I think I've discovered the secret to life... You just hang around until you get used to it...

Lest you all think that Hobart is a forever happy, neat and tidy utopia, I felt it timely to inject a little urban grit back into things. This lovely shot was taken not three minutes walk from the city centre, somewhere between the needle and syringe exchange and Spotlight, the home of all things fabric and craftware. This is a spot in a nice little carpark that I like to stop with Henry and lecture him on the poor behaviour of some people.

The title today is a quote from the wise words of Charlie Brown's little sister, Sally. I've blogged before about her brother, but I quite like Sally too. One of the things I like best about her are her 'new philosophies' that were frequently developed in the latter years of the strip.

Generally, Sally's 'new philosophies' went along the lines of "Who cares?" or "How should I know?" I think that they reached their zenith when she declared that her new philosophy would be the word "No". This 'philosophy' (profound in its simplicity) was to be her answer to every question from that moment on. Of course, when Charlie Brown eventually caught her off guard with a trick question to which she responded, "Yes!" Whereupon she lamented how his meddling had "ruined my new philosophy." Much as with all universalist notions of (T)ruth, people had to come along and mess a perfectly good theory up.

Over the past month I myself have been road-testing one of Sally's 'new philosophies' with great vigour (and some success):

"What did you expect, a medal?"

As she says in that strip, "some philosophies take a thousand years... I think of them in two minutes."

Comments

Dina said…

Sally's got it right. Worked for me.

30 June 2008 at 03:32

Kris McCracken said…

She is a smark cookie, Sally Brown!

2 July 2008 at 11:02

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

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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