This will hurt me...

I grew up in a town. As a little-un, I even thought that it was a decent-sized town. When Australia's Bicentennial year finally arrived, the bustling metropolis of Burnie - located in the stunning north-west coast of Tasmania - boasted an impressive TWENTY-FOUR THOUSAND people, and a figure no less impressive than [deep breath] By the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories: Canada, Australia, New Zealand, Jamaica, Barbados, the Bahamas, Grenada, Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Tuvalu, Saint Lucia, Saint Vincent and the Grenadines, Belize, Antigua and Barbuda, and Saint Kitts and Nevis; Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith [exhale] Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth the second officially pronounced Burnie a genuine, bona fide, one hundred percent dinky di CITY . It doesn't matter that the harsh realities of the post-industrial economy has driven a retraction the hugely impressive n

I am kind of lost for words when it comes to today's ad. The kindest thing that I can say is that they image and tagline combination seems somewhat poorly chosen . I know that society is used to the sexualisation of wee bairns in this heady age of Bratz, Brittany and bellbottom trousers [look, I've had a long day, all right, and alliteration sells papers ]. Yet the notion of childlike innocence as a signifier for getting one's horn on , as advanced in the obviously liberal 1970s is off-putting to those of us with [ warning: universal moral judgement coming up ] healthy regard for what is or is not sexy . [Note: the one thing that amused me most about this ad, was the resemblence in make up with some of Bill Henson's models, you know, the ones that were in no way meant to be 'sexy' ...]

I think that I can summarise many of the presentations witnessed as such: Thinking about data. Talking about data. Collecting data. Thinking about data. Talking about data. Crunching data. Interpreting data. Manipulating data. Talking about data. Thinking about data. Talking about data. Aggregating data. Collecting data. Thinking about data. Talking about data. (Repeat to fade...)

A pigeon in the sandpit, just one of the monstrosities to be found in the big city. So my little contribution to the conference (it's international , don't you know) has come and gone. Given the hectic nature of work at the moment, the arrival of teeth on teeth on the Ezra front, and the terrible twos on the Henry front, and the fact that I left all preparation to literally the last minute (again), I am inclined to give myself a reasonably good mark. One day I will learn...

Sometimes when you have small children, you can go a little mad. Small children - sweet as they are - can get so annoying that you'd be forgiven for wishing that you had a long break from them. A teething baby, however cute and regardless of how much he smiles, still has a tendency to wake up every hour-and-a-half. You know, that starts to get to you after a while. That said, you can be very forgiving of a baby. A baby is just a baby. A toddler, on the other hand... Well, a toddler is a toddler. A toddler can be a quite engaging chap. A toddler - a bright one, anyway - can put together simple sentences. A toddler can answer questions. A toddler can get out some play dough, bring it across to you and plead, "Daddy make little balls please". That might not impress you, but when said child didn't say much more than shouting " MORE !" at you for months on end, I guarantee that you'd find it extraordinary too. Yet at the same time, this little person will ref

They put me up in Chinatown. Staying in a former opium den, I suspected that the Triads have an investment of some kind in the joint. That said, I'd rather the Triads on my side than on the other side. Notorious gangland activity aside, Chinatown sure can put of a spread in the grub department. I gave the flamethrower duck a miss [c'mon fellas, was it really necessary to leave the head, neck and feet on? That's no way to dispose of a body!]. However, once you get past the heads, feed, gizzards and so on, you can discover a whole world (well, continent) of very lovely food. That's not to say that creepy-looking food can't mean tasty-eating. I just don't have the nerve to nibble on a deep fried duck's bill - Daffy, what have they done to you?!?! - while his cold, unforgiving eyes stare straight at me, judging me, reproaching me. I am certain that it would mean indigestion.

So the lack of action around these parts has been because I was in Sydney, the city of sin, vice, greed, materialism, selfishness, insolence, corruption, crime, shallow consumerism, grubby sex, hedonistic lifestyles, anti-intellectualism and a poor understanding of Australian Rules Football. I went to talk drugs. I went to talk alcohol. I'm went to do all of those things that I love to do: interface, move forward, establish linkages, exploit opportunities, advance the agenda, collaborate, communicate, and maybe even eat a little cake... And now I'm back, and I have photos.

Consider this a match for yesterday's picture. I've been trying to get the lads to respect the wisdom of Alexander Hamilton (the source of today's title). Let's just say that I am far more a Hamiltonian than a Jeffersonian. As is my wont, I am not afraid to say that, like Radiohead's latter-day work, Thomas Jefferson is overrated. Hamiliton for mine is the infinitely more impressive and interesting thinker. Maybe I should do one of those "fantasy matchups" that are so common on teh Internets these days: Hamilton KOs Jefferson rd. 4; Gene Clark def Gram Parsons by split decision; McCartney solo KOs Lennon solo rd. 10; Marx vs Engels DRAW.

This photo demonstrates that Ezra needs a shave. Or maybe the other bloke needs a shave. One of them needs a shave, anyway.

Another one from Married to the Sea that I felt that I just had to share.

"Ez, mate, look at the camera! " Due to a confluence of circumstances beyond my control, this is a pre-post by the robot, so sorry for the lack of witty banter. I am endeavouring to correct that ASAP.

Usain Bolt better watch his step. I've got a fit young bloke in training already breaking weight for age records all across the globe.

No, it isn't the Daily Planet (or even the Daily Worker ), it's Hobart's own The Mercury , more affectionately (!) known by the locals as The Mockery . In my mind, the main failing (of many) of this paper is too many "Elderly in Fear!"; "Children at Risk!"; "CORRUPTION!" banners, and not enough "SURFING DOG!"; "SEX ROMP ON MICROWAVE OVEN!"; and "CORRUPT ELDERLY SURFERS IN SEX ROMP WITH CHILDREN!"