I love mankind; it's people I can't stand.

I grew up in a town. As a little-un, I even thought that it was a decent-sized town. When Australia's Bicentennial year finally arrived, the bustling metropolis of Burnie - located in the stunning north-west coast of Tasmania - boasted an impressive TWENTY-FOUR THOUSAND people, and a figure no less impressive than [deep breath] By the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories: Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Jamaica, Barbados, the Bahamas, Grenada, Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Tuvalu, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Belize, Antigua and Barbuda, and Saint Kitts and Nevis; Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith [exhale] Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the second officially pronounced Burnie a genuine, bona fide, one hundred percent dinky di CITY.

It doesn't matter that the harsh realities of the post-industrial economy has driven a retraction the hugely impressive numbers seen in the heady days of 1988, because once it is granted by the Queen herself, no-one can take the label CITY away from the city of Burnie.

Of course, as one of the casualties of the harsh realities of the post-industrial economy, I no longer live in Burnie. Forced by cruel fate to pitch my tent elsewhere, I landed in the state capital, Hobart (population 206,000). So, as you can see, I know all about big cities.

This week, as I may have mentioned, I was marooned in Sydney for three days. Sydney has a population somewhere in the vicinity of four and a half million. Like Burnie, it is also a city. Reflecting upon these numbers, it appears to me that 4.5 million people in one place seems like a stupid idea.

If you've ever been to a party where more people show up than are invited, you should get my drift. Trapped in a room that is too small with too many other people, some pleasant, some rude; some quiet, others loud; people having a laugh and people having a bit of biff. It all gets too much and eventually you are face with the truth that everybody is standing just too close by for comfort. Thrashing about like Cathy on the moors, eventually you find yourself huddled and sweating in the backyard looking for some respite.

Or maybe you don't. Anyway, it seems to me that there has to be some kind of threshold that any sensible person is able to detect. I would suggest that 4.5 million people in one eensy weensy/itsy bitsy city is some way over that threshold. What do you reckon? How many people is too many?

Ads that I like disturb me very much #67

I am kind of lost for words when it comes to today's ad. The kindest thing that I can say is that they image and tagline combination seems somewhat poorly chosen. I know that society is used to the sexualisation of wee bairns in this heady age of Bratz, Brittany and bellbottom trousers [look, I've had a long day, all right, and alliteration sells papers].

Yet the notion of childlike innocence as a signifier for getting one's horn on, as advanced in the obviously liberal 1970s is off-putting to those of us with [warning: universal moral judgement coming up] healthy regard for what is or is not sexy.

[Note: the one thing that amused me most about this ad, was the resemblence in make up with some of Bill Henson's models, you know, the ones that were in no way meant to be 'sexy'...]

Everything comes to him who hustles while he waits.

I think that I can summarise many of the presentations witnessed as such:

Thinking about data.
Talking about data.
Collecting data.
Thinking about data.
Talking about data.
Crunching data.
Interpreting data.
Manipulating data.
Talking about data.
Thinking about data.
Talking about data.
Aggregating data.
Collecting data.
Thinking about data.
Talking about data.
(Repeat to fade...)

To achieve great things, two things are needed: a plan, and not quite enough time.

A pigeon in the sandpit, just one of the monstrosities to be found in the big city.

So my little contribution to the conference (it's international, don't you know) has come and gone. Given the hectic nature of work at the moment, the arrival of teeth on teeth on the Ezra front, and the terrible twos on the Henry front, and the fact that I left all preparation to literally the last minute (again), I am inclined to give myself a reasonably good mark.

One day I will learn...

If ignorance is bliss, why aren't there more happy people in the world?

Sometimes when you have small children, you can go a little mad. Small children - sweet as they are - can get so annoying that you'd be forgiven for wishing that you had a long break from them.

A teething baby, however cute and regardless of how much he smiles, still has a tendency to wake up every hour-and-a-half. You know, that starts to get to you after a while. That said, you can be very forgiving of a baby. A baby is just a baby. A toddler, on the other hand...

Well, a toddler is a toddler. A toddler can be a quite engaging chap. A toddler - a bright one, anyway - can put together simple sentences. A toddler can answer questions. A toddler can get out some play dough, bring it across to you and plead, "Daddy make little balls please".

That might not impress you, but when said child didn't say much more than shouting "MORE!" at you for months on end, I guarantee that you'd find it extraordinary too.

Yet at the same time, this little person will refuse to tell you when he has soiled his pants, despite

a) him knowing full well what soiling one's pants means; and

b) producing such a god-awful stench from the trouser department that any denial is rendered superfluous.

The actual scenario does not worry me too much. I understand not wanting to admit that you have crapped in your pants again. I would imagine that it is a difficult thing to share with somebody. What I don't understand, and what I find most frustrating, is why this embarrassment translates into a supreme difficulty in getting that nappy off, wiping away the offensive substance, and then getting a fresh one on.

The best way that I can explain what exquisite torture changing Henry's nappy is at the moment is by sharing the fact that one looks forward to the trip to the laundry to scrub human faeces off the nappy to prepare it for soaking. At least the shit does not wriggle while you are scrubbing at it.

Then there are the tantrums, the constant destruction, the picky eating, the sticky fingers, the hidden caches of food, the contradictory impulses, the mixed messages, the common assaults, the cruel emotional judgements; life with a toddler can be like life with a bi-polar, menopausal invalid with learning difficulties.

With this in mind, you'd be forgiven for thinking that a time away from the gruesome twosome would be a blissful respite from the tempest that home life tends to be at the moment.

But oddly it isn't. All you can do is think about Henry's sad little eyes as you waved goodbye to him, Ezra's tired face as you stepped out to the plane and the lovely Jennifer, who be left alone to manage two very strong-willed future superstars while I have to be in a place as abominable as Sydney.

Who would believe me when I say that the absence of the pugnacious pair would result in a hole in the heart (that goes all the way the Chinatown)?

Let a hundred flowers bloom: let a hundred schools of thought contend.

They put me up in Chinatown. Staying in a former opium den, I suspected that the Triads have an investment of some kind in the joint. That said, I'd rather the Triads on my side than on the other side.

Notorious gangland activity aside, Chinatown sure can put of a spread in the grub department. I gave the flamethrower duck a miss [c'mon fellas, was it really necessary to leave the head, neck and feet on? That's no way to dispose of a body!].

However, once you get past the heads, feed, gizzards and so on, you can discover a whole world (well, continent) of very lovely food. That's not to say that creepy-looking food can't mean tasty-eating. I just don't have the nerve to nibble on a deep fried duck's bill - Daffy, what have they done to you?!?! - while his cold, unforgiving eyes stare straight at me, judging me, reproaching me.

I am certain that it would mean indigestion.

The greatest of faults, I should say, is to be conscious of none.

So the lack of action around these parts has been because I was in Sydney, the city of sin, vice, greed, materialism, selfishness, insolence, corruption, crime, shallow consumerism, grubby sex, hedonistic lifestyles, anti-intellectualism and a poor understanding of Australian Rules Football.

I went to talk drugs. I went to talk alcohol. I'm went to do all of those things that I love to do: interface, move forward, establish linkages, exploit opportunities, advance the agenda, collaborate, communicate, and maybe even eat a little cake...

And now I'm back, and I have photos.

The passions of a revolution are apt to hurry even good men into excesses.

Consider this a match for yesterday's picture. I've been trying to get the lads to respect the wisdom of Alexander Hamilton (the source of today's title). Let's just say that I am far more a Hamiltonian than a Jeffersonian. As is my wont, I am not afraid to say that, like Radiohead's latter-day work, Thomas Jefferson is overrated. Hamiliton for mine is the infinitely more impressive and interesting thinker.

Maybe I should do one of those "fantasy matchups" that are so common on teh Internets these days: Hamilton KOs Jefferson rd. 4; Gene Clark def Gram Parsons by split decision; McCartney solo KOs Lennon solo rd. 10; Marx vs Engels DRAW.

He that will have his son have a respect for him and his orders, must himself have a great reverence for his son.

This photo demonstrates that Ezra needs a shave. Or maybe the other bloke needs a shave. One of them needs a shave, anyway.

My thoughts exactly...

Another one from Married to the Sea that I felt that I just had to share.

A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything.

"Ez, mate, look at the camera!"

Due to a confluence of circumstances beyond my control, this is a pre-post by the robot, so sorry for the lack of witty banter. I am endeavouring to correct that ASAP.

Gold medallist in the 2020 Olympics: You heard it here first!

Usain Bolt better watch his step. I've got a fit young bloke in training already breaking weight for age records all across the globe.

Journalism largely consists in saying "Lord Jones Dead" to people who never knew Lord Jones was alive.

No, it isn't the Daily Planet (or even the Daily Worker), it's Hobart's own The Mercury, more affectionately (!) known by the locals as The Mockery. In my mind, the main failing (of many) of this paper is too many "Elderly in Fear!"; "Children at Risk!"; "CORRUPTION!" banners, and not enough "SURFING DOG!"; "SEX ROMP ON MICROWAVE OVEN!"; and "CORRUPT ELDERLY SURFERS IN SEX ROMP WITH CHILDREN!"