nyonyamansor09

If Jeff Bezos was prepared to outlay $250 million for The Washington Post, you begin to wonder what price for Tasmania's three venerable newspapers? On honesty, integrity and credibility alone I'd expect no less than two bags of Doritos and a bottle of Coke Zero Lime. While we've long been harangued with the plight of newspapers and their depression like operating environment, the weight of the excuse has become tiresome. Important facts in stories are continually viewed as dust to be swept under the nearest Persian. Pride in your efforts? No need. In two years time the jerk on the local news sausage maker will be fitting themselves out as a social media expert or whispering in the ear of your local MP on a daily basis. Alternatively, they'll still be in the same chook pen, churning out the same garbage, while bemoaning the state of the media on twitter each day. You go, girl! Hating the Rupert ethos, while still trudging into work for him? The equivalent of being tea-b...

Time is beautiful. Given enough time you can get fat, bald and start to sprout hair from your ears. Suffering those indignities is worth it because time also builds something else - an artillery. As Sun Tzu said, "while you sweat an imprint into your couch, your enemies sow the seeds of their destruction." Predictions have been made and forgotten by most. Those without shame and something to sell can forever make those predictions without fear of second guessing. Welcome to Tasmania, where the print media is a contemptible landscape of irrelevant whiskey-nosed boozers and their fresh faced, empty headed underlings. You know the type, tweeting while watching Q&A on Monday night allows them to believe they're the state's intelligentsia. Luckily there's me. Thoroughly lazy, yet occasionally motivated by the chance any of Tasmania's lamentable journalistic stock will rip me off and highlight something original. The odds aren't good. The Mercury's pumpe...

They used to tell me I was selling a dream, and so I followed the mob, When there was a home to show, or contracts to sign, I was always there right on the job. They used to tell me I was selling a dream, with riches and glory ahead, Why should I be standing in line, just waiting for bread? Brother, can you spare a dime? This morning, on the way to work, some guy sporting a bluetooth ear piece and a sharp suit was hassling me for spare change. Confused, I tossed him a coin and thought nothing more of it. By mid-afternoon I knew what was up and I wanted my coin back. Apparently there is a real estate Hindenburg going down in Tasmania (who knew), which some real estate agents finally admitted to this morning. You probably already know about this because it was featured on bubblepedia and delusional economics this afternoon. And right now the web nerds at The Advocate are busy scratching their heads, wondering where all those hits came from. Online , our old buddy, Deanne ' seve...