All cruel people describe themselves as paragons of frankness.

One of the differences between beaches in Tasmania's north west (the place of my birth and first eighteen years), and beaches in Tasmania's south east (where I've lived for the past - gulp - fourteen [!] years; is the distinct lack of crabs in the south.

I believe that the fellow photographed - in Wynyard - above is the notorious Cyclograpsus granulosus, other wise known as the Rough Shore Crab. They've earned that name by [allegedly] frequenting the tough bars and clubs in the shore and dock districts of Tasmania, picking fights with sailors and frequenting prostitutes.

Tough talking crustaceans are of course not the only difference between north and south. As a general rule, north west men are a) bigger; b) stronger; c) smarter; d) more attractive; e) more virile; f) wittier; g) more adroit; h) more ebullient; and - not least - i) far more modest.

This odd evolutionary (?) quirk may or may not be related to the crab wrestling required from toddlerhood on.

Comments

Tom said…

i didn't even notice the little sucker at first.

26 February 2010 at 10:31

Roddy said…

You had me worried! I didn't think you were going to mention modesty.

26 February 2010 at 12:39

Magpie said…

Oh, but of course, those traits must also go to the next generation because I'm sure your boys share all of those lovely qualities, right?? :)

What are the brilliantly blue objects in the picture?

26 February 2010 at 12:51

ratatouille's archives said…

Hi! Kris,
LOL!!!
What a very interesting photograph
too!
Thanks, for sharing!
DeeDee ;-D

26 February 2010 at 16:00

ratatouille's archives said…

All cruel people describe themselves as paragons of frankness.

So true! So very true!
DeeDee ;-D

26 February 2010 at 16:33

Kris McCracken said…

Thanks for the comments, I saw a big aggressive crab at the beach the other day.

4 March 2010 at 10:47

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

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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