Word-whore. I write 'em. I talk 'em. Information, politics, media, and the cybers. I drink. I use bad words. All publication is a political act. All communication is propaganda. All art is pornography. All business is personal. All hail Eris! Vive les poissons rouges sauvages!
Why, exactly, is this confused-looking concrete giraffe in Dixon Street, the heart of Sydney’s Chinatown?
It’s not like they have giraffes in China. It’s not like there’s a giraffe in the Chinese zodiac. It’s not like giraffes are a good-luck charm or anything. WFT? Please explain!
This year Australia Day coincides with Chinese New Year. It’s the start of the Year of the Ox in just a few hours — New Moon is at 1853 AEDT — which explains this giant ox in Belmore Park.
I haven’t written anything new this year. My photographic post Great Australian Dreaming 1, our silly new national anthem and my essay Are you proud of your culture? said it all last year. Unless I think of something really original later today.
A family of pied currawongs lives next door. Beautiful, smart birds. Recently we’ve been leaving food out for them, and they’re happy to steal a few bites while keeping a wary eye for the cats.
Today one of the parents brought two of the juveniles with it. While I didn’t get the camera in time to snap the family portrait, I did sneak this picture of one of the juveniles on the neighbour’s fence.
“The Secrite Butlere you have to have your reale ID,” says this graffiti in Woolloomooloo, Sydney. WTF?
… like sitting in high vantage points around ’Pong’s desk while he’s working.
That’s Artemis on the left and Apollo on the right. Artemis had spent all afternoon asleep on my jacket, near where I was working. Apollo had been sleeping on my other jacket on the office floor. I think they now expect to be fed or something.
This is the air vent in the elevator between platforms 1/2 and 4 at Sydney’s Town Hall station. Do you like that layer of black crap?
Town Hall station is already hot, humid, smelly and dangerously over-crowded. Add to these risks the fact that you’re breathing whatever it is that’s accumulating up there.
While taking this photo with my trusty but battered Nokia N80 the other day, I expected someone to question me — concerned that I was a terrorist or something. I reckon terrorists are the least of your worries here.