If a blog falls in the forest does it still make a post?

Judging by the current layout, (which for the record I've forgotten how to change) a distinct lack of output nonsensical or otherwise, from this small basement enclave scraping the sides somewhere deep inside the bowels of the Internet, my guess would be that you valued reader would be thinking no. 

And get to the point, I'm trying to figure out this zen sound of one hand clapping thing before dinner and you aren't exactly helping by muddying the waters with irrelevant mangled mixed metaphors. 

And in both cases you'd be more than likely entirely correct. 

And yes, dinner is almost ready.

In the space of three years, I've gone from writing essentially for myself, to for others in a different context, to doing largely everything I can think of by my self. 

But relax, I haven't been trapped in a cupboard and this is to the full extent of which I'll be detailing what I've been up to in some kind of Anne Frank manner.

Plus that's not why you've called. Football. AFL Football. Well, Carlton AFL Football, So Barely.

I've missed the full Malthouse era, you've probably not noticed or even considered my opinions in that time, and that's fine. Most of, if not all of my opinions during this period, if I remember correctly have been lukewarm at best to put it kindly.

But, as has been the case since the mid to late 90's, when my childhood being over some how has unintentionally jinxed the team I've watched almost every minute of Carlton's games since the now highly touted, successful (underline successful) Hawthorn assistant Brett Ratten was swiftly deposed from the head coaching job and replaced by one moustachioed Herr Malthouse. 

Mick, Mick, Mick. 

This could very easily be the point where things devolve into a Herald Sun-esque letter to the editor regarding the Ox being slow, the earth turning and whatever historical bullshit I could think of to prosecute an irrational argument about one Michael "Michelangelo, the artist, not   the ninja turtle" Malthouse (Granted I agree, it's not a very catchy nickname).

Then in a Hitchcockian, wait that should say Hinchian, manner repeatedly utter the phrase "shame". 

But the truth is, some, if not all of this garbage has more than likely already seeped out directly from the inner rumblings of such cultural and intellectual doyens as Murray from Narre Warren, passed throughout the airwaves of various talk back media and into your ears many weeks in the past.

You know, when it was relevant. 

By the way, hello to Murray if he's reading.

But let me just try and sum up three years of the highs the lows, and as was much more frequent, the small minded-win now mediocrity poorly translated into success by management and media that was the Carlton football club during this period, In two ways.

The Richmond fans know where I'm about to go here right? No? Oh I forgot they're Richmond supporters. Let me spell this out then.

First. We finished ninth and still made the finals. 

Then, well yeah, Chris Judd almost single handedly beat Richmond and...That's about it. There was a point I was going to make here, but then I was distracted by the irony of Richmond finally making the finals and well...Just to save time, you can probably write your own joke here.

The axe may have been used once (Malthouse) and a bathroom with a screaming wife and kids inside may also to be ready to be hacked into (The playing list), but I'm not quite ready to anything to do anything completely manic yet. Yet. Something about all work and no play...

That was probably the beginnings of an appropriate musing about some kind of useful analogy about where we've been and why Carlton and myself are in the same place and realigned again. But now I'm distracted thinking about I probably should have written about the time I saw Chris Judd avoiding a fight with a junkie on Lygon St on the news followed directly by his heavily pregnant wife having to present the weather forecast.

As is the case with Carlton. 

We know our limits, but good god we are trying to present the weather, I mean the facts the best we can. We know the outlook is more than likely shithouse when we reach with draft picks or contracts, but Blaine Boekhurst, Josh Boostma and Dale Thomas as much as we want them to just can't put the meth addict in Lygon in a headlock, it just wouldn't be good form. 

So let the meth head shout at you whilst someone calls the cops and others around video tape and gawk waiting for you to potentially do something whilst considering how you may or may not seem a lot different than when they last saw you when you weren't injured. 

I may or may not be going to full tank for draft picks and rebuild soon. 

And there will be more to come about this in a week or so, unless I decide not to. Again.