This will hurt me...

Did you get that? If you go without the caviar, yachts, diamond-studded rabbit feet and organic imported civit poo coffee for a few days; a poo old deceased third world child will rise from the dead . Or something.

Does this mean that we should eat more semi-subsistence farmers too?

INCOMING!!!!!

Alternate slogan: " If the Kaiser can't kill 'em, we sure as hell will! "

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

I like photographs involving water. I like photographs involving reflections. I like photographs involving the autumn light. I like photographs involving the morning sun. Here we have all four taken just last Thursday down in Sullivan's Cove! I am currently enjoying Timothy Gaton Ash 's excellent History of the Present . If you don't know his work, he's an academic/historian/author/journalist with a way with words. I will probably expand on my thoughts when I've finished it, but one brief comment struck me as I read it on the bus this morning. It concerns a point early on in the siege of Sarajevo. There was a bombed-out post office with a common piece of graffiti/political comment, " This is Serbia! " Apparently someone had scrawled underneath the retort, " No, you idiot, it's a post office ". I like that. It pretty much captures the sort of inanity that drives people to war, ethnic cleansing and all of the kinds of atrocities within. It'...

Here you can see a pre-haircut Henry in his secret bedroom lair/fort last weekend. He sets himself up safely under cover, only to emerge from his bunker to lob missiles from his vast stores of ammunition at any unsuspecting visitor. Toys, drinks, pillows, books, blankets, sleeping bags and everything in between has been lobbed in my direction (generally at the head). Thankfully, we don't let him keep his revolver in his room...

So here we have yet another mercilessly bleak wartime recruitment poster from that war that we had because that war that we had that was supposed to end all wars really didn’t and what it actually did was set up the preconditions for another, bigger war. Yeah, that war. Now, when it comes to war, I can see the attraction of a) going off to defend your country, c) being embarrassed by girls , c) impressing the ladies , d) being nagged by greedy women, e) plain old fashioned ignorance , f) getting fired up because the other guys are a bunch of rotters and scoundrels , or even g) have a bit of adventure, see the world, meeting interesting people and killing them in all sorts of interesting ways. However, when push comes to shove, it’s best not to let me know what I’m really getting myself into before you have my name on the dotted line. Seriously, I’d see this poster and feel sorry for the poor bloke, but c’mon, the dude doesn’t have any hands ! As the kids at the bus stop say, that sh...

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.

I would advise all of my dear readers to take the take, click on today's advertisment, and have a good hard think about what it says. All of this time I had thought that it was the average fighting Joes who won the Second World War. Hardcore Marines storming beaches, heroic air crews dropping bombs surrounded by flak, the oft-overlooked merchant seaman chugging away on ships dodging treacherous seas (and even deadlier) submarines the whole time simply to get life’s pure essentials (which, apparently, did not include bananas but plenty of bombs) from point A to point A . Naively – damn fool that I am – I thought that it was the fearless Soviet troops thrusting towards Berlin, the countless riveting Rosies pumping away day and night in factories, the old dears knitting socks for the care packages for the valiant lads wasting away in Colditz, and the kids who dreamed of nothing more than bayoneting some heartless Fritz or Jap until his last twitch ceased. Hell, I thought that it mi...

Propaganda from the outside looks like a pretty cushy gig, working up the masses with simplistic slogans has never been too hard, let’s face it. Consequently, this blog has featured its fair share of it. Some of my favourites include: The impressive North Korean campaign to defeat imperialist wolves through a superior swimming technique . Rose cheeked children wish East Germany all the best . The cheeky “I’ll let you do filthy, disgusting things to me if you risk your life for the nation”. Chipper’s “it must suck to be a JAP kid!” The loneliest communist in the United States lives in Mississippi. Failing to resist the temptation of the pleasuring of the self will bring about the rumination of a young man. W hy are we fighting? For a lamb in a bow with a laurel wreath on its head and a flower tucked behind its ear, of course! Above is a new one to add to that list. Here we have a novel bit of propaganda on a postcard, dating from the Spanish Civil War (an interesting time for those ...

Continuing along the theme of black and white, and buildings in Hobart, here is a photograph that I took in the Elizabeth Street Bus Mall this morning. I am not sure how I feel about it. I think that I like it, but it seems a bit solemn and sombre. I think that this is because of the book that I had just finished on the way in had left me in that frame of mind. The book is Casualty Figures: How Five Men Survived the First World War , by Michele Barrett. The book is not about the millions who died in the First World War; but rather it explores the experiences of countless numbers of men who lived as ‘long-term casualties’. That is, not those of profound physical trauma, but of the desolate trauma of the slaughter that they managed to escape alive. To do this, Barrett explores the lives of five ordinary personnel who endured war, how they dealt with its horrors, both during and long after the war's end. Through this, she attempts to shed light on the nature of the psychological dama...

I cringe whenever I hear war employed as analogous to sport, so I apologise in advance for this post. You see, I appreciate very clearly the temptation to employ what we think we know of war (understanding that thinking that we know something about something is very different to knowing about something). So, please forgive me for clutching at the metaphor. In my defence I offer my own well worn tale of child-induced weariness. The cumulative effects of a new baby with still-confused patterns of sleep, and an older prime physical specimen who has appeared to have prematurely entered that phase famously called the “terrible twos”, have wrought a grave toll on my nerves. I feel for my health. Even without concerns about the security of my manhole , it is safe to say that both mind and body are struggling at the moment. I have endeavoured to keep the intake of fresh fruit and veg up, and the reliance on caffeine down, yet the constant interrupted sleep is inevitably taking its toll. Whi...

The mysterious Jennifer makes one of her rare appearances in the Photo of the day bit, headlining with the banana-munching Henry. They are catching a few winter's rays checking out a book while Ezra concentrates on his sit ups, chin-ups and crunches in the next room. I think that he's preparing for a tilt at Ultimate Fighting, but he's keeping his cards close to his chest. Seeing the littlest bloke in the house prepare so diligently, I cast some thoughts over some of the nasty business currently going on in the Caucuses . The present position of Georgia reminds me of a fellow that I used to go to school with (some years ago now). A hot blooded fellow, little more than five foot tall, he spoke a good game. Easily led, on occasion a number of older colleagues would manage to convince him that he could 'take down' some of the bigger, nastier lads (I'm talking about dudes with attitudes and runs on the board). Naturally, he would choose the patented little bloke mo...

A grey old day today, as this photograph will attest. At the moment I am halfway through Pat Barker's Regeneration trilogy, which I am enjoying - if that is the right word - very much. I will endeavour to put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard?) afterwards and talk a little bit about them, but for the moment the experience has sent me back into the work of the poets of World War One. For whatever reason, this grey sky had me thinking of a poem by Wilfred Owen that I first read maybe twenty years ago, and remains a favourite today. I thought that I would share it. Somehow, the words are even more powerful when you know a little about Owen's life and his eventual fate. Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen It seemed that out of the battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had groined. Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared ...

Now, I do appreciate the sentiment expressed in today's ad, and (as ever) context is vital. When you're in the middle of a war a certain liberty may be taken with expression, so the jarring notion of a blonde, curly-haired scamp - let's call him 'Chip' - talking about "Jap kids" (in a strange and foreign font, no less) can be overcome. Yet what really concerns me about this ad is the odd lens through which the Sparton company have chosen (in 1943) to define what it means to be a "free American boy". Free speech and action, yep, no problemo. "Free American boys" should experience those delights. "Warm comfortable homes". Well, homes are a good start, and I guess you wouldn't want it cold. Comfortable? That surely is in the eye of the beholder? But yeah, comfortable is good, I guess. "Automobiles and radios by the million"? Yeah, you're starting to lose me here Sparton. "Electrical machines to keep and c...

Today's ad is best seen as a counterpoint to the previous one . Accordingly, if cute 'n fluffy, sweet little lambs with flowers in their hair cannot stir your loins for a fight, perhaps extreme violence will! I like the touch of Rambo about this one.

This is a poster that appeared during the Spanish Civil War, seems to be encouraging roosters and their girlfriends to have more and more little chicks. Perhaps there was some grand plan to train and arm these revolutionary offspring and send them to the front to tackle Franco and his troops. Or perhaps there wasn't. Anyway, I am a sucker for chickens, especially cute little fluffy ones, and I feel that this is a good companion piece to the last ad that I posted, which I lovingly titled “Soviet Cock” . I’ve no doubt that a crucial factor undermining the eventual goal of communist domination of the entire globe was not enough chickens. Or at the very least, a lack of revolutionary zeal in the chickens that were produced. Now if you doubt my reasoning, and are actually interested in the real story behind this poster, the title maybe gives it away. “Intensificar la reproducción es hacer obra revolucionaria” pretty much translates as “Intensifying reproduction is revolutionary work”. ...

I stumbled a memorable site upon the other day that I would thought I'd share. It collects photo albums of German soldiers found (or seized) by Soviet forces during World War II. I find looking through these pictures an odd experience, especially as we have no knowledge at all of whom these men are, what they did, how they ended up. For whatever reason, I find it a little disturbing. Well worth a visit though.

After being given the tip by The World History Blog I dropped by WW1: Experiences of an English Soldier . In a concept new to me, the grandson of British soldier Harry Lamin publishes his letters exactly 90 years after they were first written. For mine, this is an excellent way to share personal history online. The blog notes, "To find out Harry's fate, follow the blog!"