Ingratitude is the essence of vileness.

We need to talk. Errol Flynn Reserve, Sandy Bay. November 2011.

Theme Thursday again and today we are casting our net to try and find an appropriate EVENT.

I considered penning an ode to the fellow who appears to have launched his own Occupy Mayfair Plaza Car Park Toilet protest (fair dinkum, he’s been in there for 45 minutes already), but I’m not sure that it really qualifies as an EVENT until the riot police move in with vicious dogs and capsicum spray).

In the past week or so we’ve had World AIDS Day, World Day of Persons with Disabilities and International Volunteers Day; and immediately looming are Human Rights Day and International Migrants Day. However, as we’re amongst friends we can be frank and admit that these thing lack the pizzazz, zing, zest and a host of other zed words that truly constitutes an EVENT.

The upcoming Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe has EVENT potential, but unless a rabid band of Guadalupens are planning to throw that virgin into a throbbingly angry volcano on live pay-per-view satellite telecast, the world just isn’t interested.

In a similar vein, today is Feast of the Immaculate Conception, which – you know – sounds great in theory, but has nothing to do with the ritual cannibalisation of holy babies that might actually make the six-o’clock news. December 17 offers Wright Brothers Day. I’ve yet to confirm it, but I strongly suspect that this will not involve the re-animated zombie corpses or Orville and Wilbur cage fighting in the University of Dayton Arena. If it doesn’t, consider it a scratching.

No, it seems that if we’re after an EVENT, we will have to dredge up that hoary old bloated concept Christmas. Do you know what I have to say to that?

Bah humbug!

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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