Wednesday, January 31, 2007
WHO NEEDS COMMON SENSE...........
Big Day Out continued:
After seeing Scribe we wondered over to check out Little Birdy, via the beer tent of course.
By the time we got there the punters had packed themselves in like sardines and there wasn't much on offer visually.
That was until Matt suggested standing on the edge of the mixing console riser.
Always one to use common sense, I thought that would be a great place for a bloke with crutches to be.
And that's how I managed to snap a few shots of the band.
A bit blurry, but then again what do you expect when you're trying to balance on the edge of a riser, with a 300mm of lens, attempting to capture an image without a tripod.
It was so worth it though, they did put on a great show and the mixers didn't seem to mind having some strange cripple with a camera and crutches balancing precariously on the edge of their little installation.
I just pretended not to see the "No Climbing" sign.
It wasn't long after that that I started to question the thought processes that led to me going to the Big Day Out in the first place.
It didn't occur to me to take painkillers with me as I'd been off them for a while, they would have made things a little easier.
The poor old legs just aren't used to doing so much stand up time.
It was going to be one of those reoccurring themes for the rest of the day.
With the odd sit down rest and a beer or two between bands I managed to cope, but only just.
The things you do for rock 'n' roll.
Kate doing her thing on stage.
After seeing Scribe we wondered over to check out Little Birdy, via the beer tent of course.
By the time we got there the punters had packed themselves in like sardines and there wasn't much on offer visually.
That was until Matt suggested standing on the edge of the mixing console riser.
Always one to use common sense, I thought that would be a great place for a bloke with crutches to be.
And that's how I managed to snap a few shots of the band.
A bit blurry, but then again what do you expect when you're trying to balance on the edge of a riser, with a 300mm of lens, attempting to capture an image without a tripod.
It was so worth it though, they did put on a great show and the mixers didn't seem to mind having some strange cripple with a camera and crutches balancing precariously on the edge of their little installation.
I just pretended not to see the "No Climbing" sign.
It wasn't long after that that I started to question the thought processes that led to me going to the Big Day Out in the first place.
It didn't occur to me to take painkillers with me as I'd been off them for a while, they would have made things a little easier.
The poor old legs just aren't used to doing so much stand up time.
It was going to be one of those reoccurring themes for the rest of the day.
With the odd sit down rest and a beer or two between bands I managed to cope, but only just.
The things you do for rock 'n' roll.
Kate doing her thing on stage..
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
WHEN THERE'S JUST TOO MUCH GROG IN THE WORLD, YOU HAVE TO DO YOUR BIT........
Bloody typical.
The internet goes down and all this exciting stuff happens.
First things first, we have been experiencing a bit of shuffling around at our house as Cam is moving out before flying out to England, I am moving into his room and a new housemate is moving into my old room.
Her name is Gemma and she'll be studying film production this year, seems nice enough.
So the week has been one long period of moving things around, sorting out bills, etc.
Oh and watching the hens of hell peck at pigeons.
They managed to bail one up in the chicken coop earlier in the day and wouldn't let it out.
At least they're taking prisoners now and not just killing outright.
I went and had a wee chat with my pelvic surgeon last Thursday.
I was expecting, or hoping to have my right leg's weight bearing status bumped up to 75%.
When I heard the surgeon exclaim that it looks 'really excellent' and that I can start walking on that now, I nearly fell off the bench.
He reckons that the union of the pelvic bones is looking really healthy, the parts he left without bone grafts were starting to unite and that the bone graft on the femoral head, which my orthopaedic surgeon had operated on was also looking very healthy.
What all that means in plain English is that I can now talk to my physiotherapist about formulating a plan to start using one crutch, then none and eventually returning to unassisted walking.
So here's to getting my walking licence back. 'clink'
It's only been over ten months.
The next day my good mates Matt and Trent had arrived for a three night stay with some more of that Tasmanian Cascade Red goodness under their arms.
Needless to say, there's wasn't much in the way rest for those three days and nights.
We started off with a barbecue at my place on Friday night, where we managed to fill up an entire rubbish bin with empty cans and bottles.
That night the boys decided that they shall go exploring to find some sort of establishment which sells beer for profit.
They did eventually find a 'bar' and enquired as to whether the old hag behind the bar was still selling beer.
Her answer was no, but that she could sort them out with some ladies of the night.
I think Trent summed it up best when he stated that even though they were totally off their chops and near legless, wearing the best beer goggles they could get, the offerings were still atrociously ugly.
The next day, after getting ourselves into some sort of presentable state, we headed off to another barbecue at Bec's place.
Consuming more alcohol, we enjoyed the wonderful food Bec had prepared.
I must say that her five salads certainly gave me an inferiority complex as all I'd managed the night before was just one lonely example.
Eventually the boys and myself found ourselves in the Lygon Street area and picked out one Italian restaurant, out of the many Italian eateries on offer, to have dinner at.
Knowing fully well that we would need all our faculties to be functioning to some extent the next day, we looked at each other with an agreeable stare and declared that we will go easy on the grog.
So we had a couple of beers, which turned into a bottle of wine, which turned into another one.
At that point we resigned ourselves to the fact that for all our good intentions, we were none the less hopeless drunks and were really just kidding ourselves in thinking we could moderate our intake that one night.
So we met up with Gino and his missus Mel and proceeded to that pub where bad beer is sold.
Having arrived at the Empress, the beer and wine in our stomachs were joined by some shooters that Gino felt were necessary to complement the grape and hop products already making their presence felt.
Not long after that, I ordered some Belfast Car Bombs, thinking in for a penny, in for a pound.
For those not in the know, that drink consists of a half pint of Guiness into which a shot glass containing Bailey's and Irish Whiskey is dropped ( or Kahlua as well, actually there are a few different variants of this part ).
The whole lot is then dispatched with one fell swoop.
Easiest way is to open your face by throwing your head back and pouring the drink straight down the gullet, then closing your face before any of it tries to make an effort to escape.
The next morning we once again spent some time getting ourselves into a relatively presentable state and trying to kick start our battered brains using more beer.
This seemed to have the desired effect and we headed on down to join 45,ooo people at the Big Day Out for a day of music, music and more music.
Oh and some beer and stuff as well.
It was a pretty good crowd and there were only 4 people hospitalised, 3 arrested and 2 evicted.
So in the next few postings I'll try to give a detailed account of how the day and night turned out.
Mainly because I just can't be arsed doing it now :p
Following the Big Day Out, we then found ourselves a pub and seeing as the clocked ticked over into Monday, celebrated my coming into the world 32 years ago and the fact that I was still here and able to celebrate at all after last year's runnings in with semi trailers and trams.
The internet goes down and all this exciting stuff happens.
First things first, we have been experiencing a bit of shuffling around at our house as Cam is moving out before flying out to England, I am moving into his room and a new housemate is moving into my old room.
Her name is Gemma and she'll be studying film production this year, seems nice enough.
So the week has been one long period of moving things around, sorting out bills, etc.
Oh and watching the hens of hell peck at pigeons.
They managed to bail one up in the chicken coop earlier in the day and wouldn't let it out.
At least they're taking prisoners now and not just killing outright.
I went and had a wee chat with my pelvic surgeon last Thursday.
I was expecting, or hoping to have my right leg's weight bearing status bumped up to 75%.
When I heard the surgeon exclaim that it looks 'really excellent' and that I can start walking on that now, I nearly fell off the bench.
He reckons that the union of the pelvic bones is looking really healthy, the parts he left without bone grafts were starting to unite and that the bone graft on the femoral head, which my orthopaedic surgeon had operated on was also looking very healthy.
What all that means in plain English is that I can now talk to my physiotherapist about formulating a plan to start using one crutch, then none and eventually returning to unassisted walking.
So here's to getting my walking licence back. 'clink'
It's only been over ten months.
The next day my good mates Matt and Trent had arrived for a three night stay with some more of that Tasmanian Cascade Red goodness under their arms.
Needless to say, there's wasn't much in the way rest for those three days and nights.
We started off with a barbecue at my place on Friday night, where we managed to fill up an entire rubbish bin with empty cans and bottles.
That night the boys decided that they shall go exploring to find some sort of establishment which sells beer for profit.
They did eventually find a 'bar' and enquired as to whether the old hag behind the bar was still selling beer.
Her answer was no, but that she could sort them out with some ladies of the night.
I think Trent summed it up best when he stated that even though they were totally off their chops and near legless, wearing the best beer goggles they could get, the offerings were still atrociously ugly.
The next day, after getting ourselves into some sort of presentable state, we headed off to another barbecue at Bec's place.
Consuming more alcohol, we enjoyed the wonderful food Bec had prepared.
I must say that her five salads certainly gave me an inferiority complex as all I'd managed the night before was just one lonely example.
Eventually the boys and myself found ourselves in the Lygon Street area and picked out one Italian restaurant, out of the many Italian eateries on offer, to have dinner at.
Knowing fully well that we would need all our faculties to be functioning to some extent the next day, we looked at each other with an agreeable stare and declared that we will go easy on the grog.
So we had a couple of beers, which turned into a bottle of wine, which turned into another one.
At that point we resigned ourselves to the fact that for all our good intentions, we were none the less hopeless drunks and were really just kidding ourselves in thinking we could moderate our intake that one night.
So we met up with Gino and his missus Mel and proceeded to that pub where bad beer is sold.
Having arrived at the Empress, the beer and wine in our stomachs were joined by some shooters that Gino felt were necessary to complement the grape and hop products already making their presence felt.
Not long after that, I ordered some Belfast Car Bombs, thinking in for a penny, in for a pound.
For those not in the know, that drink consists of a half pint of Guiness into which a shot glass containing Bailey's and Irish Whiskey is dropped ( or Kahlua as well, actually there are a few different variants of this part ).
The whole lot is then dispatched with one fell swoop.
Easiest way is to open your face by throwing your head back and pouring the drink straight down the gullet, then closing your face before any of it tries to make an effort to escape.
The next morning we once again spent some time getting ourselves into a relatively presentable state and trying to kick start our battered brains using more beer.
This seemed to have the desired effect and we headed on down to join 45,ooo people at the Big Day Out for a day of music, music and more music.
Oh and some beer and stuff as well.
It was a pretty good crowd and there were only 4 people hospitalised, 3 arrested and 2 evicted.
So in the next few postings I'll try to give a detailed account of how the day and night turned out.
Mainly because I just can't be arsed doing it now :p
Following the Big Day Out, we then found ourselves a pub and seeing as the clocked ticked over into Monday, celebrated my coming into the world 32 years ago and the fact that I was still here and able to celebrate at all after last year's runnings in with semi trailers and trams.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
FOTOGRAFIAR SU PROPIA MUERTE
I picked a book from the local op. shop yesterday about an amazing combat cinecameraman yesterday.
One Crowded Hour is a biography of Neil Davis, who eventually lost his life filming a coup attempt in Bangkok.
I find it quite ironic to have been joking about hypothetically recording the image of my last last moment in the previous post, as Neil Davis had literally filmed his own death.
A veteran of many a combat reportage, he'd found himself and his colleagues trapped in a position between the radio station and the army, who were demolishing it with wild abandon.
As the shrapnel ripped through his body, the camera kept rolling, capturing his face in the final moment of his incredible life.
Promise I won't make anymore jokes about recording my own death.
10 months today.
I've finally a reached 1 operation per month average.
I dare say I should maintain that for the next month or two.
I suppose I should document the status quo and bring everyone up to speed on my progress.
Currently I am sitting in my wheelchair, frantically tapping away at the laptop keyboard like our murderous chickens on a sparrow's head, listening to the varied and wonderful collection of vinyl and sipping on a cold beer in the heat of this unseasonally dry, hot and bushfire-ridden Melbournian summer.
(What? It's after midday! Anyway, beer is so much more than a breakfast drink. )
Currently I am putting 100% bodyweight through my left leg and 50% through my right.
This means I can stand without crutches, but still need them for 'walking'.
I don't really dare push my right leg as the fractured acetabulum was not completely joined with the bone graft and metal plate and is a major weight bearing point in the body.
It was fastened together, but it's up to my body to actually unite it properly.
Therefore, I don't want to risk damaging it in this healing phase and have to put up with the consequences ( hip replacements ) later in life.
This means that I have to draw heavily on my patience reserves and just ride it out.
Whilst riding it out I'm still attending physio and hydro and with the new found mobility I have encountered new pains and areas of bother.
The distal screws in my right femur are catching on something and digging into the the muscle as well.
I've another screw in the tibial plate that's poking it's little self drilling pointy bit out of the bone and into whatever lies in its path.
On top of all that I've developed a strange new stabbing pain in the right side of my groin area.
It only comes on when I stand up straight and when I walk.
Needless to say, this has slowed me down a little in the ambulatory stakes.
So there are plans in the near future to remove the offending fasteners, the blood clot filter and discuss the extraction of some other remaining metalware.
The plate on my right ulna tends to instigate much swelling when tapped on something with only a little force.
The plate on my left clavicle is just downright bloody annoying.
It rubs on the skin when I'm wearing a back pack, seatbelt or when I sleep.
If ever I happen to be in a situation where I fracture a femur then the femoral rods could pose a problem, as removing a metal rod from the inside of a fractured bone could well be a touchy business.
As for the tibial plate, well that's not too much bother at the moment, but if that could be removed and the calf muscle graft replaced to it's former position at the back of the leg instead of the side of it then it would certainly be a great improvement.
As much as the relocated and still neurally connected meat is a good conversation starter and a bit of a party trick, it's one I could live without.
Whilst they're at it, the plastics folk could probably cut out some of the scar tissue / skin graft on the calf and pull the skin tighter.
This is all the sort of crap that's requires the organisation of medical appointments and much discussion with medical experts, which will undoubtedly keep me occupied in the next few weeks if not months.
I had managed to convince my main orthopaedic surgeon to take me on as a private patient and should be seeing him in early February and not March as the hospital proposed.
So, a bit of a win there, but far from being a conclusive victory.
Hence, I should be able to maintain my 1 operation per month average.
The little finger is probably the one big thing that's annoying the hell out of me, but cannot be remedied.
It's such a little thing, yet so bloody annoying that I can't bend it like I used to.
It kind of just sticks out and gets in the way.
4th tibial screw from the bottom is just a touch too long.
Those top two distal screw have got to go!
Really, does anyone need this much metal in their leg?
The ulna and the clavicle plates' days are numbered!
One Crowded Hour is a biography of Neil Davis, who eventually lost his life filming a coup attempt in Bangkok.
I find it quite ironic to have been joking about hypothetically recording the image of my last last moment in the previous post, as Neil Davis had literally filmed his own death.
A veteran of many a combat reportage, he'd found himself and his colleagues trapped in a position between the radio station and the army, who were demolishing it with wild abandon.
As the shrapnel ripped through his body, the camera kept rolling, capturing his face in the final moment of his incredible life.
Promise I won't make anymore jokes about recording my own death.
10 months today.
I've finally a reached 1 operation per month average.
I dare say I should maintain that for the next month or two.
I suppose I should document the status quo and bring everyone up to speed on my progress.
Currently I am sitting in my wheelchair, frantically tapping away at the laptop keyboard like our murderous chickens on a sparrow's head, listening to the varied and wonderful collection of vinyl and sipping on a cold beer in the heat of this unseasonally dry, hot and bushfire-ridden Melbournian summer.
(What? It's after midday! Anyway, beer is so much more than a breakfast drink. )
Currently I am putting 100% bodyweight through my left leg and 50% through my right.
This means I can stand without crutches, but still need them for 'walking'.
I don't really dare push my right leg as the fractured acetabulum was not completely joined with the bone graft and metal plate and is a major weight bearing point in the body.
It was fastened together, but it's up to my body to actually unite it properly.
Therefore, I don't want to risk damaging it in this healing phase and have to put up with the consequences ( hip replacements ) later in life.
This means that I have to draw heavily on my patience reserves and just ride it out.
Whilst riding it out I'm still attending physio and hydro and with the new found mobility I have encountered new pains and areas of bother.
The distal screws in my right femur are catching on something and digging into the the muscle as well.
I've another screw in the tibial plate that's poking it's little self drilling pointy bit out of the bone and into whatever lies in its path.
On top of all that I've developed a strange new stabbing pain in the right side of my groin area.
It only comes on when I stand up straight and when I walk.
Needless to say, this has slowed me down a little in the ambulatory stakes.
So there are plans in the near future to remove the offending fasteners, the blood clot filter and discuss the extraction of some other remaining metalware.
The plate on my right ulna tends to instigate much swelling when tapped on something with only a little force.
The plate on my left clavicle is just downright bloody annoying.
It rubs on the skin when I'm wearing a back pack, seatbelt or when I sleep.
If ever I happen to be in a situation where I fracture a femur then the femoral rods could pose a problem, as removing a metal rod from the inside of a fractured bone could well be a touchy business.
As for the tibial plate, well that's not too much bother at the moment, but if that could be removed and the calf muscle graft replaced to it's former position at the back of the leg instead of the side of it then it would certainly be a great improvement.
As much as the relocated and still neurally connected meat is a good conversation starter and a bit of a party trick, it's one I could live without.
Whilst they're at it, the plastics folk could probably cut out some of the scar tissue / skin graft on the calf and pull the skin tighter.
This is all the sort of crap that's requires the organisation of medical appointments and much discussion with medical experts, which will undoubtedly keep me occupied in the next few weeks if not months.
I had managed to convince my main orthopaedic surgeon to take me on as a private patient and should be seeing him in early February and not March as the hospital proposed.
So, a bit of a win there, but far from being a conclusive victory.
Hence, I should be able to maintain my 1 operation per month average.
The little finger is probably the one big thing that's annoying the hell out of me, but cannot be remedied.
It's such a little thing, yet so bloody annoying that I can't bend it like I used to.
It kind of just sticks out and gets in the way.
4th tibial screw from the bottom is just a touch too long.
Those top two distal screw have got to go!
Really, does anyone need this much metal in their leg?
The ulna and the clavicle plates' days are numbered!
.
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
UNA VISTA DE LOS MUERTOS
Went to practice some more night shooting last night, after spending some meaningful time at The Comfortable Chair in trivia training.
I found that the chair I was in was in fact directly the opposite.
I don't think even normal people would be overly comfortable in it.
We had the drinks voucher from our last win and Trivial Pursuit.
The beer and the board game kept us amused for hours and it was good practice, and a good lesson in trusting your instincts.
After the game was over and the beer was drunk I headed off to the cemetery.
A bit disappointed that you can't get in there at night, but I guess you don't want any sort of rabble running around there, let alone some half pissed dude on crutches with a tripod and stuff.
Imagine that, the grounds keeper arriving in the morning to find some dead cripple with his head smashed on some tombstone, having tripped over the crutches or tripod, with the camera bearing witness to the very last second of my demise.
It would make an interesting photograph though.
Still need to work out how to focus at night as at the moment it's all done by feel and estimation, resulting in things being a touch fuzzy.
And it's nothing to do with the beer.
.
I found that the chair I was in was in fact directly the opposite.
I don't think even normal people would be overly comfortable in it.
We had the drinks voucher from our last win and Trivial Pursuit.
The beer and the board game kept us amused for hours and it was good practice, and a good lesson in trusting your instincts.
After the game was over and the beer was drunk I headed off to the cemetery.
A bit disappointed that you can't get in there at night, but I guess you don't want any sort of rabble running around there, let alone some half pissed dude on crutches with a tripod and stuff.
Imagine that, the grounds keeper arriving in the morning to find some dead cripple with his head smashed on some tombstone, having tripped over the crutches or tripod, with the camera bearing witness to the very last second of my demise.
It would make an interesting photograph though.
Still need to work out how to focus at night as at the moment it's all done by feel and estimation, resulting in things being a touch fuzzy.
And it's nothing to do with the beer.
.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
DÍA DE LOS MUERTOS AND OTHER HAUNTINGS.........
On Friday I ditched my preferred convalescent attire of tracksuit bottoms or shorts for a suit.
Since barely avoiding becoming a human version of windscreen bug splatter back in March, I have spent a total of one day in something other than the kind of clothing usually reserved for smack addicts or bogans.
I have always maintained that one should never appear in public wearing tracksuit pants, unless one is either engaging in some sort of sport or using one's body as a pin cushion.
I have since added convalescents to that list.
The reason for this makeover was that my good mate Rino's father had passed away earlier in the week after succumbing to cancer and Friday was when the funeral was held.
The new duds felt kind of strange to tell the truth, especially as it was a relatively warm day.
I hate suits and ties are something that all men should publicly burn á la the bra incinerations of the sixties.
I never did trust suit wearers and neck ties are like a kind of conformist noose, which for some reason make the wearer instantly respectable, regardless of his true nature.
I will make exceptions on special occasions like weddings and funerals purely out of respect for the people whose loved ones are being buried or married.
I never met Rino's father, but from what I can gather he was a decent hard working Italian who had migrated here for a better life.
Rino is his only son and a credit to his parents.
Even when his dad was suffering from the disease Rino still made to the time and effort to visit me or call me when I was in hospital.
That is more than I ever expected from him and a testament to his character.
The church was packed and I sat next to a couple of elderly Italian chaps who lived in the same village back in Italy as Rino's father.
At the post funeral get together at Rino's family house I spoke to some of his relatives and managed to glean enough information and stories to formulate a basic picture of what the man was like.
One great story was that after being kicked out of hospital due to the visiting hours having finished, Rino's father was so distressed by his newborn's crying that after spending hours in bed unable to sleep, he went back to the hospital and proceeded to break in so he could be certain that the boy was ok.
At the funeral I had met up with some past and present work colleagues, as I met Rino when I started working at the car dealership a few years back.
One of them fainted in the church and narrowly missed smacking her head on the corner of one of the pews as she went from vertical to horizontal.
A bit of fresh air, water and a seat sorted her out with the only evidence of the incident being carpet burn on her face.
Another colleague informed that he couldn't go to the burial as there was another funeral to go to, that being of one of the sales blokes.
He died at work in one of the toilets.
I'm guessing he would've been around the fifty years of age mark, which is relatively young.
I would have gone to that one too, but I wasn't aware of it until that day.
I do recall some years back one of the salesman suffering a heart attack in one of the cars in the car park, right next to where my department was.
I had to practically beat all the gawking mechanics away with a stick to stop the poor bastard feeling like a freak show.
He was treated by paramedics, whisked off to hospital and lived to tell the tale.
So Friday turned out to be a bit of a 'day of the dead' and gave me a chance to reflect on how close I came to playing the starring role at my own funeral.
The suit was put away again for another time and I'm glad to be back in shorts, amongst the living.
That night I felt the need to catch up with some of my living mates at the Empress for a few cold ones.
It would seem that rehab is determined to haunt me all around Melbourne, as I ran into a couple of social workers from the hospital.
We settled on the rule that 'what goes on in the pub, stays in the pub' because technically patients and staff are not supposed to fraternise.
I did point out that they were drinking at my pub and therefore it was unavoidable, to which one responded by stating that she'd been drinking there for years.
I then retorted with "Well, I've been drinking at this pub for years too!"
In the end we had a great time just hanging out and talking shite like normal people, not patients and staff.
Incidentally, one of them demonstrated a very unusual and scary talent.
She was able to produce a sound so much like a baby crying that people around us started rubber necking to see where the screaming bub was.
I thought that was pretty good until she did it whilst drinking a beer at the same time!
I'll be damned if that wasn't the best contraceptive I've ever heard of.
Last night a bunch of us went to the Comics Lounge for some laughter therapy.
I used to go there fairly regularly, but had not been back since getting my Kenworth cuddle.
Must admit I haven't laughed that much in a long time and by the end of it my face was literally sore.
Good abs workout too!
Out of the nine or so comedians there was only one whose performance was a bit lacking.
He wasn't necessarily not funny, just not as funny as the rest of them.
Pretty good strike rate I reckon because these affairs can be a bit hit and miss.
.
Since barely avoiding becoming a human version of windscreen bug splatter back in March, I have spent a total of one day in something other than the kind of clothing usually reserved for smack addicts or bogans.
I have always maintained that one should never appear in public wearing tracksuit pants, unless one is either engaging in some sort of sport or using one's body as a pin cushion.
I have since added convalescents to that list.
The reason for this makeover was that my good mate Rino's father had passed away earlier in the week after succumbing to cancer and Friday was when the funeral was held.
The new duds felt kind of strange to tell the truth, especially as it was a relatively warm day.
I hate suits and ties are something that all men should publicly burn á la the bra incinerations of the sixties.
I never did trust suit wearers and neck ties are like a kind of conformist noose, which for some reason make the wearer instantly respectable, regardless of his true nature.
I will make exceptions on special occasions like weddings and funerals purely out of respect for the people whose loved ones are being buried or married.
I never met Rino's father, but from what I can gather he was a decent hard working Italian who had migrated here for a better life.
Rino is his only son and a credit to his parents.
Even when his dad was suffering from the disease Rino still made to the time and effort to visit me or call me when I was in hospital.
That is more than I ever expected from him and a testament to his character.
The church was packed and I sat next to a couple of elderly Italian chaps who lived in the same village back in Italy as Rino's father.
At the post funeral get together at Rino's family house I spoke to some of his relatives and managed to glean enough information and stories to formulate a basic picture of what the man was like.
One great story was that after being kicked out of hospital due to the visiting hours having finished, Rino's father was so distressed by his newborn's crying that after spending hours in bed unable to sleep, he went back to the hospital and proceeded to break in so he could be certain that the boy was ok.
At the funeral I had met up with some past and present work colleagues, as I met Rino when I started working at the car dealership a few years back.
One of them fainted in the church and narrowly missed smacking her head on the corner of one of the pews as she went from vertical to horizontal.
A bit of fresh air, water and a seat sorted her out with the only evidence of the incident being carpet burn on her face.
Another colleague informed that he couldn't go to the burial as there was another funeral to go to, that being of one of the sales blokes.
He died at work in one of the toilets.
I'm guessing he would've been around the fifty years of age mark, which is relatively young.
I would have gone to that one too, but I wasn't aware of it until that day.
I do recall some years back one of the salesman suffering a heart attack in one of the cars in the car park, right next to where my department was.
I had to practically beat all the gawking mechanics away with a stick to stop the poor bastard feeling like a freak show.
He was treated by paramedics, whisked off to hospital and lived to tell the tale.
So Friday turned out to be a bit of a 'day of the dead' and gave me a chance to reflect on how close I came to playing the starring role at my own funeral.
The suit was put away again for another time and I'm glad to be back in shorts, amongst the living.
That night I felt the need to catch up with some of my living mates at the Empress for a few cold ones.
It would seem that rehab is determined to haunt me all around Melbourne, as I ran into a couple of social workers from the hospital.
We settled on the rule that 'what goes on in the pub, stays in the pub' because technically patients and staff are not supposed to fraternise.
I did point out that they were drinking at my pub and therefore it was unavoidable, to which one responded by stating that she'd been drinking there for years.
I then retorted with "Well, I've been drinking at this pub for years too!"
In the end we had a great time just hanging out and talking shite like normal people, not patients and staff.
Incidentally, one of them demonstrated a very unusual and scary talent.
She was able to produce a sound so much like a baby crying that people around us started rubber necking to see where the screaming bub was.
I thought that was pretty good until she did it whilst drinking a beer at the same time!
I'll be damned if that wasn't the best contraceptive I've ever heard of.
Last night a bunch of us went to the Comics Lounge for some laughter therapy.
I used to go there fairly regularly, but had not been back since getting my Kenworth cuddle.
Must admit I haven't laughed that much in a long time and by the end of it my face was literally sore.
Good abs workout too!
Out of the nine or so comedians there was only one whose performance was a bit lacking.
He wasn't necessarily not funny, just not as funny as the rest of them.
Pretty good strike rate I reckon because these affairs can be a bit hit and miss.
.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
FROGGER AND MR. T IN: "THE HYPERLINK CIRCUS"
'
I had all the best intentions of crutching my way onto a tram and going down to the bay yesterday, but due to the oppressive heat I found myself suddenly drawn to the new Mexican cantina that's opened around the corner.
Cold beer, air conditioning and Mexican food, as well my feline curiosity meant that I spent the next few hours sampling the culinary offerings and monitoring the temperature of their beer fridge by taking regular samples of the chilled beverages within.
It really seems to appeal to the local crowd as I spotted and employee from the supermarket and the owner of the newsagent ( who kindly gave me a lift the day of the downpour ) in there having a few quiet ales.
And who else should turn up but Danny, the drummer from my old band The Sterlings!
Needless to say I never made it to the beach.
After today's return to physio and hydro I had an appointment with my rehab quack.
It ended up being a relatively productive session as we managed to formulate some sort short term plan.
She even called the surgeon to try and speed things up a bit, but as he won't be back until the start of February there's not much doing till then.
Unfortunately the trauma clinic at the hospital doesn't have any openings until March, unless they are pushed a bit by by the surgeons or doctors.
For the next few weeks there's more therapy and then maybe next month I might be able to get something done about all this freeloading metal in my body.
That arvo I got together with Mars ( the singer from The Sterlings ) for a bit of a catch up and to give him the cd of the shots I took of the band at their last gig.
Eventually he ceased plying me with beer and I got my myself and all associated internal scaffolding onto the wrong tram.
It took a few stops for me to think about whether I was on the right one or not, but in the end I managed to get the correct one.
The plan was to go down to South Melbourne beach and attempt to take some snaps.
Upon arriving there and scouting around a bit I was a bit underwhelmed by the whole scene.
I found that I really had to make an effort in finding things to shoot, which is not my idea of fun.
The closest thing it resembled would have been photojournalism, where you have to keep your eyes peeled and try to anticipate anything that might be of relative interest or photographically worthy.
Still, good practice for one's snapping instincts I say.
At one point I was contemplating taking a picture of some roller bladers, but after mentally slapping myself I moved on to the beach.
Believe me, I had to do a fair bit of sand scouring to come up with a frame, which did not include various bits of plastic, clothing material, female sanitary products, footballers or other forms of rubbish.
I would just like to state that crutches + sandy beach = not fun!
There were some lifesavers practicing getting the RIB's into the water and taking off, so I snapped away and eventually came up with a couple of interesting photos.
As I was crossing the road I very nearly literally ran into a bloke form rehab, who used to cycle quite regularly and even race.
This particular evening he was out with his wife and mate on the bikes and spotted me half way across 4 lanes of traffic.
He pulled over for a quick chat and then let me continue acting out my fantasy of being the frog from that lovable 80's computer game Frogger.
Amazing who you meet in a big city, just casually strolling around.
And thus ended my day at the beach.
Here's a little souvenir from the camping trip last weekend.
I'll see your kookaburra cuteness Maja and raise you some attitude. ;)
Tremble at the glare of the Mr. T kookaburra!!!!!
This feller had got a hold a bony piece of chicken we tossed at him and then proceeded to 'kill' it by repeatedly performing sideways head banging movements, much like Flea form the Red Hot Chilly Peppers.
It took a while for him / her to finally become satisfied that the piece of chicken was indeed deceased and ready for consumption, at which point he just swallowed the whole damned thing!
.
I had all the best intentions of crutching my way onto a tram and going down to the bay yesterday, but due to the oppressive heat I found myself suddenly drawn to the new Mexican cantina that's opened around the corner.
Cold beer, air conditioning and Mexican food, as well my feline curiosity meant that I spent the next few hours sampling the culinary offerings and monitoring the temperature of their beer fridge by taking regular samples of the chilled beverages within.
It really seems to appeal to the local crowd as I spotted and employee from the supermarket and the owner of the newsagent ( who kindly gave me a lift the day of the downpour ) in there having a few quiet ales.
And who else should turn up but Danny, the drummer from my old band The Sterlings!
Needless to say I never made it to the beach.
After today's return to physio and hydro I had an appointment with my rehab quack.
It ended up being a relatively productive session as we managed to formulate some sort short term plan.
She even called the surgeon to try and speed things up a bit, but as he won't be back until the start of February there's not much doing till then.
Unfortunately the trauma clinic at the hospital doesn't have any openings until March, unless they are pushed a bit by by the surgeons or doctors.
For the next few weeks there's more therapy and then maybe next month I might be able to get something done about all this freeloading metal in my body.
That arvo I got together with Mars ( the singer from The Sterlings ) for a bit of a catch up and to give him the cd of the shots I took of the band at their last gig.
Eventually he ceased plying me with beer and I got my myself and all associated internal scaffolding onto the wrong tram.
It took a few stops for me to think about whether I was on the right one or not, but in the end I managed to get the correct one.
The plan was to go down to South Melbourne beach and attempt to take some snaps.
Upon arriving there and scouting around a bit I was a bit underwhelmed by the whole scene.
I found that I really had to make an effort in finding things to shoot, which is not my idea of fun.
The closest thing it resembled would have been photojournalism, where you have to keep your eyes peeled and try to anticipate anything that might be of relative interest or photographically worthy.
Still, good practice for one's snapping instincts I say.
At one point I was contemplating taking a picture of some roller bladers, but after mentally slapping myself I moved on to the beach.
Believe me, I had to do a fair bit of sand scouring to come up with a frame, which did not include various bits of plastic, clothing material, female sanitary products, footballers or other forms of rubbish.
I would just like to state that crutches + sandy beach = not fun!
There were some lifesavers practicing getting the RIB's into the water and taking off, so I snapped away and eventually came up with a couple of interesting photos.
As I was crossing the road I very nearly literally ran into a bloke form rehab, who used to cycle quite regularly and even race.
This particular evening he was out with his wife and mate on the bikes and spotted me half way across 4 lanes of traffic.
He pulled over for a quick chat and then let me continue acting out my fantasy of being the frog from that lovable 80's computer game Frogger.
Amazing who you meet in a big city, just casually strolling around.
And thus ended my day at the beach.
Here's a little souvenir from the camping trip last weekend.
I'll see your kookaburra cuteness Maja and raise you some attitude. ;)
Tremble at the glare of the Mr. T kookaburra!!!!!
This feller had got a hold a bony piece of chicken we tossed at him and then proceeded to 'kill' it by repeatedly performing sideways head banging movements, much like Flea form the Red Hot Chilly Peppers.
It took a while for him / her to finally become satisfied that the piece of chicken was indeed deceased and ready for consumption, at which point he just swallowed the whole damned thing!
.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
BULIMIC FISH, TRIPPING EWOKS AND THE UNTOUCHED BUTT OF THE BABOON
So, 'Operation Baboon Butt' did not eventuate.
I must have got my wires crossed somewhere along the line.
All that happened was that the good fellow wanted to have a little chat about removing the ICV filter, not to actually remove it.
Mind you, he was keener than a virgin in a house of ill repute to get in there and get the job done as quickly as possible.
Gave me some stories of possible long term side effects and what not, and how in younger folk they like to remove the little titanium alloy contraption.
After informing him that I am more than likely to be undergoing further surgery we both agreed that I should get back to him after consulting with my orthopaedic surgeon.
He really would like to remove that filter, he kept stressing that for some reason.
So that all turned out to be a bit of a waste of time unfortunately and for now I can keep my blood to myself and not all over my arse.
On a brighter note, I now have 50% weight bearing on my right leg, which means I can stand on two legs without crutches.
Still need the darned things for walking, but it's yet another milestone on this convalescent road.
Bloody good show I say what ho!!!!
The blog turned 1 on Friday the 5th of January, but no birthday post as I was indisposed.
Cam, Brenton and myself took off bush to Murrindindi River Reserve for some sitting around with our feet dangling in the cool river and copious consumption of ice cold brewed beverages.
Kind of appropriate for the 1st year anniversary of Moomins M.C. I thought.
Well, Cam and I were doing the drinking, poor old Brenton was nursing a bad bout of Empress beer hangover.
Anyone who's ever drank at the Empress will appreciate what bad lines and warm beer can do to a grown man.
One can only can imagine what the beer must have tasted like after the lines had not had a single glass poured for 11 days.
Poor bastard, he was still having a spit in the evening, although that could have been the fish at the local country pub.
As Cam had put it: "It's better that the beer be filtered through someone else's brain first before attempting to drink there again."
We went to the local country pub for dinner and Brenton and I both had the fish and chips.
Cam was a bit more cautious and ordered the ham and pineapple steaks, and with good reason.
I was conducting my research into the unavailability of decent fish and chips in Melbourne and surrounding areas and wanted to know if it was possible to get worse or better fried fish that far inland.
Structural integrity of the rather bland batter was well and truly up there with the best.
Very crisp yet not burnt.
The size of the fish caused me to wonder if there actually is a piscatorial equivalent of bulimia.
As well as being far too small for my liking, it didn't taste the best.
Somehow the deep fryer oil had penetrated the batter and proceeded to turn the fish meat into a mush of a consistency closely resembling something the bulimic fish may have once expelled from its stomach.
Overall rating was ok, but still way under my expected standard.
The search goes on.
After getting back to camp a fire was promptly ignited and we continued to drink more ice cold brewed beverages.
That night we experienced some bizarre night sounds coming from the ruler straight giant eucalypts amongst which we had set up camp.
We could only conclude that they might have been lyre birds because no possum on earth could possibly make that sound. ( we spotted a couple ofthe birds the next day )
Whatever it was, it sounded like an Ewok having a really bad acid trip.
Anyway, happy 1st birthday to the Moomins Motorcycle Club!!!
May the adventures just keep on coming I say.
Good or bad, it's all part of the deal as far as I'm concerned and all shall be met with the same attitude and approach that I've always employed.
Bring it on!!!
.
I must have got my wires crossed somewhere along the line.
All that happened was that the good fellow wanted to have a little chat about removing the ICV filter, not to actually remove it.
Mind you, he was keener than a virgin in a house of ill repute to get in there and get the job done as quickly as possible.
Gave me some stories of possible long term side effects and what not, and how in younger folk they like to remove the little titanium alloy contraption.
After informing him that I am more than likely to be undergoing further surgery we both agreed that I should get back to him after consulting with my orthopaedic surgeon.
He really would like to remove that filter, he kept stressing that for some reason.
So that all turned out to be a bit of a waste of time unfortunately and for now I can keep my blood to myself and not all over my arse.
On a brighter note, I now have 50% weight bearing on my right leg, which means I can stand on two legs without crutches.
Still need the darned things for walking, but it's yet another milestone on this convalescent road.
Bloody good show I say what ho!!!!
The blog turned 1 on Friday the 5th of January, but no birthday post as I was indisposed.
Cam, Brenton and myself took off bush to Murrindindi River Reserve for some sitting around with our feet dangling in the cool river and copious consumption of ice cold brewed beverages.
Kind of appropriate for the 1st year anniversary of Moomins M.C. I thought.
Well, Cam and I were doing the drinking, poor old Brenton was nursing a bad bout of Empress beer hangover.
Anyone who's ever drank at the Empress will appreciate what bad lines and warm beer can do to a grown man.
One can only can imagine what the beer must have tasted like after the lines had not had a single glass poured for 11 days.
Poor bastard, he was still having a spit in the evening, although that could have been the fish at the local country pub.
As Cam had put it: "It's better that the beer be filtered through someone else's brain first before attempting to drink there again."
We went to the local country pub for dinner and Brenton and I both had the fish and chips.
Cam was a bit more cautious and ordered the ham and pineapple steaks, and with good reason.
I was conducting my research into the unavailability of decent fish and chips in Melbourne and surrounding areas and wanted to know if it was possible to get worse or better fried fish that far inland.
Structural integrity of the rather bland batter was well and truly up there with the best.
Very crisp yet not burnt.
The size of the fish caused me to wonder if there actually is a piscatorial equivalent of bulimia.
As well as being far too small for my liking, it didn't taste the best.
Somehow the deep fryer oil had penetrated the batter and proceeded to turn the fish meat into a mush of a consistency closely resembling something the bulimic fish may have once expelled from its stomach.
Overall rating was ok, but still way under my expected standard.
The search goes on.
After getting back to camp a fire was promptly ignited and we continued to drink more ice cold brewed beverages.
That night we experienced some bizarre night sounds coming from the ruler straight giant eucalypts amongst which we had set up camp.
We could only conclude that they might have been lyre birds because no possum on earth could possibly make that sound. ( we spotted a couple ofthe birds the next day )
Whatever it was, it sounded like an Ewok having a really bad acid trip.
Anyway, happy 1st birthday to the Moomins Motorcycle Club!!!
May the adventures just keep on coming I say.
Good or bad, it's all part of the deal as far as I'm concerned and all shall be met with the same attitude and approach that I've always employed.
Bring it on!!!
.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
LAST DAYS AND SECOND CHANCES
'
The clock ticked midnight and nothing changed!!!!
I thought that maybe this whole carry on was some Cindarella style hallucination and that when the new year started everything would all return to its former state.
Wrong again, bugger it.
Oh well, just have to make do with the status quo.
It just so happened that a couple of days prior to New Year's Eve I had picked up some head cold.
This unfortunately had rendered me about as useful as Paris Hilton at a MENSA meeting and as miserable as a drag queen who'd just missed out on the last batch of discounted L'Oreal eye shadow at the post Christmas sales.
So much so, that by the time it came to go out and party I was reduced to a snotty mess, barely capable of wasting oxygen, just taking up real estate in the lounge room.
I spent the night at home, sitting around feeling shite.
I did however, decide that although I may not have been out partying I shouldn't let the night go to waste.
I tried to think of the things I would like to do in this coming year and which of these I was in a position to do at that very moment.
So I listened to music, played some bass guitar and took some night photos out the front of the house.
The camping, bushwalking, riding the new bicycle, getting a new job, travel would all have to wait until the right time was upon me.
The shot above is a product of that night and in a way represents my 2006 / 2007.
It started off pretty good, then the smash, followed by a long period of hospitalisation, then various periods of going in and out of hospital and finally somewhere towards the end is the bright patch I'm supposed to be aiming at.
Had a bit of a peak out fest. on new year's day too.
Recently I had received a phone call from a cousin, whom I hadn't spoken to in about 19 years.
He was calling from a platform in the North Sea and told me that he will be in Thailand for a few months and was hoping to maybe catch up in Australia.
He gave me a brief call on New Year's Eve and said that he was now in Thailand and would call me in a few hours.
I didn't think much of the fact that this second call never eventuated, until the next morning when I had found out about the bombings in Bankok.
That's when the internet truly became useful and I was able to find out that of the foreigners injured in the blasts, none matched my cousin.
I still hadn't heard from him, but I've got a gut feeling he's alright.
That got me thinking how I'd literally stared death in the face and instead of some bony skull, I saw the bright and shiny chrome grille of a Kenworth.
Either that or death has a really good orthodontist.
Anyway, I came to remember that it wasn't the first time this year that had occurred.
In fact there was a time only a week prior to that, which could have been rather nasty in it's own way.
In the fourth paragraph of that blog entry there is a reference to 'local boys riding two wide'.
There I was coming around a blind right hand corner when three local lads on chook chasers appeared coming the other way.
The first two were riding two abreast and the one on the outside was over the white centre line, causing me to have to suddenly change my cornering line to go out wide in order to avoid having a head on with this tool.
Maybe that was a practice run for the following weekend?
It all goes to show that you really do have to live life like it's you last day as you just don't know what's around the corner.
I had realised a long time ago that the older you get, the quicker time seems to pass.
At least now I'm taking the time to watch it go past and appreciate it for what it is, instead of wondering where the hell it went.
Next surgery is that little number to take out the blood clot filter out of my artery and it's only a week away.
Some people go back to work, I go back to hospital.
I think I shall name this one 'Operation Baboon Butt'.
It's only day surgery, but still it means going back to hospital and being poked and prodded and in the end I get an arse covered in blood.
Great........
.
After midnight.
The clock ticked midnight and nothing changed!!!!
I thought that maybe this whole carry on was some Cindarella style hallucination and that when the new year started everything would all return to its former state.
Wrong again, bugger it.
Oh well, just have to make do with the status quo.
It just so happened that a couple of days prior to New Year's Eve I had picked up some head cold.
This unfortunately had rendered me about as useful as Paris Hilton at a MENSA meeting and as miserable as a drag queen who'd just missed out on the last batch of discounted L'Oreal eye shadow at the post Christmas sales.
So much so, that by the time it came to go out and party I was reduced to a snotty mess, barely capable of wasting oxygen, just taking up real estate in the lounge room.
I spent the night at home, sitting around feeling shite.
I did however, decide that although I may not have been out partying I shouldn't let the night go to waste.
I tried to think of the things I would like to do in this coming year and which of these I was in a position to do at that very moment.
So I listened to music, played some bass guitar and took some night photos out the front of the house.
The camping, bushwalking, riding the new bicycle, getting a new job, travel would all have to wait until the right time was upon me.
The shot above is a product of that night and in a way represents my 2006 / 2007.
It started off pretty good, then the smash, followed by a long period of hospitalisation, then various periods of going in and out of hospital and finally somewhere towards the end is the bright patch I'm supposed to be aiming at.
Had a bit of a peak out fest. on new year's day too.
Recently I had received a phone call from a cousin, whom I hadn't spoken to in about 19 years.
He was calling from a platform in the North Sea and told me that he will be in Thailand for a few months and was hoping to maybe catch up in Australia.
He gave me a brief call on New Year's Eve and said that he was now in Thailand and would call me in a few hours.
I didn't think much of the fact that this second call never eventuated, until the next morning when I had found out about the bombings in Bankok.
That's when the internet truly became useful and I was able to find out that of the foreigners injured in the blasts, none matched my cousin.
I still hadn't heard from him, but I've got a gut feeling he's alright.
That got me thinking how I'd literally stared death in the face and instead of some bony skull, I saw the bright and shiny chrome grille of a Kenworth.
Either that or death has a really good orthodontist.
Anyway, I came to remember that it wasn't the first time this year that had occurred.
In fact there was a time only a week prior to that, which could have been rather nasty in it's own way.
In the fourth paragraph of that blog entry there is a reference to 'local boys riding two wide'.
There I was coming around a blind right hand corner when three local lads on chook chasers appeared coming the other way.
The first two were riding two abreast and the one on the outside was over the white centre line, causing me to have to suddenly change my cornering line to go out wide in order to avoid having a head on with this tool.
Maybe that was a practice run for the following weekend?
It all goes to show that you really do have to live life like it's you last day as you just don't know what's around the corner.
I had realised a long time ago that the older you get, the quicker time seems to pass.
At least now I'm taking the time to watch it go past and appreciate it for what it is, instead of wondering where the hell it went.
Next surgery is that little number to take out the blood clot filter out of my artery and it's only a week away.
Some people go back to work, I go back to hospital.
I think I shall name this one 'Operation Baboon Butt'.
It's only day surgery, but still it means going back to hospital and being poked and prodded and in the end I get an arse covered in blood.
Great........
.
