Risking life and limb

During my teenage years we had an Australian Mist cat; an indoor pedigree (named Saki) who loved to play the part of Houdini. We would have to stand guard by the door as people entered or exited the place. He'd be there, hiding in the shadows, biding his time, waiting for the ideal moment... and then pounce on that opportunity - sprinting through the gap and breathing freedom. 

After about three years of this game we managed to safely introduce Saki to the boundaries of our garden. Much to our surprise, that was delivered with a healthy does of irony, he grew bored with the outdoors very quickly. For the remaining eleven years of his life, we actually had great difficulty in getting him out of the house. The lazy bastard! 

***

Now the other weekend I was walking along Kent Street: a busy six lane road in the heart of Sydney. It was time to cross the street but the closest pedestrian crossing was another hundred metres or so down the road. Now I too am a lazy bastard (maybe that's where Saki picked it up from) so I did a runner . Half way across - with cars less than 25 metres away on either side of me - my hat blows off, landing smack bang in the middle of the six lanes. 

This hat is my favourite by far. I got it in South Africa in 2008 and its one of two that I wear almost daily; not the sort you can simply pick up at Jean's West. I didn't know what to do.

My brother was once faced with a similar dilemma. It was late one night and Saki had done his usual runner; a crazed kitten who was racing down the path like a kid who had overdosed on red cordial. Dressed in nothing but his boxers, my brother takes after him: the race was on! Down the path, along the driveway, up the access path... fortunately a car drove past, the headlights causing Saki to freeze; a new 'animal' that he had never witnessed before.  The chase probably lasted no more than thirty seconds but little brother of mine later told us all he could think was, 

'How far am I willing to go, dressed in nothing but my boxers, just for a cat?"   

Those exact words were bouncing through my head while I stood on the curb of Kent Street. How far was I willing to go to rescue a hat? Unlike my brother, it wasn't my dignity I was risking; it was life and limb for a piece of clothing that had sentimental value. What can I say? I did the dash; I missed cars by a cat's whiskers; I was assaulted with a cacophony of horns and angry drivers. But it was all ok, my hat was saved; I was safe; risking life and limb for love had once again proven to win over such adversities.    

"I knew she was a classy lady because all her tattoos were spelt correctly"

I wish I had said those words but no, they belong to an Irish ex-Eurovision winner. If that's the case, I wonder what he thinks of "Heroe's" Hayden Panettiere. According to some very reliable sources (namely 'New Idea' and 'Entertainment Tonight'), she intended to have “Vivere senza rimpianti” tattooed down her side. This translates as "Live without regrets” in Italian. Unfortunately, the tattooist spelt threw in a few too many i's - resulting in a mispelt"rimipianti"! Poor girl.

But I do believe she still got off lucky. When I was travelling through Africa, I met up with this guy who had been in the navy many, many years ago. While they were touring through Egypt, one of his follow sailors earnt himself the nickname Blossums. (Courtesy of a drunken night out, of course.) After their Egyptian escapade, his friends used this nickname to great advantage whenever he got himself a new girlfriend. If they dropped the name Blossums and got a blank stare from the lady, they knew he had not taken the relationship into the bedroom just yet. If she giggled sheepishly, his mates knew the relationship was serious.

Why?

Well the drunken night in question involved a visit to the local tattoo parlour. Apparently Egypt is a little more relaxed when it comes to tattoos and drunkenness. The poor soul - who can't remember anything from that night - was persuaded by his mates to get one that was a little more risque. The next morning the sailor awoke to find his groin in a great deal of pain, his manhood wrapped in bandages. Now when his soldier stands to attention, five pink petals are revealed on the inside of his foreskin!

Hence, the nickname Blossums!

When I returned home from Africa I noticed my local florist has the motto "a flower for every occasion" scrawled across their front door. Given this florally endowed man is (after 30 more years) still single, I'm tempted to question the validity of their boast.

May I introduce you to my child, Epilepsy

A friend was telling me that her husband makes a terrible wailing noise when he's having a tonic-clonic seizure.

In the past, whenever I've envisaged this type of seizure I've been bombarded with the same plethora of images that I believe most people experience: of neurons declaring war with the body on pretty much every front. And her description of this sound he makes really threw me. I realised that for all these years, my imaginings of a tonic-clonic have been set on mute. 

The conversation popped up after I posted my last epilepsy blog. As she was telling me about this, I realised there was a whole other issue that I'd never fully appreciated... that it's not simply the epileptic who is affected by the epilepsy, not simply the epileptic who suffers when they have a seizure, but also the loved ones who live with them, who also have to cope with that misbehaving child I call 'Epilepsy'.

So I'm dedicating this blog to all those silent Sebastian's out there who stand by and support us when things go askew and Epilepsy throws a temper tantrum.

For me, I guess it's my folks. I don't think I've ever appreciated how much of a nightmare my first seizure must have been for them. I was only eleven at the time and completely ignorant to the full implications of what had happened. Once I'd recovered from the initial after-effects, I was actually having a real ball at the hospital: working my way through all their computer games, toying mischievously with the doctors and nurses while they did innumerable medical tests, and watching more television that my parents ever allowed - all while skipping school. Fun stuff for a pre-pubescent kid!

I was totally ignorant to the adults' fears: that I may have (amongst many other possibilities) a brain tumour.

And for many years after, I still dismissed my mum's frets about 'late nights' and 'too much alcohol' as her just acting the part of a mother. 

But a couple of years ago - when I still lived at home and enjoyed university life more than I should have, I was in the process of recovering from a 'big night out.' A mate had crashed at my place and we were watching a bit of TV when I had my first (and only) tonic-clonic seizure. 

Epilepsy had reared his ugly head. There was no frothing, no loss of bodily functions. There was, however, a whole heap of twitching... and the next thing I remember is regaining consciousness in the ambulance with some over-enthusiastic ambo trying to force an oxygen mask over my face. This little trip to the hospital wasn't quite as fun as the first time; they refused to let me play any computer games. Bastards! That and I pulled most of the muscles in my back. 

I've often asked my mate what thoughts went through his mind while I was having that seizure. His answer was always, 

"Shit, I better get his mum."  

And I could suddenly sympathise with my mother's over-protective instincts. For fourteen years she'd seen me have countless seizures... and finally witnessed the one she'd always feared. And she had been unable to do anything to stop it.

More recently I went through a less severe - though equally intimidating patch. I'd have my usual petit mal and then, after regaining consciousness, I'd start twitching. I'd still be able to talk, to walk, to converse - but it did freak people out. One fit I remember fondly was when there was a colleague who had been giving me a really hard time at work. Later that day he scored a front-row seat to one of these twitching fits. My fellow employee was so thrown by Epilepsy spitting his dummy that he blurted out,

"Was it because of what I said earlier?"

The two events had absolutely no connection whatsoever, but I couldn't resist exercising some poetic justice.

"Yep."

A simple response that proved very effective. We've been best buddies ever since. Well, maybe not quite best buddies.     

Now seizures generally look much worse than they actually are, but I realise that doesn't make them any easier to watch. In the case of my less-than-friendly work-mate, I think his cracking point was the fact that we were having a completely coherent conversation; all while my pupils were darting about - playing a rabid game of hide-and-seek. It's been five years since that seizure and I sometimes think he still looks at me, remembering (with a degree of trepidation) that little encounter we shared. And this is five years later!

So you could imagine how it must be for those loved ones who have to watch us do these things, suffer these involuntary muscle contractions, experience these sensations, make these weird-ass sounds on a regular basis. I sometimes think they endure just as much - if not more - than we do.

If only more protagonists were worms

I'm not suggesting that Dan Brown replace Robert Langdon with a spineless creature that aerates soil with its trail of poop. Nor am I suggesting that he try to adapt a computer game into a book for his next blockbuster. 

I do, however, suggest he try something my friend, Nathan, successfully implemented. 

Nathan recently got his first novel, "Chicken Stu" published. Not only is it a wonderfully witty tale with some strong characters, but just when I thought 'this is the climax; the denouement's coming soon', he'd up the ante. And he kept upping the ante. Again and again. And every time the novel reached that new dramatic cliff edge - that moment when I assumed he would throw (what I call) a 'Rowling' at Stu, I was proven wrong. It was brilliant. 

Now before I explain what a 'Rowling' is, let me warn you there are Harry Pothead spoilers to follow. 

In my books, throwing a 'Rowling' translates as giving the main character an easy escape. Exhibit A: "The Philosopher's Stone". In the final climax of the novel, there he was: the boy-who-lived, at the hands of Voldemort, when what saves him? His mother's love!

WTF! What a cop-out! Pothead won that battle on a mere technicality.

On the other hand, Nathan's main character, Stu, didn't have his dead mum there to help him out. Nor was there some ancient magic folklore that kicked in to rescue his hairy arse. All he had were his wits, strength and stubbornness. Nathan treated his protagonist just like a worm: he never once let Stu off the hook. He just kept Stu dangling there in front of all those dangerously hungry fish.

It's a shame there are so few unsympathetic fishermen like Nathan out there, so few authors out there who are willing to REALLY test their  characters. It could be a much better (fictional) world if they did.

Anime, Kevin Rudd and the censorship saga

Dateline recently did a very interesting (albeit disturbing) story about the emergence of a new anime style. With a decline in revenue and Japan's ageing population, there are animators who've turned their hand to what they describe as anime of the 'soft-core genre'. But let's cut the P/C bullshit. Really, it's anime porn!

And it has left the Japanese industry divided. On one side of the fence, there is the need to rack in some cash and they've been given the opportunity to cater for a financially well-endowed audience.
But then there's the catch: "Anime porn comes in forms that escape the rules covering photos and live-action videos, even when children are depicted sexually..."
Not all 'late night anime' is this way inclined, but it's growing.

I wonder what comments Mr Rudd would pass on this phenomenon. His Labour Party are certainly not scared to pass judgement on issues of censorship. Their proposed internet filter has stirred up much debate and even more resistance. The United States is now the latest band wagon jumper with both the US ambassador to Australia and a US State Department spokesman raising concerns over the Rudd Administration's new policy.
Their claim: "it runs contrary to (our) policy of encouraging an open internet to promote economic growth and security".
Concerns that mirror my own. Personally, I believe there are four major accusations that the government needs to stand trial for:

1. The filter will strangle free-speech on the internet, potentially blacklisting websites that may very well be controversial, but pose no real threats to 'innocent eyes'. 
2. Who controls the blacklist? Mr. Rudd claims there will be an independent board monitoring it, but conspiracy theorists like to suggest that there will inevitably be Government involvement. For once, I'm inclined to believe them.
3. There will be a significant and noticeable reduction on internet speed.
4. Internet users will ALWAYS find a way around it, rendering the filter useless. 

Points one to three raise moral and pragmatic issues that will forever be debated - even if the filter is abandoned - but it's the fourth issue that troubles me the most, simply because Stephen Conroy made the proclamation last year that "our pilot, and the experience of ISPs in many western democracies, shows that ISP level-filtering of a defined list of URLs can be delivered with 100 per cent accuracy." A comment like this (daring to use the phrase '100 per cent') can only be made by someone who is blindly faithful to their cause, who accepts what they're told is the divine truth, who hears only what he wants to hear. He is, for the lack of a better phrase, a cyber-safety evangelist.

Now anime has evolved in its 93 years from a small number of curious Japanese animators who were inspired by 'Snow White and the Seven Dwarves' to (amongst other things) today's porn industry. There have been people - both in the industry and in the audience - who saw the demand for it, found the loop holes and established the means by which the (not so) 'soft-core' stuff could be produced.

The internet is no different.

And with the Government's filter described by many as draconian, there will inevitably be programmers who'll see themselves as the freedom fighters and martyrs of cyberspace, and will do all they can to circumvent the firewall. Likewise, there will be less-than-legitimate companies and individuals whose sole goal will be to hack their way through this system and simply go 'back to business as usual.' They will see the demands, find the loop holes and establish the means by which the net can be accessed.

And so it goes; as long as there is an audience, there will be anime porn. As long as there are users who want an uncensored internet, there will be internet hackers. And that filter, Mr Rudd, is just a red flag to the bull - and you, the inexperienced matador holding it.

"That, son, is called a brothel"

Those are the words that should have come out of the father's mouth, but no. Instead it was a somewhat awkward (though highly amusing) conversation. At least it was for me.

***

Now it's no secret that there are about six or seven brothels in my area. For the record, I have not frequented ANY of them and therefore can't say with any authority how many do actually exist. I know of two because they have public faces. The rest are the stuff of gossip and urban legend, though I'm inclined to think they probably are around.

Of the two registered brothels, one has a website (obviously believing they're real high brow). I came to know of the other through the mail. Not that it was one of those dodgy advertising leaflets. No, it was in fact a letter addressed directly to me; sent by my local council. Very thoughtful of them, wouldn't you say?

One of the brothels on our main street was planning some renovations and under current legislation all local residents must be informed; allowing them the opportunity to provide feedback. As part of the information pack they mailed me, a floor-plan of the proposed renovations was provided.

A note, ladies and gentlemen: brothels don't house bedrooms. Nor do they house bathrooms. A brothel's bedrooms are actually known as "service areas". Their bathrooms are described as "wash rooms".

Until this point, I had always thought there was a brothel down there somewhere; that the Chinese massage parlour probably came with happy endings, but I'd never really bothered to investigate. Now I knew not only of its existence, but its exact address, the number of customers they could service at any one point in time and where the closest fire exits were.

Two months later I got that same letter, this time with a footnote informing me I only had six weeks to provide feedback. One month after that I got ANOTHER letter reminding me there was now only a fortnight till the deadline. Now in case I hadn't fully appreciated what the first letter was saying - that there was a brothel in town and it was getting an upgrade, then by the third letter I sure as hell knew pretty much every single detail of it. Talk about free advertising!

***

Walking home the other day, I passed a father and son who were actually standing outside that very brothel. The kid, probably seven years old, had asked,

"Dad, what do they sell here?"

The poor man! I wasn't able to hear his whole answer (as I didn't want to be caught eaves dropping) but I heard phrases like "keep men happy..." and "make you feel good with their hands"... all phrases that drew unfathomably large frowns of confusion from the boy. There was no direct answer. And every time the dad used another abstract expression for sex or blowjob, I could see the boy wanting to interject with even more questions.

And the more the dad talked, the more curious the son got, and the more I was reminded of the council's letters.

"Keep talking Dad, and you're going to end up as some free advertising yourself."

My top 10 tips for safe slurpee consumption

It was pointed out to me that my last slurpee blog was uploaded the very same day that Sydney's time-trials were being held for the national slurp-off competition. The current record-holder, 'Ice Man', managed to down one in 52 seconds and is now throwing down the gauntlet to all Australians. 

So a crown will be bestowed upon our new Australian champion on 26th May amidst much ice, confetti and all things slushee. Now I'm in no way suggest anyone EVER attempt this. There are yet to be any medical studies done on the permanent damage done by brain freezes and could you imagine the type of brain freeze you'd get! 

My two recent forays into slurpee drinking have convinced me that it is in fact a dangerous  past-time that should be exercised with caution. And for that reason, I thought this blog would be an ideal way to educate people on how to consume slurpees responsibly. So my top ten tips for safe slurpee consumption are:

1. Don't be scared to push those pre-pubescent boys away from the slurpee machine. The 7-Eleven is their mecca, the slushee their shrine, and would quite happily stand there all day, oblivious to anyone else who may want access to it. 
2. Put the lid on the cup BEFORE you fill it up. Once it has been filled, the cup walls becomes soft and will not hold their shape.
3. If you decide to fill the ice level above the rim of the cup, then you have a three minute lee-way before the ice starts melting and you run the high risk of leakage. And nobody wants sticky fingers.
4. Carry a serviette or tissue with you at all times. Slurpees can be a messy business.
5. Don't be scared to mix flavours, but be warned: coke and mountain-dew do not mix well together. Coke and raspberry do.
6. Take two slurps, then a breath. If you have have three slurps in a row then you're pretty much guaranteed a throat freeze and will need 30 seconds 'time-out' to recover.
7. Keep swirling the slurpee as you drink. This will ensure the flavouring does not all seep to the bottom.   
8. Do not run while slurping. Not only will you risk spillage, but if you fall then you could suffer from straw induced injuries in your mouth.   
9. When you reach the dregs of the cup, don't bother with the spoon/straw. Pop off the lid and just pour it straight down your throat. It should have melted enough by then to avoid brain freezes.
10. If you do encounter a brain freeze, either rub the base of your skull with your hand or press your tongue against the roof of your mouth. This will hopefully relieve the symptoms. 

The Great Slurpee War

I have a serious medical condition. Incredibly debilitating, an onset of it can strike anytime - with no warning - and can last for days at a time. If you were to consult a medical dictionary, you'd find it listed as a McFlaving, otherwise quite simply known as 'McFlurry cravings'; whereby the sufferer can think about nothing else except devouring one of McDonald's finest desserts. (Much, much better than those sundaes they serve.) Of course, I'm unable to satisfy this urge as I don't live near a McDonald's. And for the sake of my wallet this is probably a good thing.

But recently I have been battling another debilitating disorder. I once suffered from this same disorder as a child, but it went into remission when I hit adolescence. That is, until two months ago when my local medical centre moved down the road, leaving an empty lot for some weeks. There was much speculation as to who would be adopting this space... and what was eventually unveiled drew gasps of awe from passer-bys, sparked much conversation amongst the locals and brought a few frowns from the old folk. For it was a 7-Eleven store!

I remember the day it opened. It was 1.00am Saturday, 27th March. I was en route home after a big night out and there were four drunken boys stumbling along in front of me. Suddenly they stopped and one of them declared to his mates,

"Mecca has opened!" 

Too right it had. There was no denying the neon glow flooding the street. While the four boys headed straight through the 'doors to heaven' I tried my best to use some restraint and headed off up the road. 

It was then that I knew I was in trouble. It took less than 24 hours for this disorder to re-emerge and at 7.24pm that night I submitted to temptation. I had a slurpee!

It was McFlavings all over again, only this time the McFlurry was taking a backseat to 7-Eleven's forte: the slurpee. For the following fortnight I tried my best to walk past the store, eyes front, ignoring the voices inside my head screaming 'slurpee'.

But at 3.04pm last Saturday I gave in once again. Now I've suffered from many addictions over the years; alcohol, inappropriate jokes, McFlurries... but this latest addiction has me worried. With a slurpee machine open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year, 50 metres away from my front door, I'm scared my latest addiction may become a REAL affliction.

What's Up Doc?

Picture this. An eleven year old boy prepped for surgery, half sedated with anaesthetics, being wheeled into the O.R. As required by hospital regulations, staff ask him the same two questions every twenty or so seconds,
"What's your name?"
Insert answer here.
"What is your date of birth?"
Growing bored with this routine, he nevertheless responds correctly once again... but decides to spice things up next time. So in the final few moments before they gas the boy, before he goes under the knife, they fire again:
"What's your name?"
"George Bush." A hesitant intake of breath from the staff.
"What is you date of birth?"
"1924 I think." A sigh of relief from the room.
"Cheeky bastard." one of them mutters.
That boy, that cheeky bastard of a kid, was me; pre-pubescent and mischievous.

***

Maybe it's the fact that my early years of physiotherapy took place opposite a fire station and (with a great deal of excitement) I got to watch the firemen race out, sirens blaring, off to save building after building. Or maybe it's simply the fact that I live by Oscar Wilde's decree of "life's too short to be taken seriously", but I really do treat medical situations with a small degree of irreverent humour. 

Forgive me if it sounds like I'm belittling health issues. I'm not. I too have had my fair share of medical scares, ambulance rides and hospitalisations, and on those occasions I've donned my 'grave face'. But for the most part, when there's no blood in the urine or debilitating pain involved, I quite enjoy these little exchanges with medical staff.

This is why I was surprised when a mate expressed reluctance to make an appointment with his doctor. I actually look forward to them.
You say 'doctor' to me and I think of:

• That time my G.P. had to slip on a rubber glove, lube it up and stick it up my rear-end to ensure I didn't have a compacted bowel. This was only hours before my appendix operation and her proclamation to me was that "if she didn't put her finger up it, she risked putting her foot in it." 
• My mate who had been hospitalised for a pretty grim incident. On his final day at the hospital, a very beautiful nurse was removing his catheter and managed to induce an erection in the process. According to her, it's a very normal reaction. To this day, I'm not too sure if that 'normal reaction' she referred to, was a reference to the catheter or her beautiful self. 
• My very conservative paediatrician, who during one of her bi-annual appointments with me, made the mistake of asking me if I had any general questions. "Only about girls" I answered. Some rather crimson blushing soon followed. Not really an area a childless 67 year old doctor specialises in. 

My favourite scenario was when I was admitted to the E.R. as an hormone driven adolescent with a potential kidney trauma. As part of the routine, there were a series of questions that the specialist had to ask. One of them:
"Have you ever suffered from bed wetting?" I smile.
"Do wet dreams count?"

The Phobia List

Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia (defn.) - a fear of long words

What a cruel, cruel word! It must have been a real sadist who came up with that one. Wonderfully ironic, but still cruel. Fortunately I doubt there are many cases of it. Plenty of claustrophobia, arachnophobia, acrophobia, but not hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia.

I've actually managed (for the most part) to conquer one of those fears thanks to rock-climbing. That fear being acrophobia; a fear of heights. Not that it was ever a debilitating phobia, just a nagging feeling I got when standing near edges.

My mate Gareth has an interesting policy on his phobia. He too is scared of heights, a little more than I was, and told me recently that he'll probably never bother to battle this phobia because it's unlikely to handicap him as he goes about with his day-to-day life. And fair enough, he has a very valid point. 

Now alcohol may have mired my memory of that night, but I'm sure the conversation ended with Gareth shrugging his shoulders and announcing "it's all good".

Oh what a wonderfully Australian phrase that is! That and "she'll be right, mate". Two phrases that seem to really capture our Australian laissez faire philosophy; our optimistic indifference, our low standards and naive faith that the seas won't get too choppy.

A mentality that is a far cry from Woody Allen's New York neurotic-ism. A far cry from the sort of neurotic-ism that immigrates into a psychoanalyst's chair; where those neurotic-isms are given labels, and those labels are then deemed phobias. And suddenly we're in a world filled with ablutophobics and clinophobics and glossophobics and hydrargyophobics and a million other phobias - all too numerous to list in one blog.  

I know Australian's have their fair share of fears; snakes, spiders, small spaces, etc... but as a nation, when compared with other developed countries, I wonder whether our 'laissez faire "she'll be right mate"' approach has actually helped our phobics live with their fears and not be so debilitated by them. Or am I just talking out of my arse here?


** For a good laugh (or if you want to diagnose yourself without the help of a psychoanalyst), check out http://phobialist.com/. 

For the love of insomnia

Reading, drinking warm milk, having sex, watching television...

Supposedly all remedies to help you sleep. None of which work for me. It has been some years now that I've been an insomniac; ever since I started on some new meds. As long as I continue to take these meds, I doubt I'll ever conquer my insomnia. 

But really, I don't think I want to. I know it frustrates the hell out of most people but not me. Sure, if I need to get up early then it can annoy me, but for the most part I don't need to rise at the crack of dawn. The fact is I'll be drifting into a stupor, my mind will be kicking into neutral, then wham! I'll be hit with a completely random thought: 

• Would Sherlock Holmes and Jessica Alba share any common interests if they ever met?
  
• Do bats poop upside down?
  
• If there were such things as green smurfs, would they wear white hats?

See? Completely random. It's as if my brain has lost all inhibitions and got sleep-drunk. For those of you who have seen me sleep deprived, I'm sure you'll remember that my mouth operates on auto-pilot, sprouting sentences that are straight out of a James Joyce stream-of-consciousness novel.

My friend Vicky was recently subjected to one of my sleep-drunk moments. After a 13 hour work day, she was giving me a lift home. In a somewhat delirious state, I got into the car and tried to click my seat-belt in. However, I failed miserably in this because I was in fact forcing the seatbelt between the pages of a book that had fallen down the side of the seat. 

That kicked it off. 

"Ooh, there's a book down here. Is it a Jane Austen book? Why are the pages sticky? Most women seem to love Jane Austen. I only read the first five chapters of 'Emma'. I was meant to study it and couldn't be bothered. I wonder what the 'Pride and Prejudice' film is like. Who was the main actress in that --"

-- At which point, she quite wisely cut me off.

So you can see what I mean. With thoughts like that racing through my pre-sleep mind, how could I ever get settled or bored enough to drift off?  

   

The Booze Bus

Officially it's called the Nightride Bus; Sydney's answer to shitty train services that stop running early in the night. Designed for tight arses like me and drunken louts who can't afford to catch a cab home, they are usually populated by students and under 25'ers who have just entered the job force. As a result, these passengers seem to be blissfully ignorant of 'work nights' or early starts and aren't bothered by the fact that their clothes are drenched in sweat and booze.

In spite of all this, I actually quite enjoy catching this Nightride Bus home. Maybe I'm just a public transport whore and in spite of her MANY faults, have adopted Nightride as one of my regular clients. Whatever the many other reasons, one of the simple facts is that the trips never cease to amuse me. These inebriated and uninhibited souls are perfect fodder for a good laugh; a good excuses to don my headphones, turn the volume right down and eavesdrop on all the conversations that are going on around me.
How else could I find out that Alice is cheating on James with Jane?

• Or notice Bruce trying to bribe his way onto the bus with a spliff he just rolled? 
• Or hear Bobby trying to (rather unsuccessfully) open the skylight while balancing on Johnny's shoulders? 
• Or see Judy very discretely vomit out the back window? 
• Or realise the bus driver is talking to himself; practicing an apology he will deliver to his wife? 

In all likelihood, few of these characters will actually remember the journey home and the bizarre things they've done, but in my books that's completely forgivable.

On the other hand, you've got these peak hour drivers and passengers; each and everyone of them supposedly sober and yet doing some of the most puerile acts that should really be reserved for the home! 
Are they really any better than these drunken Nightriders? There seems to be a common misconception that if there is a piece of glass between you and the rest of the world, that no once can see in on you; that the glass is one-way only. It ain't folks. Especially in a car.

Exhibit A is a man I know a man who quite openly admits to plucking his nose hairs while stopping at red lights! I have no doubt Mr Bean's car trip drew heavily on real-life sights like nose hair pluckers like him.
It's bad enough that you get encouragement from the likes of Hamish and Andy with their 'If you're single and you know it, pat your head', but then you get:

• The woman applying lipstick in the rear-vision mirror while stopping at traffic lights, 
• The man steering with his elbows while flossing his teeth,
• The voice artist tearing open their jaw as part of some warm-up exercises,
• The yuppie conversing animatedly with his steering wheel (where I'm assuming his handsfree phone is positioned),
• The naughty couple 'getting jiggy' down below,
• The twenty-something man who has never lost the habit of picking his nose and eating it,
• The teenage girl singing along at the top of her voice to Lily Allen.

Now a bottle of bourbon or cask of goon does not excuse drunken behaviour on Sydney's finest means of after-hours public transport, but neither does a car's window excuse acts of indecency in a car.   

Folks attempting to do all these things in the car; thinking no one will notice, thinking everyone is ignorant to their little moments of immodesty, are like flatulent businessmen trying to get away with sneaky farts in crowded elevators. And we all know their farts don't stink.  

My 'time of the month': tales of an epileptic

Some months ago I was approached by a colleague who confided in me that his 18 month old son had been diagnosed with epilepsy. Being an epileptic myself, I reassured him that everything will be ok, that it's completely manageable; you know, the usual spiel. Then, as we were wrapping up the conversation, he asked,
"What if the little tyke has this for the rest of his life?"
My immediate thought:
'So what! I will.'

It was obvious to me then that out there in the public arena, the fears and the myths surrounding epilepsy still outweigh the reality.

So let me first start by eliminating some of these myths:

• We won't all drop to the ground, start convulsing and frothing at the mouth. Only about ten percent of epileptics have what they call tonic-clonic seizures. Most of us have much milder fits. Even then, those tonic-clonics don't necessarily froth.
• We won't swallow our tongues! Who the hell even came up with that concept? Stupid myth. 
• Not all of us have seizures provoked by strobe lights or fancy video games, only those whose fits originate from the visual cortex. This makes up about three percent of us epileptics. 
• Alcohol does not necessarily induce seizures. Just look at me; I drink more than I probably should. Tiredness can sometimes bring them on, as can stress, but it really depends on the person.  A 'big night out' may increase susceptibility to one on but that's usually because people don't sleep much (or well) after a big bender.
• Many of us can drive. Not all of us, but if medication is able to sufficiently control or monitor the seizures, then there's no reason why we can't get a licence.
• Some of us are actually able to get 100% control of their seizures with the right medication and go for decades without a fit. I've been led to believe my celebrity doppleganger (Hugo Weaving) hasn't had one in many, many years. 

But before I get too carried away, let's return to the topic of what actually epilepsy is. At it's most basic, a  seizure is simply erratic electrical impulses being sent around the brain. Epilepsy Action give a great description of it. Sometimes these electrical impulses are fired at parts of the brain that control physical movements, others are fired at parts that control sensations, So an epileptic is merely someone who has recurring seizures. Danny Glover has it, Lewis Carroll had it  - even Julius Caesar had it. Nowadays it's more than one percent of the population that have epilepsy.
    
Many people ask me what it's like to have a seizure. In my case, they have evolved over the years. They've grown less severe as I've tinkered with my medication. I currently have one every four to six weeks, though they’re sometimes so minor that no-one but me can recognise them. The seizures are pretty hard to describe because they're each very unique experiences, but I guess there are four common sensations I always experience - all sort of merged together in a big melting pot. They include:

• Deja vu,
• A sense of dread,
• A feeling of elation, or heightened sense of reality,
• A memory blackhole that usually lasts for less than thirty seconds. I'm completely conscious during this stage, but will have no memory of what I said or did during that period. Usually, I'll go into automatic pilot and do whatever was last on my mind. I guess you could say I act out my Freudian 'ego'. 

Now some of you have probably seen me have one, a few have realised (or at least thought 'there's something not quite right here') and others that have been blissfully ignorant.  If you are one of those people who discover that I had one in your presence and not told you PLEASE don't be offended; I just didn't want to spoil the occasion. I'm able to assess pretty quickly if it's going to affect what I'm doing at that point in time. If it is, then trust me I will call 'time-out'.  

On the mild ones I'm back to normal and 100% functional in a few minutes. With my more severe ones, I pretty much feel like I've got a hangover: slight headache, drowsy, thirsty... I think we all know those symptoms... and those symptoms last for a few hours - though I'm completely functional during that period. I'll tell you if I need a break.

So what to do if you see me (or any other epileptic) have one?

1. Relax. Chill out. I've had them before. I have them regularly so I know what to do. The same principle really applies to all epileptics - even those who are having a tonic-clonic. Providing we're not hurting ourselves, there's not much you can really do. Just gently guide us away from any danger. 
2. Be patient. A seizure will last (at most) a few minutes, but it may take us a little while to get our bearing, shake off any grogginess etc. 
3. Give us some space. In theory, it's really not that different than if you took a little stumble down the stairs. The last thing you want is everyone crowding around you, asking if you're ok. By all means one person standing by to guide us can be nice if it's a bad one, but no crowds please.

Other than that, just let us guide you with our needs.

Now don't let me mislead you into thinking it's all doom and gloom. It ain't all 'what are the worst case scenarios that we have to cater for?'. Epilepsy has its definite upsides. In my case: 

• I never once had to run the cross-country when I was at school. They didn't want me trekking through the bush by myself (because I was so slow and always at the end of the pack). I got to stay at the camp grounds and cook the snags on the barbie. How cool is that? 
• I've never had to worry about drink-driving. 
• I've never had to do the overnight shift at work because they didn't want to encourage any seizures (due to a lack of sleep.)
• Recounting my seizures makes for great party conversations. Examples?  I once thought I was a spy and snuck into Coles; at age 26 I offered to drop out of an imaginary high school; two years ago I was a foot away from walking into the ladies toilets (because I needed to go to the loo). More recently, I trapped myself in some random person's courtyard. Of course I don't really remember doing any of these things so I'm assuming my friends haven't employed too much creative licence when recounting these tales for me. 

I write all this, not just to set the facts straight, to dispel all these myths, but also because I want to open epilepsy up as an easy-to-access topic of discussion.  I’m sick of it being a hushed conversation I have in the corner of a noisy cafe. I’m tired of promising fellow epileptics that I won’t tell others about their condition. I can understand their concerns: their fears of how others might react. 

So this is my open invitation to everyone who ever wants to talk about it. Come on, out with it people. I'm here for you; I can be that sympathetic shoulder, or that empathetic ear, or that brutally honest friend who slaps you in the face and says 'why do you think such stupidly stereotypical things!' 

And of course this invite goes out to friends of friends, and family of friends and friends of family friends. Let's get chatting. I've got time. I'll make time.    

Look out Amway, you've got competition.

 First there was the cadbury gorilla.

Then there was Susan Boyle.

In the internet world it's called 'going viral'; where something spreads exponentially through cyberspace. Sometimes it's done deliberately (like the cadbury gorilla) and its creators have definite marketing goals. Others, like Susan Boyle, are a bi-product of a successful medium (such as television) that has been transplanted into the world wide web.
Either way, both (supposedly) direct traffic back to their source; generating interest, discussion and most importantly for them, revenue.

Historically, there has been another formula that uses the same principle. It's called the pyramid scheme. And one company that has been closely associated with this form of marketing is Amway. Although it has never been officially prosecuted for pyramid style marketing, Amway's approach employs an undeniable similarity; the recruitment of workers whose subsequent recruitments will financially benefit the original recruiters. 

If we were to translate this into today's online world, then I guess our 'recruiting' would be all those emails we'd forward, videos we'd embed, files we'd upload....

And Facebook seems to be a real leader here. It has gone from spreading those inane and unbelievably annoying 'pirate vs ninja' applications to those ridiculously self-propagating 'Can this pickle get more fans than Nickleback?' fan-pages.

But where Facebook's viral capability gets scary is best demonstrated in an app that was written for last year's  'Triple J's Hottest 100'. I unfortunately 'missed the bus' on this one so never got to witness it but I was told, with good authority, it showed you which songs your friends had voted for.

For the musically inept like me, this is a harp from the heavens. Ask me what's in the latest 'top 40's' and I'll give you a blank stare, free of change. If I had discovered this app before the hottest 100 had been announced, I would have done a good ol' sticky-beak at how my friend's were voting. Now I doubt I'd have recognised more than 20% of the artists BUT I would have THEN done my research. I would have listened to what they were voting for and then put a vote in myself. In which case I would have gone from a musically inept nobody with no idea to a voter. Amazing how educational the internet can be, right? Scary too.

Especially given the enormity by which 'Mumford and Sons' won by. I'm probably going to be disowned by several people for asking this (and let it be said I really do love "Little Lion Man"), but how many 'nobodies with no ideas' do you think voted for their song simply because their friends did? And how many of their friends voted for "Little Lion Man" simply because their friends did too? And how many of their friends voted for "Little Lion Man" simply because those friends did?

It seems 'going viral' has taken another step forward and developed a new edge. One where it's no longer just pyramid scheme marketing, where we're not just forwarding on the latest email, where we're not just 'spreading the virus'. Now we're actually shaping that virus.

And that virus has the capacity to vote. 

Shit, what's next?

No uniform required. Apply within.

Mohawks, crew cuts, boob tubes, nose rings, army boots, short skirts, torn jeans, fluoro shirts, dragon tatts... 

Welcome to JB Hifi.

***

She was dressed like any other old lady you might pass in a two dollar shop; cardigan, glasses, walking stick in one hand, a piece of paper in the other. 

The voice found its way through the crowd and surprised both of us. It was polite, almost formal, as if it belong to a previous, more Elizabethan-style era.
"May I help you with that ma'am?'

Ironically, the shop attendant's dress was a far cry from her voice. Standing tall with her knee high leather boots and tartan short skirt, the girl was sporting a nose ring and purple streaks through her hair. The old lady's eyes narrowed, she drew her handbag in close under her arms. I shared a guilty laugh with the shelf that I was now hiding behind; too curious to turn away but knowing I shouldn't stand there and gawk at such an amusing interchange. 

Completely undeterred by the reaction her appearance had illicited, the young girl continued by leaning in close and looking at the paper,
"Ahhh, 'Casablanca'. I remember watching that as a child with my grandmother. She introduced me to Humphrey Bogart. Ohh I do love him, don't you? Are you looking for the DVD?"

The next few sound that emerged from the lady's mouth were mumbled, nervous with agitated skepticism, but I can only assume it were words of agreement as the attendent then guided her fragile form down the nearest aisle of DVDs.

***

Later that day, I wandered down to the next shopping centre where I was confronted with JB's enemy territory; with blue walls, fluorescent lights, blue floors, bored faces, blue uniforms, more blue walls, more bored faces, and of course an over-zealous manager who spends the day polishing his badge with a half-used handkerchief...

Welcome to Harvey Norman.

*** 

They may have low prices and, but Harvey Norman's 'I-get-a-commision-if-I-sell-you-this-even-though-I-have-no-idea-what-it-does' employee mentality is utterly draining. Their lack of knowledge is bettered only by the employees' constant bickering. They're worse than a hyena pack - not interested in the kill, in the selling, but when it comes to getting the commission, to tearing away the meat, they're a vicious bunch of dogs. Twice now I've emerged from there with the wrong products, despite their assurances that 'yes that memory card is compatible with your camera' or 'yes that usb stick will work with your printer.'

Now I've always found blue a very soothing colour. Not here. Not anymore. Now I equate blue to a zombie-land of store clerks with blank eyes and arms outstretched, hungry for my credit card.     

And Harvey Norman ain't alone here. Myers have a policy of rotating their casual staff through the different departments. Admittedly this may be a sad fact of understaffing, but unlike Harvey Norman they don't work on a commission basis. Instead their staff just count down the minutes until their next break, they try to discretely text their boyfriends and when times are busy, they stand still enough in the hope that customers will mistake them for a mannequin. 

***

Both a far cry from JB Hifi, yes? 

I would like to think Miss Purple-Streaks managed to charm a thankful smile out of the old lady. I would like to think she managed to set 'Ms Cardigan, Glasses & Walking Stick' up on a date with Humphrey Bogart. I did notice she emerged from the shop with a yellow bag hooked around her walking stick, so I'm thinking my hopes were not in vain.

I'm no businessman. I wouldn't have the foggiest idea about company profiles or business models or the necessary marketing schemes needed to enhance revenue (whatever that means). 

But I'll say this much. I don't care about smart uniforms or soothing decors or staff that are able to recite specifications from a catalogue. 

All I care about is that staff know their shit. 

And I certainly got the feeling that Miss Purple-Streaks did. 

Me @ my most brutally honest

Friends of mine have commented that I've dropped off my blogging recently, and it's true I have. I could easily use work as an excuse, or my latest hobby/obsession (rock climbing) but the truth is I have been procrastinating. There is a topic that I have been trying to tackle for some days/weeks now. 


It's not one that I have difficulty talking about, but it's such a large issue, and one close to my heart that I haven't known where to start. And so I haven't. But in the last 48 hours I have nutted out a structure and started work on it. I won't be uploading it till later this week. 


In the meantime, I hope you can suffice with two blogs which will be posted over the course of the next three days. They'll cover Susan Boyle, boob tubes, facebook, K.Rudd and Little Lion Man. I hope that'll keep you entertained until then.    

Lucy, the chemist and the village idiot

• He absolutely loves "I Love Lucy" but has never once watched an episode in its entirety.
• He owns multiple copies of all 179 episodes but hasn't bothered to open half of them.
• He knows all the dialogue word-for-word and wanders the street muttering the lines to himself.

His name is Shane and I guess he is what you'd call our village idiot.

Every Friday, Shane works for two hours for the local chemist stacking shelves. And every Friday, without fail, the chemist walks him home and they watch half an episode of "I Love Lucy". Life is not easy for Shane; the poor bugger has the patience of a five year old kid and the diagnosed intellect of a nine year old but he never stops smiling. Something I wish many more people could do. 

Now my suburb was once described by a newspaper article as boring. But with colourful characters like Shane... like loudmouthed Larry, bug-eyed Bruce and the bearded lady wandering the streets, I ask you how could anyone consider this suburb boring?

Ode to the Buck's Night

"The Hangover" was one of Hollywood's great surprises of 2009; a low budget film with no 'big names', yet still managed to rake in over $467 million! A simple tale, but one that was very effectively executed. I have no shame in saying that it is now one of my personal favourite flicks of all time.

And of course the best part of the movie is that it's propagating a myth I believe is slowly dying - if not already on death's door. Now I've only been to three Buck's Nights so I'm definitely no expert on the subject, but their antics certainly haven't been in the same league as "The Hangover" (much to the bride-to-be's relief). Don't get me wrong, I've loved all three. They've been great days. The heart is still there; the cheekiness, the typical Australian larrkin still shines through, but they've changed.

We will still dress them up like Guantanamo Bay prisoners with "Prisoner For Life" written on the back, we will still steal their mobile phones so there is absolutely NO contact with their fiances, but I think gone are the days where the groom is admitted to the hospital for alcohol poisoning, where the vows are exchanged in the emergency room and the wedding night is spent in the ICU trying to piece together a defence against 'indecent exposure' charges.

Two of the three buck's nights I've attended have had female friends present, inevitably inhibiting certain activities. And perhaps this is a reflection of our change in philosophy. The threat of castration may have gained momentum since Lorena Bobbit reached notoriety, but really I think Buck's Nights are now more a good excuse to have a catchup and piss-up with mates than it is 'his final night of bachelorhood so let's get him absolutely slaughtered and chain him to a public toilet'. The toasts are no longer "here's to your last night of freedom", but "good luck matey, you're a braver man than me."

Now I'm not claiming that wild and crazy things don't happen at Buck's Nights - but for every stripper we hire, I have no doubt a hen somewhere will be playing host to the 'Chippendales' - so really we ain't that bad.... or that different.

So ladies, next time you hear a man claim he's off to help celebrate a mate's last night of bachelorhood, relax, it's ONLY a Buck's Night.

Thoughts gentlemen?

Information Overload: One man's life story in 180 seconds

The transaction took no longer than three minutes. It was a simple refund for a climbing harness.

But in those few minutes, I learnt that:

1. The shop attendant grew up in Tasmania,
2. He came up to Sydney for a girl,
3. She had been scared about what would happen if he moved up here and they broke up,
4. The couple had been together for four years,
5. This was the longest relationship he had even been in,
6. He was intending to propose this year, though NOT on Valentine's Day,
7. She knew he would be proposing soon,
8. He had picked out the beach he was going to propose on. 

That's one fact every 10 seconds.

And I learnt all this with him swiping my card, pumping my details into the computer, signing all the right forms... a man who was brutally honest and able to multi-task. So atypically male.

Walking out the door, a question sprung itself upon me. 

How can I know all this about him, all these intimate facts, and still not even know his name? 

So typically me. So typically Sydney.