This will hurt me...

In the sandpit. Again . March 2010. We've been spending an awful lot of time in the sandpit. I'm breaking convention today and pasting Henry and Ezra in the morning, as my two little men fit the poem. Do yourself a favour and read it. Men , by Maya Angelou When I was young, I used to Watch behind the curtains As men walked up and down the street. Wino men, old men. Young men sharp as mustard. See them. Men are always Going somewhere. They knew I was there. Fifteen Years old and starving for them. Under my window, they would pause, Their shoulders high like the Breasts of a young girl, Jacket tails slapping over Those behinds, Men. One day they hold you in the Palms of their hands, gentle, as if you Were the last raw egg in the world. Then They tighten up. Just a little. The First squeeze is nice. A quick hug. Soft into your defenselessness. A little More. The hurt begins. Wrench out a Smile that slides around the fear. When the Air disappears, Your mind pops, exploding fiercely...

Ummmm. Theme Thursday you say? A tricky one. As ever, I have chosen the photo before making myself aware of the theme. It keeps the challenge up. This one is not too tricky though... The theme today is FLIGHT, and when you say flight, the word that immediately comes to me does not evoke birds, wind or airports; it is the cold, hard truth of reality . Here, two typical Tasmanian CSIRO-employed nerds hunks are taking a well earned lunch break from their daily humdrum reality of, I dunno, measuring seagull farts. Re-creating Hemingway’s allegorical commentary on his philosophy of Manhood – The Old Man and the Sea – these two epitomes of manhood are locked in a desperate battle of wills with nature’s greatest beast: fish the ego . For the most part, reality is a bummer. Back when Generation X hadn’t been superseded by the vacuous, self-absorbed nitwits of Generation Y (why indeed), the kids used to say reality bites . It bites especially hard when you’re stuck at work. So dudes like th...

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 ...

Some time ago I reflected upon Dr George W. Crane's Marital Rating Scale from the 1930s. You will be happy to hear that prior to Ezra's early arrival, I discovered an online version of the test. Now, after things have settled down somewhat, I have been able to inform all that visit this here humble website so that you can all contribute to saving your marriages . In the interest of honesty and openness, my wife and I completed the test together, and I scored a healthy mark. I will be honest with you though, 1930s husbands set the bar awfully low. That said, there are a few areas where I need to pick up my game. Who knew that "drawing in pencil on the tablecloth" annoyed women so much? Go figure! 133 As a 1930s husband, I am Very Superior Take the test!