This will hurt me...

Here is a photo from a few months back of Jen attempting to hypnotise Ezra. I've had to dip into the unpublished stock again, because I fear that the recent crop of photos feature cranky, tired and snot-covered dirt magnets, which is not at all the image the world wants or needs to see of Tasmania.

Thus, until they sharpen up their acts, you'll have to put up with this lot where theu are adorable, photogenic and/or smiling for the camera!

I took this photo looking up while down in Salamanca Place last Thursday afternoon. High above the Silos and the trees, that speck of white you can see is the moon.

A new thing for me: TUESDAY Q and A!

Right now, at this very moment, what is your favourite word?

Right now?

I am going to have to go with dénouement.

Here is poor old Henry in the bath. As you can see, he was feeling pretty miserable and haggard from his battle with the flu, and even a bit of a splash and giggle in amongst the bubbles failed to cheer him up!

From way back on June 18, here is the little marvel himself doing the business!



Compare him to Henry from January 2008!

Here is the face of an old quarry that can be found down next to Salamanca Square. A fair chunk of the Salamanca area itself is nestled into an old sandstone quarry itself. The demand for berths and storage saw the creation of new docks and sandstone warehouses in an area that had once been known as the 'Cottage Green'. The former row of original cottages were demolished for sandstone warehouses, and by the mid-1840s the bustling dock area had become known as Salamanca, in honour of the Duke of Wellington's 1812 victory against the slippery frogs in the Battle of Salamanca. [HOORAH FOR BLIGHTY!]

As I've noted before, the whole waterfront area is re-establishing it's credentials as Hobart's night-time entertainment capital (that is, if one equates the concept of 'entertainment' with 'getting on the piss and having a scrap').

This is only fitting, as early in Hobart's history, it had developed a reputation as a rowdy and debaucherous place. A mixture of crowded terrace housing, pubs, hotels, brothels, and gambling houses as well as various other forms of seedy entertainment for visiting sailors, cock-fighting [ohh-err missus] and dog fighting not least popular in the area.

Sadly, the brothels and gambling dens are gone, and all we're left with are drunk and angry teens shouting "nerfuckenpricks illfuckenkillya whatareyafuckenlookingat" before being dragged off by the police to the jeers of equally drunken girls.

He decided that driving with his eyes open is even better!

Watch out! They're headed straight for us!

Two ducks approaching on Geilston Bay.

Here's a Sunday Top Five that both honours the dearly departed and embraces the smutty schoolboy within. My Top Five Mrs Slocambe Quotes:

1. "You know, animals are very psychic. I mean, the least sign of danger and my pussy's hair stands on end."


2. "I hope we're not going to be late tonight. Because I've left Winston clinging to the curtain ring; he refuses to come down. The mere sight of my pussy drives him mad."


3. "Well, I hope it's not going to take long. If I'm not home on the stroke of seven, my pussy starts clawing at my busy lizzy."


4. "I hope this isn't going to take long, Captain Peacock. The last time I was late, a fireman had to climb out of my bedroom window and risk his life on a narrow ledge tryin' to grab hold of my pussy."


5. "I've got to get home. If my pussy isn't attended to by 8 o'clock, I shall be strokin' it for the rest of the evening."

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

Does he listen?

BAH!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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...