MOOMINS M.C.

The discharge would have to go down as one of the most unpleasant I’ve come across, apart from that one time in that lady boy bar in Thailand.
Firstly, I was told that I may be discharged next week.
Then I was told that it may be Saturday and finally on Thursday, I found out that I will be going on Friday.
I was suitably ticked off about this complete disregard of me in the making of this decision.
The nurse who informed me was smiling.
I think she wanted me to reciprocate.
I found it utterly impossible to do that, as all I could sense was a really bitter taste.
After quietly and internally counting to ten and thinking of the most obscene and appropriate expletive to expel from my mouth, I said:


“And how exactly do you imagine I will carry my six months worth of crap from the taxi into the house?”


“What about your housemates, can’t they help you?”


“You mean the ones that will be at work?”


I just had to make the point that although the discharge is more than welcome, the timing was lousy.
My housemates were aware of the possibility of my coming home on the Saturday so transferring my six months worth of crap from the taxi into the house would be as easy as say, running into a semi trailer.
Not on a friday afternoon.
During a meeting with my doctor I was told that the reason they want to so unceremoniously boot me out on the Friday was because they can't do admissions on the weekend.
Now I know that in the last month there have been 36 fatalities in this state, so if there are 8-10 serious injuries requiring hospitalisation then that's a lot people needing beds.
And seeing as I'm just killing time until the pelvis specialist makes up his mind, I might as well do it at home where I can actually get some sleep, don't get woken up by noisy nurses and patients and my stomach can quit being used as a daily pin cushion. ( I don't know how diabetics do it to be quite honest, my gut is all lumpy and bruised from the daily anticoagulant injections )
I guess my biggest beef is that after 6 months in there, they could have given me a bit more notice than one day.
In order to ensure they could get rid of me. the decision was made to send all my six months worth of crap home by courier.
I thought that would be ok, so I took off home at 3 as the courier was picking everything up at 3:30.
After numerous phone calls to the hospital and the couriers
Four hours later he finally turned up.


So here I am.

Finally out of the hospital.

After all that.



It feels weird.
Especially when I know that I'm home, but not in the way I hoped for or envisaged all that time.
I know I'll probably have to go back in to the chop shop.
The specialist was talking of wanting to see a current CT ( appently only the x-rays were booked for today, but why should ANYthing have gone right today ), but also letting me recover more from the last surgery before going the hack again.
Have to wait again


.

Guess what?






































Going home today.


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My surgeon unexpectedly visited me at one of those ungodly hours and had a quick squiz at my x-rays.


"You've been shorn!" I realised vocally.


"Yes I know, even more conservative than before." he joked.


"Good lord! Next you'll be voting liberal!"


To which he replied laughingly:


"No, I'm far too left wing for that."


After our little exchange he commented on how the legs seem to have healed enough to be able to withstand full weight.

Again.

Remember, that's not the first time I've been told that.
The right femur still has a little to go and the tibia also has a crack that's not quite right.
As far as he's concerned I can walk, save for the pelvis fracture.
So this Friday, I will once again be seeing the pelvis specialist and again for the third, hopefully receiving some sort of clearer timeline or decision on whether to go to the chop shop or not.
The good news is that if he decides not to put me on the chopping board, I can go home.


The nurses have been coming up to me and asking if the news is true, how good I must be feeling, how much I can't wait, how good it is.
As much as I'm supposed to be racing around the ward telling everyone how ecstatic I feel or bouncing off walls from the joy, I am not holding my breath as I've been down the Buttercup road before.
For some unexplained reason I'm not as jubilant as I should expect to be.
Maybe it's a case of Stockholm Syndrome?
Who knows.


Why do you build me up (build me up) Buttercup, baby
Just to let me down (let me down) and mess me around
And then worst of all (worst of all) you never call, baby
When you say you will (say you will) but I love you still
I need you (I need you) more than anyone, darlin'
You know that I have from the start
So build me up (build me up) Buttercup, don't break my heart


Pretty much sums up how I feel about these old wrinkled and bendy carrots they keep dangling in front of me, only to have them taken away.
I'll never forget that song in the movie Luggage Of The Gods when the astonished cave man ( did they even have that emotion back in prehistoric times? ) managed to get the stereo / ghetto blaster working, only to be aurally assaulted by The Foundations!

So for the moment my friend uncertainty will keep me company until the time comes for it to knock off...........whenever that might be.


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The weekend is over and it's time to put the toys away again.
There were two ( that I know of ) championship deciding rallies on this weekend.
I was fortunate enough to go out to the hills and forests around Yarra Glen to the Rally of Melbourne, in nothing less than Keli's "Duchess", along with his son and Cam.
And what a sentimental experience it was too.
It very much reminded me of my rally days back in Tassie where you would get rain, thunder, hail, wind, sun and snow all in the same day.
Throw in some recalcitrant officials, lots of waiting, stage cancellations, a flat tyre and you've got yourself a jen-you-wahn rallying experience.



Firstly, the road we planned to go down was blocked off this year and we were forced to go to an official spectator point and pay our $20 for the privilege of watching the cars go around a fairly dull corner.
It's amazing how when you flash some crutches and a wheelchair you are suddenly allowed to park you car where only the officials, rally teams and vip's do ( ie. nice and close to the action).
So a word of advice: if you're going to an event and parking is going to be a problem, take some crutches or a wheelchair if you can get one.

On our way back we noticed that the road we wanted to go down was not closed with bunting, but more chicaned off.
So we went and had a chat with the chap in the S.E.S. 4WD about going through there.
Got the usual:

"No, the road is closed unless you have a media, official or team pass"


"But it's not actually closed to the public though is it? I mean there's a gap in the bunting and it's not an officially closed road. Give us a break, I've got a wheelchair and it's very hard to get decent viewing at the official spectator point."


"My instructions from above are not to let anyone through unless they have a pass. I had someone else in a wheelchair asking before and had to turn them away."

This was an obvious lie, I mean what are the chances of two cripples attempting to get down that road?


Then I pulled my ace out:
"But you can't actually stop us from going through can you now? Just tell your supervisor you were in the bush relieving yourself as we went through."


"You're right I can't stop you."

He was a nice enough chap really, but when we came back for the second time, he had an accomplice with him.
This chap was a bit more forceful in his discouragement, as a matter of fact, short of actually chaining himself to the chrome bumper bar of the Duchess, he tried everything from the "This is closed for today." to the "This road is red flagged and if you get bogged you're on your own" lines.
To which I replied:

"I know that this road is in fact in very good condition as we were here last year. I know you can't stop us going through. Who can stop us driving on?"


"Well, only the police."


"Right, and are there any police here?"


"No."


"Ok then, thank you for doing your job. See you later."

Gino and Melissa were following behind us, but got caught by the "you'll get bogged" routine.
I can understand the need to keep spectators to in designated areas due to safety and insurance issues, but to me this really goes against the whole idea of rally speculating.
You know, finding yourself a good spot, lighting a fire, cooking some food and watching the rally from your masterfully selected and most choice viewing location, whilst speculating how much faster you could go through there.
That last one generally gets more and more outrageous as the beer consumption increases.

Once we'd arrived at our spot, we found out form the road closure officials that the previous stage ( the one where it was snowing ) was cancelled due to trees on the road and as a result, so was the one we were hoping to see.

So we packed up and went to Yarra Glen to visit the Service Park ( where the service crews are set up ) to catch up with my mates from Tassie Simon Jansen, his navigator Elisia Kruper and their crew Tim and Mark.
At that stage Simon had the possibility of taking out the BP Ultimate Challenge series in the last two stages.
The BP Challenge, a series within the Australian Rally Championship, is for privateers running on pump fuel as opposed to the racing fuel, which last year cost about $7 per litre.
In the end, after two nerve wracking stages ( on one they were 20 seconds slower than in the morning due to the torrential downpour ) they clinched the series title.



Down in Tassie, David Waldon with Ross Ferguson navigating took out the Tasmanian Rally Championship at the last rally for the year!!!
After breaking a drive shaft in the first stage and suddenly turning the 4WD Subaru into a 2WD, the boys replaced it in service and David and Ross drove on to get the required points to take title.
My best mate Scotty McGrath and I used to service for David when I used to live in Tassie, and they and the rest of the service crew did an amazing job of reshelling the car after it was transformed into metal ball, in just 4 weeks.



In their own time, they sourced another Subaru, stripped both cars, repainted the new one, fitted all the drive train, suspension, cross members, seats, harnesses and various other bits and pieces from the old one into the new one.


I, knowing the futility of trying to get motorsport shots with my 17-85mm lens, went and bought a telephoto zoom lens on Saturday.
As the shop didn't have the one I wanted, I bought the cheapest and nastiest Sigma 70-300mm for $219.
It's not going to be completely useless later though as it is also a macro lens, which I can use for close up photos of things like insects and stuff.
Boy, it certainly performed like all the $219 I paid for it.
The motor drive was almost as loud as the rally cars and for the time it took to actually focus, I would have been gleefully unwrapping Christmas presents.
So to overcome the impotent old man performance, I set the lens to manual focus and hoped for the best.
It took a little while to get used to it as I'd never shot with such a contraption before, but I did manage to get some decent shots.










So congratulation to David, Ross, Scottie and the rest of their crew, as well as Simon, Elisia, Tim and Mark on their wins.
It caps off a lot of hard work for these guys and they should bask in the glory because it is well deserved.
These crews are now honorary recipients of the Moomins Golden Sack ( Of Pine Needles ) Award, for their adventurous, persistent and tenacious spirit displayed in the many years leading up to this momentous occasion.


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Had another taxi moment,
I've been having a crappy couple of days and was looking forward to going to a Deviant Art Melbournians Meet.
I left the hospital and rang for a taxi at about 4:55 thinking that should be plenty of time to get to Federation Square from Richmond for the 5:45 meeting.
25 minutes later, I rang again and was informed that I'd been picked up at 5:05.
Yeah right, obviously.
That's why I was still there, in person and not just some astral projection.
And I hadn't seen anyone 'steal' my taxi either.
After more phone calls and being hung up on twice, it was obvious I was going to miss the meeting time altogether.
As I didn't get a contact number ( didn't think I'd need it ) I wasn't able to call the organiser.
Pissed off, will be calling the cab company on monday to make a complaint.
God I hate dealing with taxi telephoninsts and drivers!
I may as well have stayed in my hospital room and shafted myself up the pooper, would have saved me having to get about of bed and waste my time.


Anyway, off for some rally action on the weekend and hopefully catch up with a couple mates from tassie who have entered, so remember kids:
"Dirt is for racing, bitumen is for getting there."


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EXPLICIT LANGUAGE WARNING


That little demented Italian turned out to be a nasty piece of shit indeed.
After the last episode he had a specialist carer in the room for 48 hours.
What do you know, as soon as the 48 hours were up, he attacked another nurse.
This time, a student who was on our ward for 2 weeks.
I don't believe he's actually demented, but more of a woman basher as he seems to pick on the smallest, most vulnerable nureses, to all the others he's sweet as pie.
It made me absolutely furious that this student was put in that situation, as whoever was in charge of the students failed to mention to them that they are not to go near the piece of crap.
I'm also furious at his fucked up family as they failed to mention the medication he was on ( they actually had the nerve to go off at the hospital for not giving it to him! ), and the fact that he's got a violent history ( at one stage they said that he's so gentle that they couldn't believe he would do such a thing ).
What a pack of arse holes!
The whole bloody lot of them.
And there is nothing really wrong with the little bastard either.
He's got a sore wrist and a couple of black eyes.
Whoopy doo!
He's fully mobile, so he should not be here.
His crazy fucked up daughter is also very violent and prone to pulling Russel Crowe stunts like throwing the phone at nurses, although she's actually bedbound and needs constant medical care.
She will be a handful though when she gets mobile.
There are elderly patients here who are petrified of this woman basher and sleepless because of his daughter.
One has already discharged herself earlier than she should've been.
I told the bloke looking after the prick, that his biggest problem will not be keeping him off the nurses and patients, but keeping the patients off the twisted little monkey.


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Two things to post today.


1) We had a little incident here on the "One Flew Over A Cuckoo's Nest" ward last night.
The cute little demented Italian who spends most of his time saluting, blessing and forgetting turned on one of the young nurses last night.
I was in my old shitty room talking to a feller who's staying there, when we heard some screaming.
At first we thought it was the cute little demented Italian's crazy daughter, as she had been particularly vocal last night.
All of a sudden we both looked at each other with a sense of dread as the screams weren't the usual annoying mad rantings, but the cries of panicked distress of the nurse we spoke to only minutes earlier.
We both rushed in to the room from which the screams were emenating to find the cute little demented Italian having overpowered the nurse.
He had her on the bed, one hand pulling her hair and the other on her throat.
The feller with me got to him first and managed to pull him off her, shortly afterwards the other nurse ran in and helped her colleague out of the room.
Afterwards I tried to keep the little crazy beastie, who by that stage had snapped again and was now wondering around turning switches on and off and opening and closing the door to the bathroom, from leaving the room.
It's not easy to stop someone trying to leave a room when you're in a wheelchair and I was grateful when a third patient arrived to help me.
The crazy beastie started panicking and yelling at the top of his voice, no words just yelling.
Shortly afterwards the security arrived and took over.

So now I know what my sister's man Glenn and my broken skiing leg friend have to deal with, being that they're psychiatric nurses.


2) It's my 6 month anniversary today since the rapacious semitrailer affair.
And I'm still in the bloody hospital, going crazy.
On the bright side I got a sketch from MissLeo today of me surfing on a stingray.
Check it here


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What a day.........phew.
It began with a phone call from Ian ( Adam's dad ) at 7am telling me he's outside and ready to pick me up.
That was all great except for the fact that I was told to be ready at 7:30am.
So even with me rushing to get ready, I was still out at 7:30.
It's like that when you're a cripple.



We met up with Kerry ( who organised all this for me ), Adam, his sister Jacqui and mum Gwen, Dean, Paul in Cranbourne.
I parked up in the MRAA tent for a bit and helped out in the chopping up of sheets of A4 into tiny strips with people's names on them for the raffle draw because someone forgot to bring them and had to get their wife to do it. Or something like that.
A little later the Wollongong Wiz ( aka Wayne Gardner ) arrived by helicopter to sign autographs and flag the start of the Grand Prix Run.
And didn't he look second hand!!!!!
Poor old Wayne had obviously had a big night as he was wearing sunnies ( it was very overcast ) and hadn't had a shave.
I was introduced as the bent & buckled biker to be riding in the trike on this G.P. Run.
I told him a bit about how I came to be in this condition and how long my hospitalisation has dragged on for.
He then went about the job of signing autographs with amazing professionalism.
Even in his rather damaged state and the mob baying for his signature / time / a piece of him, he still conducted himself with utmost decency.
I don't know how he managed it to be quite honest.


Shortly afterwards I was bundled off to the trike and the whole procession took off to Phillip Island.



At a leisurely 60 / 70 km per hour it was the slowest trip ever, but none the less enjoyable.
It did feel a bit weird putting a helmet on again and I'd obviously put on weight in hospital as I had trouble doing up my jeans and had to get Al to help me with my leather jacket.



There were 3 police bikes out the front with a bunch of trikes following.




A little later, motorbikes started to filter through to the front, which then had to be 'herded' by the cops back behind the trikes.
It was rather funny to watch actually.
Like I saw somewhere once: organising bikers is like herding cats.
The road sides were full of locals waving and cheering the column on and amongst them I spotted this chap.
He was like some throwback to the late 1800's. ( it was a snapshot, scuse quality )



Very bizarre, but maybe not as bizarre as this bloke, who had a goggled dog on his fuel tank ( click on the photo, see the ears in front of the helmet? )



Eventually we arrived at the race track and I crutched my way in thanks to a complimentary ticket I'd received courtesy of Dale Maggs from the MRAA.
I got some weird looks too as I had my leather jacket on, back pack and my helmet strapped to my back pack.
People were staring at the weirdo cripple in bike gear and a helmet on the back, probably wondering how I got down there.



The track experience was fantastic, much like the last time I was there except that it was sunny and warm.
From the F18 flyover to the 125cc, 350cc and Moto GP bikes, the sights and sounds were awesome!!!
And the food and drink was just like I remembered, super expensive and little of it.
The variety of bikers and their associated bike ornaments ( usually scrawny underdressed slappers ), the non motorcycling pissed bogans, the racing girls ( honda, yamaha, etc ), the smells of highly expensive racing dinosaur remains being burned in the combustion chambers of highly strung racing machines!
It was all too much.




I met up with Gino and 2 of the Adasko brothers who helped and looked after me while I was down there.




Geoff C. didn't turn up as he spent the day trying to blow up a doll while the others were at the track ( He reckons he was trying to blow into a breathalyser and got readings which said he shouldn't be operating any kind of machinery, yeah right ).
At the end of it all Ian picked me up and brought me back to the hospital.
I was knackered.
Absolutely stuffed, but not like Wayne Gardener.
Different kind of stuffed.
There was no waking until 11a.m. the next day and all day today everything ached and hurt and throbbed, but it was a good kind of pain as I thoroughly enjoyed the activities responsible for it and the company of mates that surrounded me.
Next weekend it's off to the catch up with some Tassie mates in the NGK Rally of Melbourne.


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Too knackered to write a proper post about the MRAA Australian Motorcycle Gand Prix Run today so stay tuned to this station.


Some stats I forgot about:
pints of blood transfused - 8 ( approximately 4 litres )

:)


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So there I am, lying in my bed, minding my own business, when the resident nutter nurse blows in like Hurricane Katrina.


"Play me some guitar!Come on.Will you play me something?Oh,come on!I wanna hear you play something!I know you can play well,play me a song!" - she ranted.


After some time I finally relented as I'd learnt long ago that I can not play with madness.
That's not entirely true.
I can play with madness, I just won't win.
Like a kid who's just been told she can have that chocolate bar that's been pined after ever since she set foot in the supermarket, the nutter nurse picked up my guitar off the little bench.
In her aroused and excited state she picked it up by the body and raised it up.
The neck of the guitar scribed an invisible arc high in the air, starting from the bench, upright six feet in the air and finally came down like a felled old growth eucalypt in a rainforest.
On my right leg.
Directlly on the skin graft and the metal plate fitted underneath.

Scream?
I nearly shat!!!
I don't know which of us was more shocked, but I do know I was in a shitload of pain.
The timing couldn't have been worse either as the pain killers had worn off and I was due for more.
I think my face turned every available hue of crimson in the moments that followed.
To make up for her transgression she brought me sweets and treats.
Which she'd extracted form other patients.


"Did you steal these from ( patient's name )? You did didn't you?"


She answered only with that childlike guilty look.
You know the one?
The one where the offending child knows it's been busted, that there is undisputed evidence, and yet still tries to deny the fact.
She has the worst poker face in the world.


There seems to be an unusually high concentration of nutters in this ward at the moment, which although annoying can also be quite entertaining.
Like the little old Italian man who keeps wondering into my room at all sorts of hours and asking me my name.
Lately I've had to resort to buzzing for a nurse to get him out.
Then there's the affected woman with the hobbit feet and the breaking voice of a teenager whose testicles are at the beginning of the descent process.
I've mentioned the "Papa! Papa!" woman before.
There's the middle aged bloke who was knocked off his bicycle and broke his pelvis, but the way he carries on you'd think he'd smashed every bone in his body.
Never heard anyone whinge and moan so much in my life.
You can hear him coming by the only thing he knows how to utter:


"Uuuggh, oooohhhhh."


I do enjoy stirring him up though.
I'm beginning to think I was admitted into a psych. ward and am now getting better, therefore starting to notice these things.


.

What a strange day it's been.
Started off with Neil my cellmate, being discharged .
This chap was a truckie and had his leg run over by his own prime mover.
He's been here for 6 weeks and my cellmate for 1 week.
He was good value.


Shortly after returning from the swimming pool I looked out the window and found this:
( you may need to click on the photos to see it properly )






Bizzare hey?



Later that morning, the patient who was yelling "Shut up!" at the 'affected' woman, who was yelling "Papa! Papa!", moved in to my room.
I know him and he's a should be good value as well.
He once or twice towed Mark ( one of my former cellmates ) to the TAB and back with his electric wheelchair, so he's got a good sense of humour.
His sense of humour was tested by my short sheeting his bed and he passed with flying colours.
I am a bit worried though, he reckons he likes to get even.
Like the previous cellmate and myself, Damien is a semi trailer hugger.
He actually fell asleep at the wheel and ploughed into the truck.
Amazingly he's got all four limbs and will walk again.
So as of today, this room is stricktly reserved for truck huggers.


The evening was capped with some fireworks down at a park near the Yarra River.
Damien reckons he organised those for me as well.





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I'm glad to report that the house is in one piece after the party there a couple of weeks ago ( the one when I was recovering from my last operation ).
There was a bit of worry however, as I could not locate my little islander girl record.
I hope it gets found by the next time I visit.


I also had a brief visit from the Ryba family from Tassie on Saturday, who were up for the weekend.
They came bearing yet more of my beloved nectar, Cascade Red, some local chocolates and some Goodies dvd's.
The chockies have been eaten, the dvd's are being watched and the beer will be drunk at a later time when my bone graft healing has reached a satisfactory state.
So a big thank you to Mirek, Ela and Krzys :)


It was with much frustration that I sat there on Saturday night and watched as my mates guzzled down litres upon litres of beer and smoked packets upon packets of cigarettes like seasoned pros.
Knowing how much alcohol and cigarettes inhibit the healing process, especially bone grafts, I was resigned to sitting there like a dumb turd, sober as a judge and watching everyone else progress through the various stages of alcoholic influence.
That sucked and eventually I cracked and had a stubby with a cigarette.
I felt better afterwards.

I felt much worse later though, when I watched Australia get soundly beaten by South Africa in the tri nations rugby union competition.
Bloody sick useless Wallabies!!!!
They played with about as much motivation and drive as a particular older patient in physio.
This bloke was on a hand bike machine, where you pedal with your hands.
He would do about 3-4 very slow turns and stop.
Then, he'd have a sleep, wake up when one of his hands fell off the pedal / handle and do 3-4 more, and do it all over again.


Speaking of patients, we've got a father and daughter addition here on our ward.
The father, an elderly Italian chap who constantly salutes everyone and the daughter who's a bit affected upstairs.
They are in separate rooms and she seems to spend most of the time yelling out "Papa! Papa!"
This is driving some of the other patients crazy and I didn't really appreciate it until I returned on Sunday night.
I could hear this "Papa! Papa!" from the other and of the ward so I went down for a look and sure enough there she was yelling in her high pitched voice.
When she's not calling out for him, she's having conversations with 'people' in her room.
It's a bit cruel but I gotta say, she did remind me a lot of Beaker from the Muppets.
Sitting up in his bed across the hall was another fellow patient, yelling "Shut up! Shut up!"




Gonna have a whinge now, but it's my blog and I'll whinge away to my heart's content if I want to and there isn't a damn thing anyone can do about it!
:p
I had the unfortunate displeasure of having to deal with some half witted situations.
I will not name the offenders as they probably know who they are.
One was hell bent on hypocritically wasting my time and the other, after bumping into my muscle grafted leg and having had an explanation offered as to the reason why it feels unpleasant, decided to repeatedly poke that very area and ask with a drunken smile:


"So if I do that, you can feel it on the back of your leg?"


It was only out of respect for the latter's partner that I didn't immediately let fly with a torrent of expletives and an honest, if harsh opinion on their character at that very moment.
As for the former, that person is unfortunately a mate of mine and I had too much self restraint and respect for them to let fly at that particular time even though that person did add to an already awful moment.
At the time I was nostalgically staring, whilst holding back a tear or two, at a couple of photos from previous motorbike trips and thinking of how I might not ever be able to sit around a fire, in a secluded bit of nature after a hard day's riding, with some mates and a cold beer in my hand, with the promise of more riding and camping the following day.


Oh god, why have you loosed these creatures upon me?
Are they here to test me?
Am I that bad a person that I am forced to deal with insensitive baboons, on top of all the other shite I've had to deal with?


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So the day of judgement has come and gone.
All that waiting, the anticipation, the guesswork, the estimates, the planning of my near future, all for naught.
I got another three weeks.
The pelvis specialist has decided to let me wait and get more scans and x-rays before making a final decision.
I don't quite understand why really.
If my pelvis has not united in the near six months I've been here, then it's not going to miraculously unite in another three weeks, is it?
The likelyhood of that happening is as about as much as successfully attempting to extract intelligent remarks out of a footy player.
Pretty darn much unthinkable.

I also had my filling done today.
You see, during the initial embrace of the semi trailer, I had chipped a tooth.
That tooth then developed a cavity and needed some dental attention.
I didn't realise this however, for a long time.
That was mainly due to the amount of pain killers I was on.
So, off I went to the dentist.
This time, I asked for some anaesthetic. ( the last filling about a year ago was implanted without it, out of choice )
I figured I'd had my fair share of pain this year and I just couldn't be bothered with more today.
I can't remember the last time my face felt like it was sliding off my skull.
And trying to drink was confusing.
The liquid would go in through the straw and then more than successfully escape through the left side of my mouth.
Can you imagine what I must have looked like?
Parked up outside the busy RMIT on Swanston St on a Friday lunch time, people everywhere.
In a wheelchair, dribbling out of the left side of my mouth, laughing ( to and at myself ) at how ridiculous I must look.
All I needed was some ear phones on and to be singing to Radiohead to complete the picture.


So it's back to the waiting game for me, now I know how that David Hicks feels.
Never knowing when he's going to get released, or a trial, or anything else for that matter.
I suppose I don't get the same loving care and attention from the dirt farming, inbred middle american hillbillies they call inmate care assistants over in Guano Tonne Or More Bay.
At least that breaks up his monotonous passing of time.


I on the other hand, have a few things to keep me sane.
One is my laptop, kindly sponsored by my mates, and when that gets a bit much, I have my 6 string guitar.
Also my relatives and mates keep an eye on me and make sure I'm not getting too screwed up by this enforced hibernation.
Speaking of hibernation, what I thought was to be a winter break in air conditioned comfort is now stretching into spring.
Tell you what though, it had better not encroach into summer or I'll be mighty pissed orrrf!


My hibernation is temporary though unlike yet another Aussie icon.
Today, Peter Brock collided with a tree, side on and died pretty much instantly, whilst competing in Targa West in his Daytona.



Like Steve Irwin, he touched and was loved by many people, he also was passionate about his occupation and he also died unexpectedly doing what he loved.
And like Steve he also had a goofy side.
We all remember the success he had on the race track, after all he won Bathurst 9 times ( the most by a single driver ), but he did flutter with a goofy invention called the "Energy Polariser".
This was a box of crystals and magnets, which supposedly made the car perform better.
After fitting them to the Brock Holden Commodores, he had a falling out with General Motors and that brought about the end of their long relationship.
Yet he kept on racing.
And it was the copping it on the chin and carrying on again attitude that made him so successful and respected.

I spoke with my best mate Lumpy about it today and he raised some very valid points about the kind of events like this one and the problems with them.
The cars and stages used are fast.
Very fast.
Unlike the dirt rally cars, these vehicles are not restricted.
You can pretty much run any kind of car you can get your hands on and this brings on very high incidental and average speeds.
Of course, the faster you go, the more you increase the chance of encountering a dangerous situation.
Yes, they look great when they go past at a million miles an hour, and yes they feel great when they're being driven at a million miles an hour, but the ever increasing popularity of bitumen rallies both amongst competitors and spectators will inevitably incur more deaths and injuries.
Methinks there will be some scapegoating involved and maybe a rethink of the nature of these events.
When a professional racing driver dies in a smash and a recreational motorcyclist doesn't it just goes to show that if your number's up, then your number's up isn't it?


( It didn't take long, only a few hours in fact. )
Steve Irwin was told he could take one thing from earth to heaven.
So he whispered in God's ear.
When his wish arrived he said to God:
"I said crock, not Brock!"


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I had some new x-rays done today and on closer inspection, the number of staples left inside is seven not one.
And I still haven't found any cutlery in there, which I am pretty happy about.

My word........When it doesn't rain, it bloody pours!!!!!!

First of all, I was woken up this morning with some great news.
There was a free bed in the room next to my old room, and I was welcome to it.
Goodbye downer bogan cellmate!
Goodbye noisy air conditioning unit!
Goodbye view of air conditioning duct!
So for the first time in ages I was actually awake, dressed and roaming the ward in my wheelchair, before 8am!
The nurses were beside themselves and I couldn't help, but pick my guitar as the first object to be moved and have a little happy tinkle on it ( much to the annoyance of one of my old cellmates ).
Before breakfast was served I had been relocated to this new room.
I know the bloke in here from the ward, and he's also a semi trailer victim.
His own semi's air brakes weren't set properly, he fell off the fuel tank and it ran over his leg.
Somehow, it didn't crush his leg, but it did do some rather serious soft tissue damage.
He should be out in a week.
It's nice for a change to have a cellmate who's got a sense of humour and a positive attitude.


Not long after that, I received a phone call from Kerry.
Kerry, as a member of the Bent and Buckled Bikers Bureau informed me of the upcoming Phillip Island Australian Motorcycle Grand Prix MRA run from Cranbourne to the island.




She also told me that the 4 B's had organised some trikes to ride at the head of the group and there was a spot for me on the back of one of them.
Apparently the guys on the back of these trikes will be hanging out with the MRA in their tent, along with former 500cc World Champion Wayne Gardner , you can see him winning at the island here.
He's going to flag the start of the run at Cranbourne.
THANKS HEAPS KERRY AND THE 4 B'S!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :)

All this and it wasn't even 10am!!!!
I was feeling lucky so in the afternoon I borrowed another patient's electric wheelchair and buzzed down to the newsagent to get me some lottery ticket action.


I found out an interesting bit of news that touched my heart.
An article in the Guardian newspaper on the decline of the tie.
Something that I've been a great advocate of for ages, let's face it the tie is ridiculous and just as women burnt their bras, so should men incinerate their symbols of class and corporate bondage.
Vive la revolucion!!!!!!!!!

A good day indeed................


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'
A sad day for Australia today.
Well, it's a day anyway.
That boisterous larrikin Steve Irwin passed away due to a coronary arrest.




Caused by a stingray barb accurately and rapidly inserted into his heart, by some unsuspecting stingray he was no doubt attempting to fondle.
Now, I was snorkling at Cape Shank last summer with Cam and Gino, where I was very close to a large stingray on more than one occasion.
All those times I swam away from the freaky looking thing because I know that they can give you a rather nasty sting with the barb on their tail.
But no, he had to go and play with the damn thing didn't he?

He was one of the those Australians who made us all cringe whenever gracing our tv screens, and who the rest of the world ( mostly Americans, let's face it they do think they are the rest of the world ) loved and adored.
The fact that the rest of the world's population thinks Australia is inhabited by Steve Irwins will take years, if not generations to correct.
And for that he stands accused and guilty.
But you have to give it to him though.
He did do a fair bit for fauna and conservation awareness and if his goofy persona, passionate and almost unnatural love of reptiles ( and things we generally would kill out of fear at the merest opportunity ) and his carry on like a kid in a lolly shop had helped that, then we gotta be grateful for him.
I'm still not really decided on his waving the baby at the crocodiles though.


I on the other hand am currently Doohan OK.
One of the two wound sites is uncovered and now just waiting for the other one to come good.
A little less pain every day :)
A lot less than Steve Irwin anyway.
I'm looking forward to being able to sleep on my right side again.
So far, sleep has been in alternating left side and back positions, none of which is satisfactory.
Being a side sleeper, lying on my back brings on breathing issues like snoring and a general feeling of unnatural and constant discomfort.
Something akin to having things inserted and left in an orifice into which things shouldn't be inserted and left.
Or riding a motorbike side saddle.
Or voting Liberal.
You get the picture right?
It's just plain wrong.
The other option is to sleep on my left side.
The one with the fractured and plated collarbone..............although as uncomfortable, it is also painful to the point that after a period of about 15 minutes I am forced to turn back onto my back.
So, I'm hoping that soon I'll be able to actually GET SOME PROPER BLOODY SLEEP!!!!
My cellmate's midnight ramblings don't help either, but I think he's leaving tomorrow.
Oh man!
Now he's on the phone, threatening to punch some bloke's head in!


A side effect of this whole truck induced raw deal is one I would have never contemplated.
You see I have experienced a strange growth.
This growth comes in spurts and from different locations, but it keeps on increasing.
I have found it to be caused by a few people I know.
And I am very grateful to them.
My music collection has been expanding due to people like my sister and GM in Ireland, Wolfy in Tassie and Glen B in Queensland.
I've received some new stuff from my sister and GM like the new Muse and System Of A Down albums.
And I was told off by Glen B for listening to a Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson album, so he's sending me some medicine like Rush, Devin Townsend and the like.
A pleasant side effect if you don't mind.


Before I forget, here's a fantastic bit of Japlish.
It's a description of a weird Japanese motorbike which can be found here.

This commodity is the hand made commodity, for improving specification there are times when it modifies without notice.
??????? because of hand made custom from the method which receives reservation has produced in order.
The engine, in addition part has used the best USED part.
This vehicle is the official recognition vehicle which is based on safety standards.
Arrangement and the like of the maintenance shop and the like the buyer supposing the Bick motorcycle from becomes, design stage, burden we are designed and the section parts maintain preeminent strength.
Feeling at rest even on the winding load, and the highway you can ride.



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Another motorcycling mate of mine, Rob G. ( who works at the same psych. hospital my sister's man GM used to when they were here ), has gone out and busted his leg whilst skiing for the first time.
He did ok, managed to last two and a half days before fracturing his tibia and fibula ( the lower leg bones ).
After a few days at the St. Vincent's hospital he is now a proud owner of tibial rod and some cross bolts.

I have some really great mates.
Not only do they come and visit me in horsepiddle, take me to the pub, bring me grub and grog, joints, hash cookies, rare beers from overseas, send funny and inappropriate emails, but they go out and hospitalise themselves out of sympathy!
Now you can't get much more committed than that, can you now?
I am truly blessed don't you think?

Speaking of emails, Geoff C. sent me a bloody hilarious, if not scary link the other day.
Well we all know how much of an imbecile Georgie Dubya is ( that crazy old freemason, oh he's a langer ), but this is like a greatest hits compilation of the best of his worst moments.


I just realised that I have not mentioned anything about my current cellmate.
He's a barrel of laughs now.
Another bloody substance abuser, this time a surfy bogan.
Reckons he's got a pound of South Oz grass at home, but maintains that he's got nowhere to go whenever the staff want to discharge him.
There's some girlfriend and small girl involved as well, but he can't live there because of some Apprehended Violence Order that someone in that house has against him.
Then there are the phone calls to the Correctional Officer, something about his left over 10 hours of community service and whether he could leave the state to go to another one.
Then there's the random spraying of some sickly, artificially sweet and vile air freshener or deodorant in his half of the room, which of course wafts across into my half.
IT REEKS!!!!!

He has not said a positive word in the entire week that we've been sharing and the only time he's actually said anything was when he needed or wanted something.
He's on the 12 hour painkiller, the 4 hour painkiller ( every 4 hours ), valium and sleeping tablets.
What a fucking mess!

Apparently, the police think he was pissy driving and the Traffic Accident Commission isn't paying him any money.
He had a suspended licence too, I believe.
Now I tend to believe his story that the guy driving his car took off after smashing it, seeing as the fractured pelvis is busted on the left side, where the tree hit, but it's not up to me.
So he reckons he was taking home $2000 a week labouring and now has nothing and no where to be discharged to.

Two other patients lasted one night in the same room as him before asking to be moved out.
I don't know how, but I've been here for a week now.
Probably because there are no other beds available.
Do I feel sorry for him?
Sometimes a bit, but I don't really fancy getting involved.
Everyone's got a sob story yeah.
Got enough to worry about on my plate as it is.


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