The only sin is the sin of being born.

I keep telling him that bluefin tuna don't hang around bays.

Does he listen?

BAH!

There are a terrible lot of lies going around the world, and the worst of it is half of them are true.

Lurking behind a field of randy sheep, the Mount Pleasant Radio Observatory, a radio astronomy-based observatory owned and operated by University of Tasmania. It can be found about twenty kilometres east of Hobart, not far out of Richmond. Apologies for the poor shot, but there is only so much one can manage from a moving vehicle.

The observatory was [probably] set up as part some kind of interferometry network, no doubt engaged in the thrilling task of imaging distant cosmic radio sources, tracking spacecraft, and all sorts of sexy applications in astrometry. of course, such is the nature of these little beauties, it can also be used "in reverse" to perform earth rotation studies, map movements of tectonic plates very precisely (within millimetres), and a whole host of other types of geodesy

That said, I have it on good authority that a shortage of funds means that this observatory has now been reduced to tawdry attempts at securing "panty shots" of c-list celebrities as they exit cars, with a sideline of unflattering portraits of former child stars out on the town looking worse for wear.

Dictators ride to and fro on tigers from which they dare not dismount. And the tigers are getting hungry.

Here is Ezra. He's a bit sad after I told him some very distressing news.

In the hoopla of Michael Jackson's demise, it would be a great tragedy if the passing of Mrs Slocombe went by without mention.

All of our thoughts and prayers are, of course, with Mrs Slocombe's pussy in this difficult time.

All I say cancels out, I’ll have said nothing.

Here is the view of Mount Wellington looking west from Hunter Street, across the fish punts and overpriced over-rated boutique fish and chip joints that can be found down along the waterfront...

Hang on...

Hang on...

I've just got to interupt today's post to cross to my LA correspondent who is waiting outside Michael Jackson's Neverland compound ranch.

Me in Hobart: "Dave, Dave can you hear me?"

Dave in LA: [Silence as Dave scratches his nose and looks bored]

Me in Hobart: "Dave, are you with me now?"

Dave in LA: "Yes Kris. The media have thronged to Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch here 200 miles out of LA."

Me in Hobart: "So Dave, do you have an update for us?"

Dave in LA: "Well, there is a lot of people about. And a lot of media vans."

Me in Hobart: "Can you confirm that former king of pop, Michael Jackson - responsible for such hits as Thriller, Bad and Say, Say, Say - remains dead?"

Dave in LA: "The Californian authorities are able to confirm that yes, one week after Michael Jackson died, Michael Jackson remains dead."

Me in Hobart: "Dave, do you have anything else new to report?"

Dave in LA: "Kris, as you can see from the pictures, the media are thronging to Neverland Ranch. So are many sad loons keen fans."

Me in Hobart: "Thank you Dave. Please keep us updated with all the vital breaking news."

Now, where was I?

Oh, Hobart. It's still cold. It's still raining. I'm still sick.

A theory is only as good as its assumptions.

I had a question regarding Henry's gumboots the other day. I should hope that the above photo aptly demonstrates the need for gumboots in a wet Hobart winter.

Puddles, you see. It's all about the puddles.

Although always prepared for martyrdom, I preferred that it should be postponed.

First, a definition:

Budgie Smugglers
A male bathing costume that encloses the wearer's genitalia in a manner that resembles the concealment of a budgerigar.

The establishment that I feature above, Budgie Smugglers, is a takeaway joint that can be found on Collins Street here in Hobart. As the name suggests, they no doubt consider themselves a funky dive.

It is Theme Thursday you see. Today's theme is a word that sends shivers up my spine: FUNKY.

Funky, you see, is a loaded term. Of course, those etymologists amongst us will recognise the root from the Latin, fetid; that is, offensively malodorous. 'A foul odour', if you will. It is certainly what I think when someone starts getting funky on my arse.

That is because funky is a dated term that is meant to denote something stylish and modern in an unconventional way. As with most things, this terribly unconventional tendency is now a convention. Thus, all those I know who have embraced funky as both a word and a style, have a tendency to confuse funkiness with a surfeit of the colour purple, most commonly found in the form of funky purple shawls, funky purple velour fabric pants and funky purple carry bags.

So, in this sense, funky is most certainly not cool. It is not different, interesting or indeed unconventional.

To me, funky hints at hormone replacement therapy, middle aged marital breakdowns and brief flirtations with lesbianism. In this manner, funky people generally end up drinking far too much red wine, becoming angrily teary at the drop of a hat, and is ultimately a bitter and fruitless fusion of finding one's self and cold self-denial.

All dressed in purple, no less.

All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection. So I rate us on the basis of our splendid failure to do the impossible.

Here is and extreme close up of Ezra, who has recently recovered from the very same does of the influenza that has wrought havoc with my mind and body these week. Suffice to say, the little bloke has pulled through with far more vigour and vitality than I think I will (should I survive, that is).

Ezra has been achieving a number of milestones of late, not least that of standing up unaided and walking. For those interested, I will be posting a video of these marvellous feats either today or tomorrow (again, provided I have not joined Michael Jackson the that great Neverland in the sky...)

In other news: this post is number 1,250 on this blog!

Congratulations blog. Cards, presents and brown paper bags filled with cash should be directed to:

Att/Of:Kris McCracken
Tasmania
Australia

Man can embody truth but he cannot know it.

Looking through a crack in a wall yields little result. At the very least I was expecting a fair maiden bathing herself.

I'm still laid up with the dreaded flu.

Not much more to say...

I felt ill at ease with all this air about me, lost before the confusion of innumerable prospects.

Look! Who'd have thought that Tom Cruise might be spotted in Geilston Bay.

It's little known that the orgy scene from the heroically boring Eyes Wide Shut was actually filmed at Geilston Bay High School.

But upon second glance, I'm not too sure that this is Tom Cruise. For one thing, he's far too tall.

Some things and some people have to be approached obliquely, at an angle.

Sunday was a nice, clear, cold winter's day. At the moment, I will take what I can get. Here is the view south down the Derwent estuary.

I'm laid up in bed with whatever it was that has been troubling Henry. Symptoms include a hacking cough, chest pain, an upset stomach, and a general lethargy akin to being stuck at work late. I do believe that today will be the first time ever that I actually taken a sick day. I expect that admission to see me stripped of my title of "Australian", where the Great Australian Sickie is revered more than any frivolous claim to, I dunno, curing cancer.

The maxim ‘Nothing avails but perfection’ may be spelt shorter: ‘Paralysis.’

Nigh on three months old, here is a regal Ez checking the mail.

A truncated post this evening, as Henry is feeling poorly, and he may well have passed on the La temido gripe de cerdo Mexicana...

It is better to be hated for what you are than loved for what you are not.

It's been a week since I last posted a photo of 10 Murray, and I thought "that just won't do", and went with this one. I particularly like the little ladders on the extreme left. I've long speculated that this is for harried DHHS staff, who've hastily decided to end it all with a swan dive down to Parliament's car park, but changed their mind (or indeed, while on the ledge, decided to 'get more height').

Here's a poem:

Larry

Larry's got it
going
on going on going on
Larry's got to get
going going gone
down south
left at the side of Larry's
got it going on down south.

Never hold discussions with the monkey when the organ grinder is in the room.

One suspects that this is one of those "He's going to resent this in the future" kind of snaps, but I've decided that I'm posting it anyway.

We're a week into what I am calling toilet turkey, a titanic tussle to topple terrible toddler habits; namely, pooing one's pants.

But I ask you, does this like a fellow ready to ditch the world of cloth nappies and thrust himself headlong into a world of cisterns, u-bends, bowls and urinals?

Believe those who are seeking the truth. Doubt those who find it.

Here is a seagull looking for a place to go. I have it on good authority - an authority of distinct totalitarian bent named Henry - that this seagull's name is "Constantin", and that he is headed to Glasgow to buy a pizza.

I captured this fellow down in Lindisfarne, Lindisfarne down the road from Geilston Bay, not the tidal island off the north-east English coast most famous for being sacked by angry Vikings. Given that, the pizza is most likely going to be cold by the time he gets there.

Today's Sunday Top Five Ten!

My personal favourite Ten Michael Jackson tracks (in chronological order):

• I Want You Back


• ABC


• Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough


• Billie Jean


• Beat It


• Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'


• Man in the Mirror


• Dirty Diana


• Smooth Criminal


• Liberian Girl

For mine, the stand out is Billie Jean (one of the all time great pop tracks), but all of them are terribly good, and come highly recommended.