MOOMINS M.C.

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.


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