This will hurt me...

I wanted to post this photo of Ezra. So I did. Because I can.

Here is bit an experiment with shutter speed, a zoom and a fast-running fountain. I think that in order to get the shot that I really envisaged, I need more light and a slower fountain. I used to write a lot of things down in these books that I had. I wouldn't call the journals as such, but I'd write things in there and draw stupid little pictures and occasionally paste in newspaper articles or cartoons or comics or pictures that drew my attention for some reason or other. Often I'd record overheard conversations or (often poorly) remembered snatches of conversation. I thought that in the spirit of experimentation, I'd dig something up. I did date it, and it was overhead in the winter of 1996, during a night on the tiles. You'd never guess: and it's the past - it's over - remember when - remember when? - remember that? - of course - i do - space and time - i do - worth it's weight - definitely - and it's there - there it is - but i can't tell yo...

An oldie but a goodie from xkcd .

It’s not often that you are sitting quietly on the couch watching the news, then find yourself confronted by a streaker wearing nothing but Doc Martins and a smile. Well, not every night, anyway.

This is a Datsun 1600. It went by the name of the Datsun 510 in the US, where it was apparently known as the “poor man’s BMW.” I see this car every morning as I approach work. It is usually sitting on its own at the Silo’s end of Salamanca place, and I have no idea who actually owns it or why it is parked there. Even though I have no idea who it belongs to, every day I like to exercise my imagination and mentally prepare a brief back story of the owner. A guy has to have a hobby, what can I say? This other morning was a good one. On Tuesday, the owner was a ruggedly handsome Mossad agent who is deeply penetrated into a shadowy organisation that ostensibly facilitates theatre programmes for prisoners on day release, but in reality operates as a sleeper cell that recruits and trains ‘cleaners’ for splinter groups administered by rogue elements of the Palestinian Authority. He is a great dancer and his hair always smells very nice. Yesterday, the owner was an elderly gent who takes great ...

It's been a while since I shared a cartoon, so here you go. For some reason, this one struck a chord with me. It's from Stereotypist , which is well worth a gander.

So we’ve got some water and a rope again. This was taken this morning in Sullivan’s Cove, right in the heart of Hobart. Thanks to Willits’ finest, Elaine , I have one of these interweb tube meme things to relieve me of the need to be overly creative. This is a good time for one of these things actually, as I’ve been up since half-past-three in the morning (Ezra got back to sleep, I didn’t) and I’m not faring too well. All I have to do is reveal five details about myself, and I figure that I can probably manage that so I shall give it a go. 1) I fail to understand what is so special about the work of Vincent Van Gogh. In general, I think that the post-Impressionists were pretty rubbish when compared to the Impressionists. 2) I think that Gough Whitlam seems like a bit of a wanker, to be honest, and I can’t understand why so many people – with many of whom I share comparable political views – worship him. 3) I sometimes regret not throwing in “Napoleon” as a middle name for Henry. 4) I s...

Here is Henry on New Year's Eve with Geilston Bay in the back ground. I'm not sure whether the hill in the background there has a name, but I think that I shall call it Shag Hill [snigger, snigger], as it divides Geilston Bay and the far naughtier Shag Bay. As you can see, walking up a hill can be hard work, especially when you're a little bloke. It's Jen's birthday today, please feel free to wish her well in the comments!

Down low at Mawson Place on Sullivan's Cove. I was hiding from a wallaby. Regular readers will know the commitment and ardour that have proven numerous times in the past with regards to highlighting the dangers that within the cold, black hearts of diminutive, cute ‘n cuddly creatures. If there is danger in the world, I’m onto it. Whether we are talking about marauding wallabies harassing old folk or badly-named kids , I’m there. Whether it is depraved seals molesting chaste penguins, I’m there. Whether it is something as ostensibly innocent as a boorish remark from an uncouth parrot , or as serious as neo-Nazi raccoons rampaging across Europe, I’m there. So when I heard about a racoon (I’ve no word as to whether it is sympathetic to Hitler or not) who chomped down on spirited Russian reveller Alexander Kirilov’s trouser snake , I thought “here we go again!” Yet on closer inspection, I must defend the right of this particular raccoon to use all reasonable force to repel the ...

Now, I am certain that the brainiacs behind this little fundraising effort for the war didn’t mean any harm by their choice of words here, but that’s kind of the problem, isn't it? It reminds me of the time that the former Collingwood Football Club President (and budding-MENSA candidate) Allen McAllister clumsily attempted to refute accusations of institutionalised racism against Indigenous players. He decided that the best course of attack was to explain how he did not have a problem with coloureds , per se ... “As long as they conduct themselves like white people, well, off the field, everyone will admire them and respect them.” In the words of teh Internets, EPIC FAIL.

For various reasons (most long since forgotten), I have spent a great deal of time engaged in situations where there has been a lot of talking about thinking about thinking about reading about thinking about thinking . The thing that strikes me most is that – underneath the discourse – if all we are doing is thinking about thinking, are we actually thinking ? Or does, perhaps, thinking about thinking equate to a form of intellectual masturbation , pleasurable, entertaining (for a time), but in all probability not honing our skills in any useful manner? Moreover, if we think too much about thinking, might we not affect our ability to think ? If it does, is this effect to enhance our thinking, or might it actually degrade our ability to think? Now, I’m not suggesting that we all just at once stop reflecting critically upon the processes that underlie and inform the way that we go about our thinking (or even our thinking about our thinking). Maybe my beef is not with think...

Is there anything that says AUSTRALIA more than a little bloke chomping down on broccoli and potato? I doubt it! For the title of the previous post, I decided to run with the very famous observation of Samuel Johnson, but in reality, I am inclined to to agree with Ambrose Bierce's observation some century or so later: In Dr. Johnson's famous dictionary patriotism is defined as the last resort of a scoundrel. With all due respect to an enlightened but inferior lexicographer, I beg to submit that it is the first. The idea of being intensely proud of one's country is always one that has interested me. Now, I like Australia, a lot. I think that it is the best place to live in the world. I think that we have the best food, (plenty of) the best looking sheilas, the best beaches, the best sharks, crocs and easily the best poisonous biting and stinging things. So, you know, we've a lot of things to be proud of. But what we've seen appear is a sort of oddly quixotic yobbis...

Australia is a bloody big country. We've got bloody great big bits of water, bloody great big deserts, bloody great big trees, bloody great big sharks, crocs, snakes, spiders, wombats and bloody great big snags. When I took this photo of Henry the other day, he turned to me and said "look at that bloody great big mountain, are there any bloody great big yowies up there?" I didn't know. I've not seen any. So another Australia Day has come around again. It's a funny kind of day, Australia Day. It used to pass by pretty much unnoticed, and then the bloody Bicentenary came along is a haze of canary yellow and lime green and Australia day all of a sudden was bigger than Ben Hur in a pair of budgie smugglers and thongs! Then, along comes John Howard (with a bit of help from his mate Pauline Hanson ), and we've got these bloody great big flags everywhere. You can't turn without spotting a beach towel, singlet, bikini thong or set of BBQ tongs emblazoned wi...

Here is a typical morning scene in Hobart. This one was taken on the eastern shore, at about 7:37 am (or something like that), which - at this time of year - means that the sun has already been up for a good hour and a half. So it's not really a sun rise , more a sun gotuphadacoffeesometoastandmaybeashowerandthenofftowork . The thing that I like about this photograph (and you should know by now how much I like the combination of sun/clouds/water) is that I took it from a moving bus . If only they ran a double decker, then I figure that I could get a nice one coming over the bridge, as is, the railing kind of ruins the view. And not even in an artistic kind of way, more of a crap shot style. Anyway, that's the Tasman Bridge you can see on the left, and the suburb of Montague Bay just to the right of it, across to Bellerive further to the right. I best run, I have pancakes to cook.