This will hurt me...

Here is the little bloke having a spell after climbing three mountains, wrestling three crocodiles, saving three damsels from distress, swimming three miles through shark infested waters, winning three televised presidential debates, eating three double steak sandwiches and chips from Nandos, writing three novels, directing three feature films, stripping down then reassembling three diesel engines, ploughing three fields, baking three cakes, raising three barns, establishing three new religions, winning three game shows and playing with Henry. And it is not even four.

It is Summer in Tasmania, and that usually means two thing: enormous cruiser liners filled with wealthy retirees kitted in gold lamé tracksuits dripping in diamonds; and rain, rain and even more rain . Take a look at these green leaves, can you tell that we're in a drought? I attended a VIM [ V ery I mportant M eeting] today. No cake, no biscuits, no fruit. Just business, and a few thirds of baguettes packed with salad presented lovingly on a platter caked with lettuce leaves. I wish that I had the nerve to take a photograph, but that would risk sending the dogs to the door of this blog, and I'm not sure that I'd want that just yet. You can always tell the difference between a VIM and a CAC [ C asual A ggreable C hat], and it can often be found in the nibblies. One organisation that I deal with regularly cater their CAC s with pizzza (an accommodating mob, they usually go a supremo and capricciosa, which allows me to be generous upon the appearance of that abomination

There's another art installation in the courtyard below my window at work. Wouldn't you know it, it's another mediation on man's inhumanity to the environment! But really, is there any other kind of art installation in the year 2008? It seems to me that whoever out there accrediting Salamanca artists insist on some "man's inhumanity to the environment" component on public displays these days. I have an idea that I think could be successful: convict built courtyard, two heavy timber posts set into the ground, set in an 'X' arrangement. Get yourself one typical Salamanca artist (not hard to spot, any anaemic-looking vegan in a beret with bad facial hair should do). Strap said artist to the posts and whip them liberally with a cat-o-nine-tails! No convinced? The masterstroke is that the person doing the whipping will be dressed as a penguin/bilby/southern right whale! You see, the penguin/bilby/southern right whale will be extracting revenge for the d

The little bloke does his full regime of calisthenics each day to ensure that he is as fit and healthy as he is handsome.

So I’m standing at the lights, and these two guys are in some kind of speed boat. Only I think that they were trafficking cocaine, rather than speed. C’mon, they’re not on motorbikes . So I see these dudes, and I’m like, “it’s my duty as a good citizen to stop them going about their destructive ways”. The thing is though, the little red man/woman/citizen is up, and I’m like, “it’s my duty as a good citizen to obey the little red man/woman/citizen”. Torn by the conflicting drives and obligations, I had a little nervous breakdown. After my recovery – and the flight to freedom from our Columbian friends in the speedboat – the little red man/woman/citizen got me to thinking about my favourite variation on the theme, the world famous Ampelmännchen . You might be familiar with the Ampelmännchen tale, the friendly face of East Berlin. Like me, you may have even been to the Ampelmännchen shop and purchased an Ampelmännchen t-shirt. The theory behind Ampelmännchen (are you starting to see h

People in Tasmania often need reminders scattered about the place that help them remember where it is that they are. The good folks at the Hobart City Council has ensured that anyone utilising Davey Street is more than aware that they're in Hobart, Tasmania and not Tucumán, Argentina . I understand that there has been some confusion about that in the past. My apologies for leaving the post so late, but somehow I have found myself becoming active in my local community , as the newest member of the Geilston Bay Community Centre Board. Miles will no doubt be impressed, driven as he is by local pride . Couple this with asking the hard questions and making some big calls at work today, I must say that today has been a good day, personally and professionally .

Despite everything, I've had a good day today thus far. I'm ticking boxes left, right and centre. Still no cake though...

So I am indulging in my angle thing again, and wouldn't you know it, there's two blokes on the roof giving me lip. Thankfully, the breeze meant that their spit kept blowing back upon them. The best they could manage was chucking a rope at me (you can see it on the left there). I did consider climbing up there and giving them a thorough thrashing, but - like Richard Gere sans the gerbils - I am a gentleman, rather than a brute.

Aarat's enigmatic artiste and Tom Petty fan asked a reasonable question in the comments that I felt deserved an answer. She said, "what fainting goats?" To which I reply, "these fainting goats." [The group at 0:51 are my favourite.]

It must be difficult for poor Jennifer, surrounded as she is by all of this unabashed masculinity. Of course, most of it is just me, but imagine it when the lads hit their teenage years, all sweaty and dripping testosterone? Henry will be at leasy six foot four (at twelve years old), and Ezra won't be far behind him. How will she cope? Where will we put the shoes? They'll be like kayaks. For now, she's stuck with us (unless she wises up and hits the bricks). Jen took this photo just this morning, as Ez had just finished telling Henry and I a story about this dream he had in which he, Normal Mailer, Henry Miller, Charkes Bukowski and Ernest Hemingway went out to a strip joint in pre-revolutionary Havana and one thing led to another... Well, I'll let him tell it on his own blog one day. I think that the look on Henry and My respective faces will tell you enough to catch the drift. That said, I think that I'll just keep the Henry Miller out of their reach for the time

It is no surprise that people who write advertisements have a tendency to be quite liberal [ahem] with the truth. My experience in researching and writing this series on vintage ads (thousands of hours every single week alone!) tells me that of all the shysters, scammers, tricksters, con artists, deceivers, dissimulators, fablers, fabricators, fabulists, falsifiers, fibbers, phonies, charlatans, double-dealers, four-flushers, griftera, smooth operators and flim flam men that I've seen, those involved in the promulgation on the filthy habit that is cigarette smoking are the most brazen offenders. Yet it is far worse than a decadent art rolling around in it's own filth. We know the great crimes of the ad man, that is no surprise. But to drag the good name of dentistry through the mud is a bridge too far . I am not sure which of the nineteen thousand, two hundred and ninety three dentists were willing to put their name to the outrageous claims made above, but they have sha