Time Travel: or, On the omnipresence of American culture on a pretty standard Australian 31 year old

So Henry has invented this time machine, so I’ve gone back and for some reason that I can only put down to tiredness, I keep getting snapped for American high school yearbooks. I thought that I would share some with you.

Here I am in 1970, majoring in Economics and sporting a healthy side part. I support the war in Vietnam, but am prepared to lie about it to impress girls. I shall never leave a University once I enter it. I am not proud of that.

Here I am in 1976. I am a Drama major, as the skivvy will attest. I am quite the ladies man. Secretly, however, I lust after the captain of the men’s water polo team. I will get a gig in reasonably successful syndicated sitcom in the 1980s, and will milk that until death. I am confused about how that makes me feel.

Here I am in 1978. I am more interested in smoking pot than my Art major, but I do draw lots and lots of cartoons featuring evil goblins tying up vixens with enormous breasts. I will live with my ‘Mom’, really get interested in The Internet, and become a regular poster to Dungeons and Dragons message boards, where my gross obesity does not hinder me. I think that that is pretty cool.

Here I am in 1986. I think that my combination Business/Computer Science major will make me rich. Of course I am right, but will it make me happy? Another trip in the time machine tells me that although wealth won’t make me happy, the yacht off Catalina, the bevy of beautiful women and mountain of cocaine kind of make me forget about that. I am rather proud of that.

Here I am in 1996. I am captain of the ‘Track’ team and have a scholarship in Wrestling, Football and Lacrosse. Unfortunately a disgruntled nerd took exception to my novel take on ‘encouragement’ in the hallway and ensured that I never made college. I think that this is a bummer.

[Now, you can choose to believe that whole ‘time travel’ thing, or you can go along to the Yearbook Yourself website and get cracking on your own photos.]

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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