This will hurt me...

The Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (CSIRO) has a branch located about a three minute walk up the road from my work. This Marine and Atmospheric Research branch obviously has a reasonably high turnover of computer equipment, because at least once a month, a new skip appears filled to the brim with old computers, monitors, televisions and all manner of cords, wires, motherboards and who knows what else. I finally got over my shyness (and fear of being thought a terrorist/perpetrator of industrial espionage) to creep into the facility and take a few photos yesterday. Don't worry though, I didn't need to evade vicious guard dogs, scale razor wire or even jump a fence. I did, however, cross a road and walk through a car park. Yes, I managed to look both ways too. Now I know that there are some keen photographers here, so I would like to know what is the riskiest photograph that you've ever taken? Rampaging wallabies? Birthing wives? Hungry childr...

For some reason, Henry has taken to speaking with the accent best described as "elderly Russian woman". It's not totally evident in this video, but I am compiling documentary evidence for the prosecution.

I am not sure whether it is just too much Le Carré action lately or not enough sleep, but this dude here strikes me as a Tasmanian version of George Smiley . Whether or not he is running agents - or conducting interference on oppositional agents - I cannot be certain. One thing I can be certain is that this fellow would not be driven to evacuate a bus upon the appearance of a solitary (however odious) peanut . Like the smiley face stamps on kiddies intended to stop evil paedophiles from getting their rocks off, rules about taking photographs in public spaces (stop with the paedophilia already), we have indeed entered a bizarre, unpleasant era of hyper-irrationality. Won’t somebody think of the children!?!?

With apologies to any dreadlocked hippie anarchists that I know...

I have a question for you to consider this morning. Do you think that it is possible for a two year old to stagger the timing of his poos to maximise their impact? I am convinced that Henry is doing so, and what’s more, I suspect that he is engaging in some kind of nefarious activity designed to increase both the concentration and odour of what is dangerously developing into weapons-grade faeces. Advanced satellite imaging suggests that there may be some kind of involvement from North Korea. Or Syria. Or Libya. Or perhaps the neighbour’s cat. Whatever. We’re considering counter strikes as we speak. Ezra, bless him, is still working on a naïve level – typical of babies and despotic tin pot dictators – that more is inexorably better. The little fellow lacks the sophistication of Henry’s innovative and enhanced brand of asymmetrical warfare . Now, while this technique is thoroughly unsuited to poo-related conflict, it is proving wholly successful on the sleep front. Ezra has now taken to ...

Now, I have spoken at length previously on my distaste for extremists, so I shall not reopen that wound for all to see (and bore you in the process). That said, I could pass over the image of the menacing black and yellow Sea Shepherd anarchist AKTION patrol boat parked just across the road from work this morning. Now – and apologies in advance to all the Sea Shepherds reading out there – every member of that distinguished organisation that I have happened across has turned out to be of a frame of mind that I described in that earlier post. This tendency to drift into preposterous polarities, mutually exclusive ideas, deterministic dialectics (always hidden, excluding the individual doing the ranting, of course), all of which operate not just separate from , but in opposition to , each other. This is great fun when you happen to be in the public policy game and are looking to get a little harmony happening on an issue. They remind me of yet another presentation that I saw the othe...

I am deadly serious when I tell you that today's comic is an accurate representation of the final presentation I witnessed at the recent international conference in Sydney a couple of weeks ago. Moreover, it reflects a number of presentations I have seen over the years, but hopefully none that I have delivered myself.

No cat, no tin roof, no sexually confused Southern stud on the wane with nothing but a life of regret and a drive for the drink. No, here we have an empty parking lot and the words of Tennessee Williams. Tennessee was a troubled genius, but I do think that he was on to something with today's title. Big Daddy was right when he says that mendacity is indeed all around us. Everywhere I've looked of late, there it has been, grinning that stupid grin at me (and the grin of the mendacious is generally a foolish one). That said, the thing about mendacity as a trait is that it reinforces itself, and often its very presence tends to draw itself out in others. That said, to walk away unsullied having brokered fair and just resolution of a problem amid a sea of mendacity offers a moment of relief, reflection and some satisfaction. To navigate through and walk (sail?) away with a firm knowledge of 'a job well done' makes one feel mighty good. The fact that one can't possibly co...

After the farcical fake of yesterday, rather than expunge the entry, I'd bury it quickly under an authentic shocker. And what better and safer way than to dip into the grab bag of cigarette advertising? I figure that this Lucky Strike piece from the 1950s - that I lovingly title " Queer Santa's Post-coital Smoke " - should very much do the trick. ads involving gaspers, a filthy filthy habit pursued by foolish people Enjoy!

I have gone down the gritty Soviet realism path here with Henry today. I think that he evokes an image of a rough hewn, long-haired Czech beat poet railing against Brezhnev’s tanks rolling into Prague (minus the flowers in the one hand, and the Molotov cocktail in the other). Change that shirt to a Dukla Prague away strip and we’re talking turkey. You might have some trouble with the title today; it is an old Soviet proverb that I think captures the spirit of the time well: There was a time they loved an accordionist, and now the time has come where they love a tractor driver. I’d like to think that the ladies – and the people more broadly – will love Henry regardless of whether he is driving a tractor or driving a piano accordion (or at least that they will tolerate his piano accordion-ship and not accost him with rocks and burning stakes).

The best that I can say about this French advertisement for tampons is that it is, err, very French . The tagline reads: "I am like a fish in water" , but I am not sure that this really helps all that much in getting the gist of the piece. Now, you must believe me when I say that I’ve thought long and hard [oohh err missus!] about this particular product promotion, but admit that I am no closer at answering the riddle that might unlock this particular enigma than when I began, and figure that I shan’t locate that answer any time soon. The most obvious answer harks back to grubby schoolboy locker room jokes, but to my knowledge – and I say this as someone who remains a grubby schoolboy at heart – grubby schoolboys do not represent a significant proportion of the market share of feminine hygiene products . No, I figure that is women who buy tampons (see, all of that taxpayers’ money wasn’t wasted on my education). As it is women that buy the tampons, it must be women that t...

Apparently, this post is number 805, which means that this blog celebrated post number 800 without ceremony. Fair enough, I am never one to blow my own trumpet (and lord haven't I tried). I will admit that it is quite an achievement (the blog, that is, although the ability to blow one's own trumpet surpasses it by some margin). When I started, I only had one son! Now I have two ! That's double the amount of children! Amazing . Here is the Ezmeister showcasing his excellent grasping skills. Whether it is a hoop earring, mum's knitting, a fly (with chopsticks), or an exposed nipple, you can be guaranteed that Ez will get it in one. Just the other day, Ez and I were down the pub shootin' pool, bustin' each other's balls and whatever it is that red blooded, hot headed studs do when they're on the piss. The little bloke had just put a two dollar coin into the jukebox, selecting the Ting Tings' hit That's Not My Name , when in walks this chubby dude ...