This will hurt me...

[Whispers] Henry can see dead people.

Home (to the left and upstairs) from mid-1996 until early-2002. Sandy Bay Road, Sandy Bay. July 2011. Two very different books this week. First up, Aharon Appelfeld's Badenheim 1939 is an odd, dreamlike novel set in an imagined Austrian resort town at the beginning of the Second World War as groups of middle-class Jews arrive to spend another idyllic summer vacation at an annual arts festival. There is a fair whiff of Kafka in Appelfeld's restrained prose, and the incongruity of the characters’ struggle to maintain (simulate?) normality against the intimations of the approaching catastrophe. Although the reader has no choice but factor in the impending Holocaust as both the historical backdrop as well as its imaginative focus, the author deftly does so from surreptitiously and achieves a subtlety that you would think impossible. The awkward ignorance of what is to come for the vacationers dominates this book. Spring is in the air and summer is about to blossom as the vast rang...

No cat, no tin roof, no sexually confused Southern stud on the wane with nothing but a life of regret and a drive for the drink. No, here we have an empty parking lot and the words of Tennessee Williams. Tennessee was a troubled genius, but I do think that he was on to something with today's title. Big Daddy was right when he says that mendacity is indeed all around us. Everywhere I've looked of late, there it has been, grinning that stupid grin at me (and the grin of the mendacious is generally a foolish one). That said, the thing about mendacity as a trait is that it reinforces itself, and often its very presence tends to draw itself out in others. That said, to walk away unsullied having brokered fair and just resolution of a problem amid a sea of mendacity offers a moment of relief, reflection and some satisfaction. To navigate through and walk (sail?) away with a firm knowledge of 'a job well done' makes one feel mighty good. The fact that one can't possibly co...

Apparently, this post is number 805, which means that this blog celebrated post number 800 without ceremony. Fair enough, I am never one to blow my own trumpet (and lord haven't I tried). I will admit that it is quite an achievement (the blog, that is, although the ability to blow one's own trumpet surpasses it by some margin). When I started, I only had one son! Now I have two ! That's double the amount of children! Amazing . Here is the Ezmeister showcasing his excellent grasping skills. Whether it is a hoop earring, mum's knitting, a fly (with chopsticks), or an exposed nipple, you can be guaranteed that Ez will get it in one. Just the other day, Ez and I were down the pub shootin' pool, bustin' each other's balls and whatever it is that red blooded, hot headed studs do when they're on the piss. The little bloke had just put a two dollar coin into the jukebox, selecting the Ting Tings' hit That's Not My Name , when in walks this chubby dude ...