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.