the now (for the most part) privatised Australian telecommunications giant Telstra . Once the envy of the world, they are now renowned for their poor service. Let’s just say that the transition from bloated relic of an era where state ownership was the go into a competitive field where dynamic responses to technological change is crucial in maintaining relevance has been somewhat difficult for the artist formally known as Telecom Australia. Certainly this Geilston Bay resident feels so, anyway! I myself would have written "Typical Bloody Telstra !!! ", but I am known for the odd dramatic flourish now and again... [Now don’t forget today’s question , there is a lot riding on this...]

I mused on Mr McClagan’s fine blog the other day on a gang that struck terror in the heart of Burnie many years ago now that went by the tremendously awesome name of (wait for it), the “ Big Boys ”. You just wet your pants, didn’t you? In a similar way, around my way these days, there seems to be a comparable posse going by the moniker of the “ Risdon Vale Boyz ”, which is often shortened to “ RVB ”. Obviously more gangsta than the “Big Boys” (the telling substitution of the ‘s’ with a ‘z’ is a sure sign of genuine African Americanism), the Risdon Vale Boyz are clearly hardcore, hence the “ RVB 4 Life ” tagged all over not just Risdon Vale, but Geilston Bay and Lindisfarne too! Lest you think that I live in the Hobartian equivalent of Compton or Watts, let’s just say that the RVBs are more Play School than Old Skool . That said, the gangs have got me thinking, thus today’s question: If you were starting up a gang of your own, what would you call yourselves? Again, be as brief as you

I realise that I haven’t featured a cartoon in a while, so I thought that I’d shared the latest from xkdc , a leader in the art of tragicomic ‘toons. I did enjoy this very much, and would be quite happy to claim this as my own epitaph. Unfortunately my mobile is always switched to silent vibrate (oh er...), and I only ever answer calls from Jen anyway!

Look at this photo today, Henry in the bath , definitely one for the ladies. For mine, young Henry here evokes Mr Darcy here, strapping, proud, defiant; every inch of him the gentleman. Take a second glance, and he’s Bond , Henry Bond . Look again and it’s Sir Thomas More . Truly a man for all seasons . You have to admit that he looks the sort of fellow that can run the mile in three minutes, tie a Windsor knot with his eyes closed, wrangle a dozen rogue elephants with his bare hands, sing a baritone like Paul Robeson, and solve the Da Vinci Code in mere seconds. Think MacGyver in a cloth nappy. Now don’t confuse the dripping liquid down his rippling chest with mere bathwater. Oh no. That’s sweat. The sweat that can only come with extreme physical exertion. I had him out back all of yesterday breaking boulders with his teeth. Did he complain...? What do you think? [Don’t forget today’s question , now don’t be shy, this is social science in action...]

Yesterday I mentioned a revolutionary new globally interactive Blog-cept, and here it is. It’s a question of the day ! Yeah, underwhelming I know. But I am interested in the fact that Google analytics tells me that I have quite a diverse readership out there. Over the last week alone, I’ve had visitors from 66 countries. Now I want to harness that collective knowledge by asking you some probing questions. I’ve already written the questions, and they’ll be appearing at Noon (Hobart time) for each day for the next business week, yes. that means five days of questions. As it is only fair, I will answer my own question first on the comments page. You can be as concise or as loquacious as you wish. As is my wont, I’m open for answers as long as this here Internet lasts. My intention is to give it a bit, l crunch the data and then wax lyrical as to what I might be able to conclude from it. Onto the question! Given the linguistic and cultural diversity lurking out there, I’m looking to you

Propaganda from the outside looks like a pretty cushy gig, working up the masses with simplistic slogans has never been too hard, let’s face it. Consequently, this blog has featured its fair share of it. Some of my favourites include: The impressive North Korean campaign to defeat imperialist wolves through a superior swimming technique . Rose cheeked children wish East Germany all the best . The cheeky “I’ll let you do filthy, disgusting things to me if you risk your life for the nation”. Chipper’s “it must suck to be a JAP kid!” The loneliest communist in the United States lives in Mississippi. Failing to resist the temptation of the pleasuring of the self will bring about the rumination of a young man. W hy are we fighting? For a lamb in a bow with a laurel wreath on its head and a flower tucked behind its ear, of course! Above is a new one to add to that list. Here we have a novel bit of propaganda on a postcard, dating from the Spanish Civil War (an interesting time for those

The no bill posters building that I featured yesterday also seems to be a favourite of the anti-New World Order crowd (remember them?) I quite like their stencil work (it’s better than the “dick” written on our fence), even if you get a little tired of being told how horrid Americans are (and, consequently, how horrid anyone is that might take issue with lumping 400 million-odd into one vile basket). You see, there is something inherently offensive about people that are seemingly driven to lecture high-minded principles about the way one should or should not live (and indeed the way that one should or should not think ; yet at the same time exhibit a kind of hypocrisy that is as extreme as their political and cultural viewpoints. Of course, this tendency towards extremism does not limit itself to a particular set of pre-conditions (other than ideological certainty). I have seen it in libertarians and communists; Christians, Muslims and atheists; left and right. On one score, I can’t he