fossgoss

Some time ago, on a road trip to Waimarama, I stopped in for a week-long visit with an old pal, an eremite in Haumoana. He lives in a shack on a couple of acres, alongside the river. It is here that I met Floppyfoot - a good sized goat endowed with a deformed front foot. He could walk ok, but that foot sort of flopped around; his walking signature best described using onomatopoeia: plack, plack, plack (x 2) then… flooof. Every seventh, floppy step was an extended ‘flooof’ sound as that foot tried to catch up with the others. If you relate this to music, Floppyfoot’s time signature was not 4/4 time as is the usual case in nature - his walk was in 7/8 time as the floppy foot stalled the rhythm on each alternate cycle. A 7/8 time signature is quite rare in music; Money, by Pink Floyd is one of the better-known examples.

The common 4/4 time signature makes it a lot easier to find the groove in music, no more so than in the blues. 12 bar, 4/4 time blues. It all started in Mississippi, early 1900s, with the Delta sound – raw, stripped down and, mostly, mournful. John Lee Hooker once pointed out that this was no surprise: “Because it is the worst state” he said. “You have the blues all right, if you’re down in Mississippi.”
But opposites can be attractive: just as a really hot curry can be a refreshing meal on a hot summer night, even the saddest blues songs somehow have a way of being uplifting.

Many of the early Delta bluesmen were solitary transients who lived on the edge, harvesting heavy-shouldered melancholy from which they brewed the blues. None was more enigmatic than the legendary Robert Johnson who, it is claimed, sold his soul to the devil at a crossroads in exchange for his musical genius. Like any good story, Johnson’s status was enhanced by the outright lack of information about him. He was the original member of the ‘27 club’, dying in 1938, from poisoning they say. And it wasn’t until decades after his death that the first photograph of Johnson was found. He liked to keep things on the down low this man; he worked under numerous names and tended to put on a new face for every new town. As Martin Scorsese once noted, Johnson only really “existed on his records”.
Even today his burial site has only been ‘narrowed down’ to three possible locations.

Yes, the Delta is where it all started, and the (12) bar was set high by the likes of Johnson and Son House. Over time, the Delta sound travelled through many crossroads, to an amplified metamorphosis in Chicago and – eventually – to ‘polite, white society’ with a performance in the White House by BB King.

Seeded by African chants carried on the slave ships, the blues in turn seeded pretty much everything we have listened to since. Without the blues, there would be no rock, no roll, no folk, no soul. (You’d have nothing but awful 70s West Coast soft rock and 90s Epic Trance music and a few days of this would have us all peeling our ears off and throwing ourselves into the mouths of active volcanoes.)
But the big question remains: why does a genre that is so often built on despairing stories and forlorn, minor key melodies, make us feel so astonishingly good? It just doesn’t make sense, yet if you put on a decent Delta Blues mix, it will invariably change the room in a positive way. It will uplift.

Perhaps it’s like Floppyfoot – flawed and scratchy and pained, but somehow, good company by being so darned honest – the blues is an open heart songbook. Despite the fact that Floppyfoot ate my car keys and my hair – and my host’s remote control (every time this goat yawned, the TV channel changed) – he became good company over that stay in Haumoana. I used to take the teapot and morning paper down to his spot on the riverbank every morning. I drank the tea, he would eat the paper.
Then I’d grab my first real six string (a National Steel copy) and play some blues riffs, down by the river.
‘Down by the river’. Now there’s a blues song, right there. 4/4 time, 12 bar. Good company music.

Labels: Blues

As I was saying to Mick Jagger the other day, I hate name-dropping.
But for this yarn, please forgive me, as I have no option.
Working in the advertising industry back in the day when the industry was particularly fond of using celebs to front telly ads, we got to rub shoulders with a few.
Dennis Waterman was one. Remember him? Tel Boy from the BBC series Minder? Terry McCann.
We brought him out in the 80‘s to front a campaign for the Ford Dealer network, using a cheesy adaptation of the Minder theme song ‘I could be so good for you’, which he actually sung. Quite well too.

Dennis, sorry, Mr. Waterman was great to work with. As he was out here for a few weeks he brought his partner with him – Rula Lenska – who starred in a few television series’, including the fabulous ‘Rock Follies’ with Julie Covington. Like Dennis, she was a surprisingly good singer. It was a terrific road trip, travelling all over New Zealand with a bunch of of pasty Brits who absolutely loved this place. They loved their music too, and the guitars would come out most nights for some wonderful jams.

We shot the final ad in the series in Auckland and after checking into the White Heron in Parnell (a great little rock star pub that has long since disappeared, sadly), Dennis, Rula, me and the film crew settled around a large table in the piano bar to enjoy a quiet one. Or two. Music trivia quizzes would generally dictate who financed these pre-dinner sessions; Waterman had a memory like an autistic savant elephant, especially music trivia: if it was about the British pop invasion of the 60’s, 70’s punk or the early 80’s New Romantic sound, he knew the answers.

This first night in Auckland, who should be down the other end of the bar but one of my all-time heroes, David, sorry, Mr. Bowie having a chinwag with Tom Conti. They both had roles in a movie called Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence, which was being shot here. I think Bowie shot the clip to ‘China Girl’ at the same time. It featured New Zealand’s Geeling Ng and it was pretty steamy for its day; immediately banned by most countries with names that end in ‘..stan’.

Half an hour later I’m visiting the bathroom to give back some of the White Heron’s beverages and I bump into Mr. Bowie, right there in the lineup. Not to let a chance go by, I strike up a conversation and before you know it, we are The Very Best Of Friends, as often happens at hand-drying machines.

With that came a great opportunity for a practical joke.

“Look, this may be a slightly odd request, Mr. Bowie, but I’m at that table next to the piano with a bunch of people and it would totally blow them away, Mr. Bowie, if, when you walk back through the bar, you pretended to know me. It would make my night.” Grovel, grovel.

He smiled. He got it. What a great guy – he told me to go ahead of him, sit back at the table, and he’d wander past in a couple of minutes and pretend I was a really good old mate of his. Brilliant! We can be heroes, just for one day.

So I rush back to my crew and get immersed into a conversation about tomorrow’s shoot. Then everything hushes as everyone at the table looks up at the international megastar standing behind me. Bowie puts his hand on my shoulder: “David… David Collinge, is that you, old bean? Crikey, it’s been years… how are you my dear old thing?”
(Bowie is playing this out really, really well).

At which point I look up at David Bowie. I’m glowering, and pretending to be really annoyed I say: “Bugger off Bowie, can’t you see I’m busy in a meeting with Dennis Waterman!!?”

My table goes into shock.
David Bowie is now a stunned mullet.
It is very, very quiet. And awkward. The hang time of awkwardness makes this moment seem an eternity.
Oh dear.

But then I smile – a tiny hint of a smile, at David Bowie. Mr. Bowie.
He knows he’s been had. And he smiles.
As the penny drops around the table, much mirth ensues; it was a truly wonderful moment, one that developed into a memorable evening with stars and guitars. What a bloody decent chap - what a good sport – Mr. Bowie turned out to be.

Labels: David Bowie, Dennis Waterman

Some time ago, on my way to an extended, Spring stay in Waimarama, I stopped in for a 3 day visit with an old eremite in Haumoana. He lived on a couple of acres, alongside the river. It is here that I met Floppyfoot - a good sized goat, with a deformed right/front foot. He could walk ok, but that foot sort of flopped around; his walking signature best described with Onomatopoeia: Plack, Plack, Plack......Flooof. Every 4th, floppy step was a flooof. And, naturally, his time signature was not 2/4 or 4/4 as is the usual case in nature - his walk was in 7/8 time as the floppy foot stalled the rhthym. 7/8 time is quite rare; the only musical example I can think of at this time is Money, by Pink Floyd. That is how Floppyfoot walked.

I took quite a shine to Floppyfoot and over the first two days he became a very good friend. (I assure you it was entirely platonic). Each morning, I'd wander over to the river and set a spell with a cup of tea and the morning paper - which was not to read, because Floppyfoot would eat the paper before you had a chance to read it. He was particularly fond of the glossy catalogue inserts.

He tried to eat my hair a lot too - it really beggars belief as to what a goat will eat.

On the second night in Haumoana it rained. Big rain. Endless, hard rain of the type you often get in the 'Bay, in October. Mad Brian, my eremite pal warned of flooding, which, a couple of times a year, would come right up to the house.
Which it did - the vista next morning was a changed, unrecognisable landscape.

And then I saw it.

Floppyfoot's floppy foot, in a tree.

I waded over and was greeted with a sad sight. Floppyfoot was bloated and dead: drowned and now wedged in the split-trunk crevice of an old tree.

Today is the 7th anniversary of old Floppyfoot's fateful demise in the Haumoana flood. As such, It would please me greatly if we could take a moment to reflect on Floppyfoot, his unusual 7/8 time signature and his status as a pretty good joker as far as goats go. A good mate. A gate mood. He was bold.

And I like that in a goat.

Bold.

Labels: goat

I was at a little club/restaurant in Sydney called 'Soup Plus' this one time, and anyway, it was kinda quiet and this dude at the table casually gets out a case, pulls out a sax and plays 'memories'.
He plays it really, really well.
It was kind of cool, given he was a patron and that it was all so spontaneous.
He got the girls that night.
So, why mess with a formula. Back in NZ, I borrow a mates sax, rig a 3" speaker down into the cone and wire it to a little sony CD player, hidden in my pocket loaded with a CD of a solo sax session that was done by a chap called Mason, a Wellington muso who used to play tenor better than most.
I rehearsed the mime to his notes for fucking hours.
And then came the night to get the girls.
We hit Bachhus restaurant on Courtenay and it is full of hot totty. Flash, hot totty – a veritable smorgasbord of fleshful delights.

OK, so it's time to be the cool guy with the sax who gets the girls. About 10pm. I stand up at our table with sax strung over neck, reed approaching lips.
People are looking over now, keen to see what's gonna happen next. I surreptitiously hit the play button.


Out blares the theme from Flipper, the original from the CBS classic 60’s tv themes album. Complete with chorus girl vocals - "They call him Flipper, Flipper… king of the ocean..."

My mate Darryl who was with me, is on the floor now, tears of laughter, clutching his gut in the pain of sheer delight. On his part.

He, of course, is the guy who switched the CD!

I didn't get the girls.

Labels: sax

Ever wondered why time passes more quickly as you get older?


I reckon a lifetime’s duration is entirely perception. We can only measure a lifetime as a timeframe as the amount of time we have lived. It’s a feeling. Nothing more.

So when you are say, 5 years old, a year feels like.. well, is 20% of a lifetime - a fifth of your life. 20% is big chunk, it feels like a long time. At the time.

But when you are 50 years old a year is only 2% of your 'lifetime' – a tiny part of your lifetime.

And a ‘lifetime’ is a constant. It is what it is. A lifetime. Your lifetime. While the time frame changes, obviously, the perception of the lifetime is a constant at any moment throughout that life.

And 2% of this constant is a lot briefer than 20% of what is, essentially, the same constant.

And that is why time flies faster, as time goes by.

If we lived until 500 years old, a year would feel like a week.

Well, that’s my theory anyway.

And I accept that this may well be a load of old bollocks.

Today is 21/11/08. In just under 2 weeks I will be undergoing Brachytheraphy treatment for my Prostate Cancer.

So, here is the start of the journey: This first entry to this blog was written exactly 3 months ago on August 21 - reading it now takes me back to the extreme roller coaster ride this journey has been. Much of it is pathetic - a case of me not handling things too well, but to serve my memory in the future I have chosen not to edit any of what follows. Today, I am ready - strong and positive and ready to start my 6 months or so of internal radiation and drug thereapy - and looking forward to nailing this thing by May 2009.

OK, back to August 21, 6 weeks after my initial diagnosis:


It’s a big day, that day, the one when you find out you have cancer.
For me that was about 6 weeks ago. I wasn’t expecting The Other Big Day though.

At that point, the first ‘that day’, we thought it was limited to prostate cancer, caught early, and eminently treatable. After the initial shock, I became very buoyant really. Attack mode, we’re gonna nail this.
Then you have an… err… interesting time, getting naked a lot for doctors and getting probed and peered at and getting lots of stuff thrust into you. Then, about two weeks ago, they ripped 12 parts of the tumours (I have 3) out of me for analysis.

Then comes the next big day. One of my tumours turns out to be of the Particularly Aggressive Type, probably been there for a while and has the tendency to ‘stem’ to other areas.

Next on the agenda, MRI’s, injections of radioactive isotopes, bone scans and a million x-rays and ultrasounds. And the implantation of radioactive seeds may follow.

Then you wait, to find out where it has spread, or if it has spread really. My wait started on Wednesday and I won’t know until 8.40am next Wednesday just what my actual status is. I am trying real hard to be strong but it is fucking hard. It is fucking hard. I was big and ugly and bullet proof and this wasn’t meant to happen to me.
The waiting.
The waiting sucks. Have I? Haven’t I? Will I? Won’t I?


In some ways, unusually, it is a good time for me, I have reflected much and have learned the true value of life, for the first time in my life I think. Ironic huh?

My crew came round last night, along with whanau and friends, and presented me with a haka, a healing pounamu in a kete, a karakia, and the most moving waiata; Man, I had a smile so wide. :-)

Right now, people are thinking I am brave. I’m not actually:
He toa takitini taku toa, ehara i te toa takitahi (My bravery is the bravery of many, not just a single strength).


* * * *
28:08:08

Ok, well that would have to be one of the toughest weeks of my life. Up and down and turned around; all over the place, emotions on spin cycle.

The wait. That was a terrible, terrible wait. I am currently learning Reo, and for some reason through this time I am drawing on te reo very heavily; it just seems to help. It just does. It is in my heart I guess?

But, yesterday at 8.40 am (following six hours of X-rays, scans and MRI) I got the news that the cancer has not spread. Wow, was that ever a load off. Huge sighs of relief and a feeling of elation all day.
It is very strange to feel ‘elation’ when you have just been told you have cancer. But when you are expecting additional cancers, it is really good news, I assure you.
Last night was my first decent sleep for a while.

Sidebar: Have you ever had an MRI? That is quite a ride man, like being trapped in a sub bin at a drum and bass gig! They let you play a CD of your choice while you are in the camber but you can hardly hear it. It was nice though, that the nurses wanted to burn a copy of my MRI mix, they enjoyed it so much.

So anyway, now, I can see my enemy. I know what I’m up against.

And I know I can beat it.

The path ahead is quite clear now, the journey has been revealed.

From here I get another ultrasound and fitted out with radiation ‘seeds’. This is a very successful treatment option and the seeds are actually tailor made for your shape of gland, at a nuclear facility in America. How cool is that?

I will have them inserted in around six weeks (yep, more waiting!) and they will do their thing, zapping the cancer. No major side effects I’m told, probably some pain and catheter action as the waterworks get going again after the operation, but I can handle that. And I’ll probably get some fatigue and flu-like symptoms for a couple of months but I should be able to work ok (no insurance means I need to).

And really, I am expecting recovery 6 months after treatment begins (need to check this out, not entirely sure how long the radiation process takes). I’m sure a few surprises await but I am ready for them.

Here in New Zealand, hundreds of men die each year from this cancer. But they don’t need to; caught early this is probably the most treatable cancer of all. Sadly, the ‘hundreds that die’ are not enough to warrant a campaign. While I accept that more men die with this, than from it, I think it does warrant a media campaign to ensure guys over 35 get an annual check. We see plenty of TV ads promoting breast and cervical screening, so why not promote prostate checks.

There is one big hurdle for men too – most men (including myself a few months ago) think that checking means an internal inspection and that puts them off. Jokes about taking a bottle of chardonnay and a Romance Hits compilation CD to the appointment abound which don’t help. Men just don’t go.

Actually, it doesn’t mean internal inspection of any kind. Initial testing is as simple as a blood test. And It is time men were told that, en masse, via a media campaign. (There is a great idea here too for a telly ad, we could have a lot of fun with this, and why not? Why the fuck not?).

As the book title says, cancer is a word, not a sentence. This is very true for prostate cancer. It’s a blood test. A simple fucking blood test.



01:09:08

The first day of spring. The sun is out. Everyone seems happier. Not sure If I am though.

The waiting is getting to me now. The second specialist who will be working with my surgeon to implant the radiation seeds into my tumours is on holiday in Europe. I can't see him until October 3rd. My surgeon says not to worry, but you cant help it. I want to get on this this asap, before it spreads. Not sure how long it will take to get treatment underway after October 3rd but I think I may have to extend my timeline to overcome this problem.

On the upside, I am still positive about winning this battle. I must not lose the resolve, must not.

I understand that the biggest problem with this is, perhaps, the word 'cancer'. As soon as you hear the word cancer it automatically speaks 'terminal'. We need a new word I think. 'Inconvenience' perhaps?

‘I am suffering an inconvenience’ carries a lot less drama, fewer implications.

I also think I worked out the stages too - a sort of equivalent to the stages of grief. Here is how the stages have applied to me since I got the news I was sick. I have been through five so far; there will be six or seven I imagine.

1. Shock

2: Fear

3. Understanding

4. Acceptance

5. Resolve (Ki te taumata).


08:09:08

Had a nice meeting with my GP – a mate really – who first did the PSA blood test and caught my cancer reasonably early. It has dawned on me that with these aggressive tumours (and no symptoms whatsoever) this could have been missed for another two years or so. Had that been the case, the prognosis would have been very different.

I thanked him, Denis, for saving my life. It was a nice moment. We smiled.

Have decided to stop getting munted so much. I figure that the healthier I am when I go into treatment, the better I will come out of it.



09:09:08

Well, something had to give. Physically shattered now. Hit like a bullet trainlast night. Imagine the flu with no cold. Now multiply those symptoms x shitloads. My email cancer buddies tell me it’s a result of all the emotional stress of the last few weeks – manifesting itself as a physical breakdown but that it’s better this than an emotional breakdown. Pretty depressing though. Need some me time – and some of Mrs Bunny’s Get Well Soup (Tanja’s specialty vege broth.. yum!). God I love that woman. Must remember to tell her more often.
(Aware that this whole thread is a downer - but I want this to be an accurate diary; one that I can somehow put to use to help others at some time in the future.)


12:09:08

Fuck me, at $700 an hour, I wouldn't mind a slightly more caring attitude from my specialist! I sent this email yesterday at a time of need:

Hi, David here. Sorry to be a pest but as
you may have gathered, this process is stressing me just
a little. Mainly the waiting really; I just want to get
on with it!

Just wanted to confirm that I have an appointment with
XXXX on October 3. My understanding is that I need
to have some stuff done after that and then we order the
'seeds' etc. ?

In order to expedite things, should I be making appoints
now for as close to October 3 as possible, with you and
whoever else I need to see - to try and get things
underway asap after October 3?

I guess the delay is concerning me as I fear that it will
increase the chances of the cancer spreading so any
assurances you may be able to give me would be
enormously appreciated. Happy to pay the normal
consultation fee for anything you can say by email that
may help me feel a little more secure. Or maybe I should
come in to discuss the process ahead?

Again, sorry to be a pest but I guess this is affecting a
little more than I would like.

Many thanks, David.




Now, here is his response:


"Thanks David. I realise the wait is stressful, the time frame seems
fine.

Kind regards"





Ha! Well, that sure helped a lot. Sheeesh!

Yeah, right.

18:09:08

Well, I have finally found myself again. Very positive now, I have found the perspective and most of the fear and awful self-pity have left me. Feeling way better - quite happy actually and very confident that this journey will end well. Next appointment is only a couple of weeks away and things should happen quite quickly after that. I am visualising the 'all clear' message before the end of summer and it gives me more resolve.
Saw an interview with Buck Shelford last night, talking about how he beat the dreaded C. He is a top bloke - we need people like him out there spreading the word. His story was great to hear.It made me realise that I have every chance of seeing another World Cup. It's funny really, but when I was in depressive shock mode and believing I was gonna die, I thought.. Damn, I'll never get to see the AB's win another Word Cup! How fucked up was that! :-)
Bring on the nuclear medicine. I am ready to rock.


03:10:08

Wow, I am feeling so good, so positive.

Met the A team today - the gang of 4 who are going to cure me.

Two more 'procedures' in the next couple of weeks.

90 - 100 Brachytherapy (radioactive) seeds will be implanted in December. And some drugs for about 6 weeks (This will be my 'feeling sick time' - unfortunately the drugs do have this as a side effect).

And, all going well (which it will!) I will hear the word 'Remission' in March. And I will start feeling much much better.

And, in May/June I will hear two magic words "All Clear".

So the journey is a little longer than expected - 12 months from wo to go (and $35,000 all up) but I am uberconfident of a good result.

The A Team really put things into perspective today.

They have got me so positive - and that is definitely half the battle won.


03:11:08

Up and down, the rollercoaster ride continues.

Had my volume study last week - a fairly humiliatiing process involving stirrups, where the measure you up for the seeds.

It's weird how the penis goes into protection mode when 3 women and 2 guys are looking at your bits under ultra bright lighting. It behaves like it is a really cold day. Honestly, it looked like an acorn in a birds nest! I don't think any of the nurses will go out with me eh. ;-)

Strangely, this was my biggest concern with this procedure. Possibly due to the fact that I managed to con the aneasthetist into a double hit of the good stuff. Man, I was so out of it. It was nice of him to oblige.


I start the drugs on Thursday 6th - every day for 7 months. I just hope they don't knock me around too much as I need to work through this period.

I will be off all alcohol for 7 months. It will be an interesting time - but for me, not such a bad thing I suspect.

I am as ready as I will ever be.

Let the games begin. :-)



13/11/08
Crashed and burned last night. very emo. i have got to get my shit together and man up.
presented cancer society radio campaign yesterday and lost it while reading the radio ads. fuck, i have to man up.
heading down to farm for 4 days to get my shit together.
all this time everything has been about me.
not once has anyone asked tanja how she is doing. we all forget that she is going through this too.
i can never repay what i owe her.
she is everything i am not, i do not deserve her.
bad day.
things have to change - i have to get my head together, out of this space.
hopefully the farm time will resolve things. i sense that it will.




09/12/08

Everything is different. 96 Radioactive seeds have now been planted and whatever the next 6 months hold, I am now looking forward to a full recovery - cancer free by 04/06/09. Success rate is 85% +, so confidence is high.

The operation went well, I'm told.

Felt great for two days after the op. Crashed on day 3. Came into work today to clear emails and delegate but off home soon to a movie. Right now am in some pain, not too bad really - but feel like I have a heavy flu; a bit depressed. Not sure if it is side effects from drugs, or simply my body reacting to everything. Not concerned, I will ride through whatever is thrown at me - each day is one day closer to a full recovery. This is what I live for now. :-)

Everything is different. Others who have been here, walked in these shoes, will understand I imagine. This journey completely changes your view. Of everything. I wish I had this view 30 years ago. I think I will be a very different person in many ways from here on.

The operation was like being abducted by aliens. Wow, 8 people in theatre. Radiation protection masks, panels and stuff. Probes. Green stuff. It really did resemble one of those alien abduction recreations you see on (American) tv programmes.

They gave me a glass of wine that night.

OK, off home now. To rest.

And mark off one more day. :-)

When I am well again, I need to do my bit:

1. I am fronting a campaign for the Cancer Society helpline - print, direct, radio - all done pro bono.

2. When I am well, I need to change things. It is despicable that the treatment I received is not available on public health. This must change. And I will do everything within my power - one day - to try to change that.



19/12/08.

Just winding up the last couple of projects at work and really looking forward to taking some time out over Christmas.
And, you know what, it ain't so bad. The radiation is doing its thing, and the drugs ain't so bad - I'm kinda used to feeling a bit whacked and light headed from the Hytrin. Tarn and i are staying at home over the break but hopefully will get up to Waimarama for a week in late February. The worldwide economic downturn has taken its toll so not such a bad time to have a relatively inexpensive Christmas/New Year break. It will be nice to chill.

Nothing really seems like a big deal any more. The cancer included. And really watching my intake of alcohol is great (mostly, although I have had a couple of slip ups and really, on these drugs, getting trolleyed ain't such a great idea, it fully nails you).
But - moderation has prevailed - no bars, no late nights as is usual at this time of the year with all the pre-Christmas shenanigans. Hopefully I will retain this attitude after I am well.

I'm happy, and very confident that this treatment will work; the day will come soon enough; the day I hear those magic words.

What a trip this has been. Nothing will be quite the same again. It is difficult to explain really - but I think when you are faced with the concept of mortality, and the emotions you endure when you first hear of the diagnosis - well, it makes you look at life differently. And it makes you value life - yours and the people around you. Different things, non-material things - have taken on a new sense of importance; they have taken priority. I think this will be a lasting re-evaluation of the priorities, I really hope so. I'm just sad that this penny didn't drop 30 years ago. I have spent too much energy disrespecting my body and not enough actually valuing the life that this body holds. Respect is what it comes down to.

Yep, everything has changed.

And every day is one step closer to remission.

This part of the journey, well, it really ain't so bad.

I'm smiling.


21:01:09

It's all become very ordinary. Nothing is as it was. Nothing is 'too big' any more. It's nice.

Forgive the indulgence, but it helps to put it in writing, not sure why but it does.

6 weeks into treatment now and feeling really good emotionally – and getting very used to the up and down nature of the side effects from radiation and meds. Have broken the minimal/no alcohol rule – spectacularly, I might add – a couple of times. No surprise there really.

Anyway, it has been quite a journey, but things are falling into line.
It’s kinda funny really – all the things that happen along the path– and the often strange reactions you have to them. Like the day you get the news:
“Fuck, I’m gonna die! Damn, I’ll never get to see the First XV bring home the Willy Web-Ellis in 2011! (Sad, but true – it was about the second thought I had.)

Then amidst the plethora of info and subsequently being festooned with the full spectrum of emotions you hear something along the lines of: “Oh, and the treatment may cause you to lose your mojo.. and, it may even be permanent."

Fingers – and other things - crossed; let’s hope it ain’t gonna be permanent. (mojo in this case = Mr. Chubby downstairs may never be able to stand up to the task again).

And then the treatment starts and yep folks, the mojo slides away. Nestled up like a little baby in the foetal position in a bird's nest. He stirs no more.

However, in the last couple of weeks, I am excitedly happy to report, I got my mojo back!

Phewwww… Mister Chubby gets to ride again baby!

He’s at least as good as new, like a frisky foal stomping his hooves and waiting for the gate to open; the gate to the Corral of Lerrrrrve.


Sidebar: If you see a bus shelter poster (adshel) of an ugly ol’ munter, holding a longboard on the beach at sunset in an ad promoting the Cancer help line, well, that’s me. My pro bono project for the year.

But now, I can concentrate on my pro boner.

Looking for remission in March and the ‘all clear’ in early June.
The journey is travelling to plan.

I’m coming home.

To stay.

For a while yet.

:-)

11:02:09

Well, after a truckload of tests over the last two weeks, and a couple of weeks earlier than expected, I get some fairly impactful news in a couple of months.
I was thinking about this trek this morning, it is a thing of bits:

The bad bit: Getting the diagnosis, on 08/08/08 (ironically, if you are Chinese). Totally falling apart, thinking the worst, becoming a basket case and unloading it all here. Oh dear. It's been emotional. Reading my blog from back then is quite embarrassing really.

The waiting bit. What an awful week. Waitring to find out the where and what bits; how bad it was.

The good bits. Learning stuff, getting perspective. Understanding that most cancers are treatable/curable. Gaining a wonderful new perspective on life. Donating 25k to the Cancer Society by way of a pro bono campaign.

The really bad bits. A propensity of mine, a few times during the course of treatment, to get really, really wasted. In order to forget/de-stress/and negate the side effects of treatment. (Honestly, the effects of radiation and the meds, are way worse than the actual disease).
But - while it does not reduce the efficacy of the treatment - when you get wasted, sometimes bad things happen, they just do. And they did. Sings *Regrets, I've had a few..*. Oops.

The end of the journey in sight bit. Only 3 months- ish more on the meds. I'm so used to feeling a bit blarraghh.. full time... I've forgotten what it actually feels like to be 'normal'. In 12 weeks though, I will be reminded.

The next bit. Early june. Hoping to hear the magic word: Remission.
And I will.

Thanks to all who have helped me through.
One way or another.
From basket case to treating this thing like a sprained ankle, yep, it's been quite a trip.



28:05:09

Today I heard the magic word.

I cannot ever expain how much weight came off my shoulders when I heard the word remission.

Cancer free. And, at last, I can stop taking those dreadful meds.

Ever laughed and cried at the same time?

It is, truly, the ultimate cocktail of emotions.

Done. It ain't about me any more. It's time to payback the love and support I have had from my wonderful - truly wonderful - family and friends.

Labels: Cancer, prostate

What on earth were we thinking?
Shoulder pads, leg warmers and big hair for women.
And for guys, fringes about 7 kilometres long, ultra narrow trouser cuffs and that bendy-knee-clicking-fingers style of dance thing.
Oh dear.
These things are nice to look back on though.
The 80’s makes an interesting memories and headlines list (in no particular order) these following images just come wanging into my mind without thinking, at this moment in time (11.05pm on 31/07/08, pissed, at the office).

All Black Gary Knight felled by a flour bomb dropped from a small plane,
John Lennon shot by his biggest fan (RIP), FM stereo radio stations arrive,
Cellphones the size of a shoe box, Free Nelson Mandela,
Dallas, Dynasty, Charlie’s Angels, Taxi, McPhail & Gadsby,
Rubik’s cube puzzle completed by whizz kid in just over 59 minutes (honestly, it seemed amazing at the time).
ET phoned home, Political correctness was invented,
The Cold War ends – again,
Michael Jackson looked like an African American,
The Challenger Disaster, Chernobyl, Mir, The Berlin Wall,
A youth and a tank on Tiananmen Square, Barry Crump’s HiLux ads,
Everything was pink and grey; everything, Deep fried camembert, Moet et Chandon for $21 at Clares, Fax machines seemed high tech and the TCP/IP protocol was something to do with a thing called the world-wide-web which would never come to much.
Rob Muldoon asked us to Think Big (NZ very nearly went broke cause of this),
Footrot Flats went to the movies with A Dog’s Tale
Radio with Pictures was the Sunday night must-see,
Bull market, The Black Monday crash, Bear market.

In clubs all over new Zealand - and on radio, everything changed in the 80’s.
After Johnny Rotten et al two-finger ‘saluted’ the West Coast Mellow Rock sound - and Disco - in the late 70’s, the new wave arrived with the new decade. It was a blessing; fuck, I so hated the Eagles and KC and The sunshine Band. Hated big. The Dead Boys' 'I need Lunch' is, for me, the greatest punk song ever. It killed the eagles. It killed that awful sound dead.

The New wave, at the time, it was good; refreshing. Doot Doot. With the Toot Toot. Purrrrfect.
It was bad sometimes, but looking back you don't remember the bad. So mostly, it was good.

Ultravox. Ohhhh Vienna. For me, that is the soundtrack. Ultimately, that was the one. It made me do the bendy knee, finger clicking thing and it made me swish the seven kilometer fringe; dark, angular, hanging and allways in the way. always. All ways.

Oh, Vienna.

Once was new. Once was romantic.

Once were.

Time. It goes by. Crikey, I feel a song coming on, something new, something romantic.

You see, it all cycles. It all. In cycles.

The difference between a 2000’s Emo and an 80’s New Romantic, is fuck all.

Bill Hayley – Jimi even – it’s all new, several times over.

It’s just that most of us are too consumed with bullshit to realise it.

Labels: 80's

7.30am on a Monday:

In about 90 minutes I have to get on a plane and fly to Auckland. Again. Already I am trepid; stricken by my irrational fear of flying.

I was fine with flying. Once.
Until the incident – a wind shear thing (people call it air pockets I think) back in ‘87. We’d just had the sharemarket crash, and this looked like it’d be the next big crash for the year. I was most definitely about to die. On descent into Christchurch from Brisbane in a Jumbo, we dropped straight out of the sky. Not smoothly either, very quickly and very rough. We fell about 1,500 feet in seconds, and it was like being a washing machine on spin cycle when the weight is unbalanced; you know, when it starts wobbling like a drunken Dalek around the laundry. Exterminate, exterminate.
Fuck it was violent. And when we finally ‘crashed’ at the bottom of the shear, the impact was such that there was, in my mind, no way the plane could possibly hold together. That feeling when you know, for sure, you are about to die, is quite confronting.

The screaming and mayhem in the plane is indescribable. Anyone not belted up hit the roof. Lots of broken bones (collar bones got the worst of it for some reason, with people at the rear) and blood too, it was a bit of a dracufest.

And I will never forget the sight of the flight attendant next to me, horizontal, hanging off the duty free trolley a good meter or so off the floor.

The funny moment: The 12 year old kid next to me woke up after we bottomed out, wiped his eyes, looked up at me and said “What’s the time.”

I just wanted to throttle him and scream: “KID, FOR FUCKS SAKE, WE’RE ALL ABOUT TO DIE AND YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT THE FUCKING TIME IS!!! SHEESH, IT’S THE END OF TIME IS WHJAT THE FUCKIN’ TIME IS!!!” His parents looked at me with a kind of ‘shit, we have to die with this asshole’ sort of expression on their faces.


Anyway, we landed. Ambulances (or is it Ambuli?) took the wounded and the airline took anyone who wanted a debrief into a huge room where they explained wind shear, and that this particularly violent example was a chance in a million, and that the plane was never in danger and that wings on a Jumbo can bend around 12 meters and that everything was tickety boo…blah blah blah.

However, I simply could not get on the connector back to Wellington and, that was that - for flying - for me, for a long time.

Air NZ, bless their cotton socks, shouted me some sessions with a fear of flying shrink but while all the rational info made sense, my fear was, is, irrational.

And it was, is, a hassle.

For years, I used to drive 600 k’s to Auckland for meetings. True. It added so much time to work projects it really was a pain, but people understood and gave me that freedom.

To make the solo road trips more interesting I bought a V8 coupe, but that created more problems; man, did I ever get landed with some speeding fines. Thousands of dollars over the years.

But the biggest cost of the phobia was losing international travel for a few years. The one that mattered most was the annual good ol’ boys’ surfing trip to Indonesia.

After a while, a few years, I decided, fuck this, I’m not gonna be beaten. I needed something I could turn to, to get over this. I thought, what have I turned to in the past?

Hmmmm… God?

Nah, fuck it, Drugs.

It was a veritable epiphany. I said Yes (YES!!!!) to drugs and discovered Diazepam.

Problem solved. 40mg’s (used to be 10 but resistance has developed) mixed with a couple of shots. No problem baby, bring on that turbulence, I’m cool. And, the beauty is, I arrive at Auckland client meetings (as I will this morning) nicely stoned; very mellow the D-buzz, and the clients accept it – they understand why, so its all ok.

I don’t use Diazepam recreationally, only for flying. But, it really is quite nice. I get very chatty on it and tend to make new friends with whoever is sitting next to me.
And the flight feels like 15 minutes, not 15 hours.

It also makes you lose your inhibitions a bit, which can be an issue. Mix too much alcohol with the D and you can land up way too out of it and doing stuff that falls into the not-a-good-look’ department.
Setting off the smoke alarm in the little room on a plane is not a good look, they get pretty shitty about that one.

Another time, when I was in the flash section up front, a flight attendant was trying to sort something out on an overhead locker door and she had stood up on the ‘lounge’ seat opposite mine. I was off my tits, looking the other way, gassing to some poor fuck next to me and being very gesticulative. I swung my left arm out, and unfortunately – albeit completely by accident - my arm went between her knees just at the moment she jumped down, which in turn meant my hand ended up right on her pinky bits.

Fuck! This is not good.
And despite my garbled attempt at a multiple, simultaneous explanation/apology, and her not understanding it was an accident, man, did she ever spin out (understandable) and, well, short story, fecal matter hit the fan. It was a very big fan and there was a lot of matter.

An hour later I walk, well, stumble really as you would expect from a drunk on the D, off the plane with lots of people glaring at me and men overtly sheltering their wives and children from me. I was escorted by the first officer and another cockpit dude – and as my wife walks towards me in the concourse to the luggage pick up thingy, to welcome me home, I’m immediately grabbed by a Detective and a cop in uniform and whisked away to an interview room.

I gave my wife a sort of ‘Diazepamed out, it’ll be ok, there has been a misunderstanding, is all’ look. She gave me another sort of look, I got the old raised eyebrow, which is something to be feared in my house.


It took nearly two hours to make the cops understand. They actually called my Doctor, who saved me actually. (Thanks Dennis).
I had to apologise to the attendant, and promise never to take Diazepam and alcohol on a flight again. No charges, no further actions. Whew!


But of course I do still take the D.

It’s the only way I can fly.

40mgs will go down the hatch as I walk through security in about an hour from now and it’ll kick in just before take off. Then I’ll talk the ears off the poor soul next to me. And suddenly, we’ll land. No problem.


So really, drugs are good, as long as you abuse them, don’t use them – if you get my drift?


If our paths ever pass on the same flight, you’ll know me.

I’ll be the very mellow old dude who talks a lot. Hopefully I won’t make a lunge for your vagina. Or penis.

Labels: fear of flying

Dealing with Japanese business people is very different than dealing with, say, MBA grads. The former like to weave a wiggly path to the core of the issue in hand; the kaupapa. It takes hours. And it is very polite. In a way, you kinda feed them bits of your ideas and then they, eventually, ‘have’ those ideas thus earning mana.

The MBA’s however, give you 10 minutes to cut to the chase- the core- and then say yes or no. Very efficient. Not a lot of politeness. This is the way of things.

Now, I’ll come back to this. I was cabbing into work today waiting for the Tramadol to kick in listening to some oik on the radio banging on about how Wellington should promote itself on its ‘glorious natural coastline’ not the cafés and culture platform.

Say what!! Our glorious coastline.?

Err.. can someone show me this please. The only near-glorious bit is a man-made breakwater extension that created an airport but also a reasonable, peeling, peaky left hander that goes off in a decent swell with an offshore northerly. But, it only works about 30 days a year and gets so crowded you’re pretty much guaranteed to land up in a beach fight with a bunch of grommets who resent the fact that you dare to surf still when you're more than 4 weeks old.

Nah, not the coast - the key is Wellngton is the fact that it is small. Very small.
Small is good – except for Mr Chubby downstairs on a cold day and the fact that everyone in town knows who you fucked last night and what you banged up your nose on Saturday. Yep, apart from that, small is a positive thing.
For Wellington, small means an easy escape.
In fact, from downtown you can travel from the the Courtenay clubs, cafes and culture community into the heart of the country inside 20 minutes. A quick drive and you’re clanging over cattle stops and stopping for massive flocks of sheep on gravel roads.

Now, sheep ain’t that important to us, except for our export industry and those who choose ‘em as their girlfriends of choice. But the Japanese love sheep. We had a delegation out for a week – from a car company – and I had to entertain two Japanese Businessmen for a day – take ‘em for a tour of the sights and then home for a true blue Kiwi feed; some good tucker off the Weber.

They didn’t say much as I took them to all the usual touristy sights and and stuff. They pretty much grunted like sloths on valium until they spotted a rugby ball in the back of my SUV and asked if I was once an All Black.
(What a segue, huh?)

“Yep, could’ve been but I wanted to avoid the media attention so I opted out mate, did madvertising instead”.

And then I drove them to Makara. Home of Sheep, 20 minutes away from the Mount Victoria Lookout.. Suddenly the Japanese Businessmen became very vocal, very animated, very excited.

They pointed a lot, shouting…”Ahhhhh … Sheeep!”

At last, they were happy.

“Ahhhh..,Sheep!” (More poimting)

Over and over. And, over.

"Ahhhh..., Sheep!"

Actually, moving back a para or two, the All Black thing was quite funny really; I’m suddenly teminded of the time I was playing beach soccer with a bunch of locals at a place called Telok Chempadak and one of them spotted my tattoos and asked the same question – “Was I an All, Black?”.

And I said, “yeah, right.”

Which they took to mean ‘Yeah. Right’.

Suddenly I am festooned with Malay boys wanting autographs and yelling and screaming – and, err.. touching me a lot… and nothing I said could convince them that I was joking and was not an All Black. Over the next few days I scored heaps of free drinks and some fantastic sex from two very hot, bi-curious German chicks at the hotel as the legend grew. And grew. man, I was an All Black!

But, I digress, back to to the point.

Sheep matter to our most valuable tourist market. So we should work that baby.

Can you see the campaign - billboards from Tokyo to Osaka: “Wellington. 20 minutes from sheep’.

Man, how cool is that? That’ll go down in the annals for sure. Or, for people who live in Iowa, the anals.

Anyway, the Japanese are different and we need to recognise this. '20 Minutes From Sheep' could be the greatest ad slogan of all time!

Anyway, after my day with the delegates, they wrote to me about every two weeks. Quaint eh? letters, not email. Their letters always ended with the same line – and, this is weird: “.. and Mr David, you must come over to Tokyo soon. I hope your good wife is very well. When you come to Tokyo we will meet you with some nice girls…”
Say what, immediately after asking after the wife, they wanna get me laid by some locals!!!!


And then the PS would always ask after the sheep. The fucking sheep. What is it about sheep and japanese business people ffs!!!?? I still don't fully get it.

It’s not a sexual thing, but man, there sure is an attraction.

Aussies of course have a thing about Kiwis and Sheep, but that’s a little different.

I remember about a year ago my accent (eccent) being sprung in a Sydney restaurant by a bunch of drunken Ozzies at the next table.

One of them sneered at me and said – ‘Gahhh.. ya bloddy sheep shagger..”

So I got up, walked over and put my hand, gently, on his shoulder. The table went very quiet.

“Yes, my friend, I am a sheep shagger – and proud of it. Now, here’s something you may not know about us – but when every New Zealand boy turns 15, the Government gives him a sheep. And mayyyyttte, we shag ‘em, all that teenage testosterone, man we shag ‘em day and night, for months.

(pause for effect).

Then we export them.

(pause for effect)

To Australia.

So, I hope you are enjoying that grilled chop right now. Nice innit?

Say, dude, ain't that some mayonnaise dripping out of your mouth, here, use my napkin.

Cheers.”


I copped a black eye and a loose tooth. But, you shouldda seen the other guy.

Labels: All Black, Japan, MBA, New Zealand, Sheep

They are spreading like wildfire through 'burbs like Khandallah in Welly. Probably Remmers too.
30-somethings, who look at you down their aqualine noses, disapprovingly, with mouths that resemble cat's bottoms - because your Softail Heritage or '79 SLC Merc Coupe is too loud. Or your piercings and tattoos are somehow offensive. Or your 2 German Shepherds should not sniff the bums of their toy dogs.

Or whatever. Cat's Bottom Mouths. It's their look. They are the New Right.
You know the ones - they hold hands while wheeling $22,000 4WD prams down the street and complain about everything - always 30-somethings - always with Cat's Bottom Mouths.

They wear beige baggy shorts, matching. And stupid just-off-white tops and stupid brown sandals and their kids are perfect. Anyone elses kids, well they just look at them with Cat's Bottom Mouths.


And they call noise control on road workers at 10.30 am, they join committees and boards of trustees and moan to the council about new marinas. Always, with Cat's Bottom Mouths.

And they write to the Letters to the Editor in the local rag - moaning about the most tedious things, like the height of supermarket trolleys, or how fishing is cruel, and in their words you can almost see.. you guessed - their Cat's Bottom Mouths.

And what's more, they are useless at sex. They do it all sort of clean and tidily, no raunch. And when she sees the map of India on her high thread count sheets in the morning - she turns away disdainfully, bundling up the bedding with extra-extended arms and above-the elbow rubber gloves, sporting a big Cat's Bottom Mouth. I did one last week - what a fucking bore. I may as well have been fucking a tree tomato. Or a dead fish. (She was a fisherman's daughter and she gave me Plaice for my Cod).
And she didn't even use her Cat's Bottom Mouth for the one good thing it could have been used for.

Nah, fuck it, 20-somethings from now on. Or 40-somethings. Fit 40-somethings are great. They get it.

So right now, it is time to stop the proliferation. It is up to you (dwindling numbered) 30-somethings who are cool - without Cat's Bottom Mouths - to set an example for the other 30-somethings - we need you to bring 'em back into line.

Otherwise I reckon we'll need a sort of Logan's Run thing. The day anyone turns 30, they get put to sleep, induced coma for 10 years. Then wake 'em up again at 40.
So we can live life without the sheer misery of Cat's Bottom Mouths.

The 80’s. I was living in Brisbane for a year and it was a bit of an eye opener for me on the race relations front. Having grown up in New Zealand in an area where about half the people I hung out with were Maori, it really hit me just how racist many (not all) Australians were.. err, are. The two worlds were just so separate and I wasn’t used to that.
It also hit me just how much more advanced New Zealand is in terms of acknowledging indigenous culture. Sure, we have a long way to go – but Australia has much further. Much.

Anyway, I grew up knowing all my Maori mates were different – of course they looked different and they did draw on different ways of looking at things. Yep, we were different, but equal. These days I have the benefit of knowing so much more about what is a very rich culture. But even when my knowledge was minimal, I never thought of us as anything but equal. This was not the case in Australia.

Back to the 80’s. Labour day, a day off – so I trundle down to the famous Breakfast Creek hotel for a few cold ones. There is a bunch of us, and some of the locals were getting fairly shickered. All this time, there is an Aboriginal chap, sitting alone at the bar, enjoying a quiet drink. But as some of the (white) Aussies got drunk, they started hurling awful, racist taunts at this chap. Even the barman joins in. It was despicable. The guy at the bar ignored them. He just sat there with his drink and did not react in any way.

I tell you, coming from where I do, I was disgusted. So disgusted I immediately dis-associated myself from the white boys and went and joined the Aboriginal man at the bar. “Hi, my name’s David, Mind if I join you.” He did not mind. But he did have some concern about the reaction it might provoke and he was right. Boy, did we ever cop some abuse from those Aussies after that – and it was only the actions of a couple of decent people in the bar that stopped us both, I suspect, getting more than just the verbals. When they started calling me N_ _ _ _ _ _ lover, you could feel the seething hatred behind the voices.

Anyway, they let it go eventually and I spent a wonderful few hours with my new friend learning all manner of things about his people, their problems, their way. He called me ‘friend of the black fulla’ after my stories about my Maori mates back home. And, I called him Dog’s Nose – after his drink of choice (A Dog’s Nose is a beer with a shot of gin mixed in it).

We became good mates in a short time. Unfortunately, in an equally short time, we both became extremely intoxicated (Dog’s Noses are lethal. Beware.) Anyway, we were both asked to leave the pub (rightfully so too) and me and Dog’s Nose parted company with an A frame and a handshake. Down to my last $10 by now, I jumped into a cab and said “3 Hunter Street, Greenslopes or ten bucks, whichever comes first.” And as the tenner only got me about half way, the cabbie let me out in the middle of suburbia with a good 30 minute walk ahead of me. Phfft. It was around 4pm. Broad daylight.

Next thing I wake up as I am being lifted into an ambulance. It seems I had taken a seat then fallen asleep, sprawlled out right there on a grass verge outside someone’s house. Someone obviously thought I was dying or something and called the ambulance. I tried to explain to the Ambos that there was no problem, I was just pissed on Dog’s Noses and would be fine to walk. But they were adamant there was more to this than booze and insisted on taking me to Brisbane hospital. Here they put me in a room, and told me to wait for someone to come and see me. Foolishly, they had put me in a room with many temptations and being young and stupid, I loaded up my pockets – a fact that was fairly obvious when the doctor came into the room. My jacket was bulging. Split second decision – run David, run. This turned into a hilarious chase through the corridors until I saw the exit which transpired to be a wide loading bay at the end of the corridor. To assist, I jumped on a bed with wheels and rode it prone at quite high speed, ultimately flying off the ledge of the loading bay, which was quite a bit higher than I had imagined. It was one hell of a prang and the bed and I came off second best. Now security guys had me bundled up and within minutes the cops arrive.

Now, a word to the wise, never… never be a smartarse with a Queensland Cop. They were/are nothing like our comparatively reasonable New Zealand cops. These guys had a culture of bullying and brutality; one of them just so enjoyed forcing my arm up my back to the point of breaking – and they dished out a pretty severe physical introduction – scary and painful. And for good measure – because I had been a total smartarse, they threw me into the special drunk trank that was segregated for Aboriginals only. And because Aboriginbals are treated so badly by so many white Australians, they pretty much hate ‘em. So, me being put into their drunk tank was pretty much a guarantee that I would get the bash. The cops had it all worked out – a nice plan to ensure I would get beaten up.

There were about a dozen of us in the cell, and immediately a bunch of them had me circled and the pushing and shoving began, the foreplay to violence. This was really scary and I knew I was in deep shit. Really deep. I took the first few hits but there was no way I could defend against so many, and I went down quite quickly. A couple of boots went in then as I shielded my balls and my head, foetal position, awaiting the worst.

Then the big metal swung open – clang - a moment’s respite.

And who should get thrown into the cell?

Dog’s Nose! You bewdy mate!

He saw me; saw what was happening. And then he saved my life.

Really quickly, he showed them my tattoo’s, proving I was not Australian and he explained to them all that I was a “Friend of the black fulla” and that he had spent the day with me, that I backed him up when the guys had racially abused him at the pub – and that I had bought him more than a couple of his favoured drinks.

Recognition set in, apologies made – and I spent a really cool night with a bunch of Aboriginals, learning all sorts of stuff and telling them everything I knew about our indigenous culture in New Zealand.

The cops got a real surprise – and were quite pissed off I think, when they let us out in the morning and we all hugged and said our farewells as the ‘best of mates’.

People, like Peter Garret (Midnight Oil) made some significant moves to reduce the racial divide in the 80’s, and the climate has changed in some ways in Australia over the years since. But Australia has a long long way to go if they seriously want to address the need for recognition of their indigenous culture and to redress some long problems. Just like ours, theirs is a culture that has much to offer.
All it really takes is some effort to learn about it, and then to respect it. If you can achieve that first step, then over time all of the associated issues will be seen to.
It is really complicated for sure. But that is no excuse not to take the first step. And that first step is nothing more than a mindset.

Jokes can be lethal.

I washed some prawns down last night with a few pino gris' and got chatting about all manner of stuff with a few old pals, and Sam asked me if I have ever killed anyone. It reminded of this night that happend a few years ago, when, in fact, I did kill somebody.

I had been asked by a Lower Hutt Business group to come and speak for an hour about advertising, branding and stuff - really to motivate them to spend some bucks on behalf of a media client of mine. It was a pitch in disguise really. Shallow stuff.

Anyway, to break the presentation midway, I told the mandatory joke - I had decided on the Statten Island Ferry Stowaway joke, which is a long yarn really, that builds to a classic punch line.

Anyway, I'm into it and delivering it pretty well (by my low standrads) and this guy, about 50 something, in the front row, starts chuckling about a minute before the punch line. I figure he has already heard this joke and knows what's coming - but that was cool as his chuckling became quite infectious, which was great.

But then his laughing turned into more of a groan, and I'm thinking - great, this guy is loving it; I'm working the crowd here!

Then he sort of tried to get up and groaned really loudly and then fell on the floor in a heap.

Mmmm. Heart attack. Bugger. I hadn't even finished the joke.

There is a flurry of concerned activity and general shock pervading the room now and the Ambo's got there inside 10 minjutes.

By this time, sadly, the chap was dead.

After they took the body away, I got back up and announced that it would be imprudent to continue the presentation and people either drifted away or joined small groups for a drink and quiet chat. Some were definitely in shock.

But - get this - at least 5 people quietly approached me and asked me to finish the joke.

Which I did. But of course, it wasn't funny any more. One of the greatest jokes in history killed a guy.

It was sad, but there is a funny side to it I guess. And it's always a good story to draw on, when somebody, out of the blue, asks me if I have ever killed anyone.

Ok first up, I once had this little lump thing on the inside of my right thumb, about the size of a match head; had been there for ages, never thought anything of it.

Secondly, I'm in a part time band, we play retro, a lot of Pink Floyd, early Zep and stuff - for fun, not money. Fundraisers usually, for PTA's.

Anyway, the family of a friend of a friend asked us to play Stairway to Heaven at a memorial service for a young guy who had died overseas. Stairway is a pain really - as it is such an overplayed song, plus if you don't do it note perfect, you look like a dick. Anyway, me and the other guitarist opted to do a 2 guitar semi accoustic arrangement, with Michelle the keyboardist doing flute and angel choir chords on the keys. We also used a trained female opera singer to do the vocals. It was a cool arangement and very in keeping with the church setting - we also all dressed in white tops and black bottoms for a bit of a look.

So, it comes off really well - and about 3 minutes in - I can see looks of awe and surprise, not just from the pews but also from the other players and I figure, crikey we are nailing this, really really well, this crowd is blown away - and on we go until I look down at my fretboard to set my fingers up up for the guitar solo. And that's when I saw it.

Blood.

Heaps and heaps of blood - still splattering all over my guitar and all over my white shirt. It looked like a massacre!

(Yep, when my bottom g string severed that little lump off - man, did it ever bleed).

Had no option but to play on and get to the end and the blood still flowed - but the atmosphere was a bit... awkward. At the end I decided a few words would be prudent, just to ensure everyone knew it wasn't a bad taste gimmick and then this lovely old woman about 60 came up with a hanky and took me to the bathroom out the back. So it was cool in the end, kind of, with a bit of strained laughter about how the deceased would appreciate it blah blah. And at the drinks later it did become a good conversation starter. From memory, I think I may have scored with some Goth chicky who had a thing for blood.

But yes, spraying blood in a church did have a certain satanic flavour to it for sure!

Labels: stairway to heaven

It would be impossible to live a life without any regrets. But boy, did I ever blow it back in the day. I had the Best Job In The World, and I blew it. I was living in Australia at the time and landed a job hosting a weekly 90 minute radio feature which was syndicated to music stations throughout Oz. Every week a producer arranged for me to host a lunch with a mega-star; not just musicians/bands but movie stars, sporting legends etc - whoever happended to be in town that week. Usually I just got a table at the Parkroyal, did lunch, drank wine and kept a microphone/nagra running to record the entire conversation. Other times, like with John Mayall, he just wanted to drink vodka in a dark hotel room and chat all afternnon, which was cool. Then I'd just go to a studio, edit the conversation and break it up with appropriate music selections. What a break for a young guy huh? Hang out with famous people and throw together 90 minutes' of radio and that was it. It didn't pay excessively, but I did get to contra some of the commercial time - which meant I didn't have to pay for anything - car, restaurants, clubs, clothes, blah blah, you name it, all free. So anyway, I'm about 6 months into this gig, and being inquisitive by nature, I got seduced by the trappings. Long story short - addiction. Bang, it just sort of crept up and landed me in a clinic for a very different lunch: cold turkey. And, obviously, it cost me that job - the Best Job In The World. As they say, if it doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger. But every now and then it haunts me - what a complete fool I was to destroy such a stunning opportunity.
I sometimes wonder where it might have taken me had I not succumbed. As it happens the next journey turned out pretty good, so maybe, just maybe, things are just meant to be, is all. And I still have some fine memories from meeting some very cool R&F people along the way. And if it hadn't happened I would never have met the wonderful woman who became the centre of my life and mother to our two wonderful children.

:-)

It was an expression we used to use to describe our (male) teenage years; to validate stupid choices we made back in the day. Once or twice, our stupidity almost cost us our lives. Or led us into temptations that really, should have been ignored.

One of these for me was in Kuantan, an unusual little Malaysian town that sits a little off the beaten track, midway up the peninsula, east-ish. It's the kind of place they sell crushed birds' heads on the street as aphrodisiacs.

Anyway, I was about 18 and travelling by road up through Malaysia with a lesbian couple, who had been ‘mothering’ me somewhat as we jaunted up through Johor Baru, stopping off at wonderful obscure places – including the delightful Pulau Rawa, enjoying the company of my lesbos and various adventures along the way. We stopped for a night in Kuantan – the plan was to head off to Telok Chempadak next day to go see the giant turtles.

I needed a break from the girls and ventured out solo. I arrived at a particularly dodgy bar, the only caucasian in sight was me, and took a stool at a large high table and settled into a cold one alone. Watching. Looking for possibilities.

Soon enough, a Malaysian with a beard and smoking a pipe (both really unusual in this part of the world) joined me for a chat. Nice guy. Transpired he was the SE Asian Rep for Guiness Stout and he immediately got me onto his favoured inebriant: Half a pint of Guiness with a shot of dark rum thrown in it. This concoction tends to get you very shickered in a short time and soon enough I was. I ended up having a few more guests at the table – a mix of Malay, Chinese and one Japanese dude who was a pilot I think – we were all drinking Guiness Rums and all having a great time getting shitfaced, talking rubbish.

A covers band was playing, not a great band and I made a passing comment that the guitarist wasn’t up for it – and that I was qualified to say so as I had a pretty good handle on guitar. Dumb. Really dumb thing to say for a couple of minutes later I heard the announcement on the P.A – ‘Now, please welcome, all way from New Zealand, to pray guitar with band, put your hand aparts for Mister David’.


So, off my face, I’m now up on stage, strapping on a copy Strat and trying to find a song the band – and I – knew. Hard when nobody really speaks English too well. Short story – I’ll tell you what sounds bad, really really bad: It’s when some drunken white boy is playing ‘Black Magic Woman’ when the rest of the band is playing ‘Evil Ways’. Same artist (Santana), different songs. While it was a disaster, the crowd were fairly forgiving and when I got back to the table it was like I was a rock star. I start changing the subject from (lack of) guitar playing ability but just then, the band stops cold. The whole bar goes real quiet. I look over to the door, and 3 gangsters are standing there, looking menacing, scanning the bar like they are looking for someone. I think they'd been there for a few minutes but for some reason they had signalled the band to shut up. I'll never really know why it suddenly got heavy but maybe they were gonna shake some poor dude down or something?

My Guiness guy whispers to me “Be cool – that’s Club 47. Don’t stare and we'll be fine” (Back in the day, the various Chinese Malay ‘mafia’ groups all had numbers for gang names, all preceded by 'Club' - Club 108, Club 63 etc etc. This was Club 47 and they seemed to command a lot a fear among the patrons. Something was going down and it didn't feel good.

To this day, I have no idea why I did it. What the fuck went through my head just before I decided to shout out – really loud ‘Club Farkin 40 farkin 7 are fucking wankers!’
'Wankers - yeah you!' I added for good measure. Followed by a big drag on my ciggy.


Why!! Why would I do this? Y,D and full of C!

Idiot.

Anyway, I realised I was now in deep shit. All my ‘friends’ left my table very quickly and departed by the rear door. The head gangster, whose eyes were fixed on me, stopped his goons from tailing them. So, I’m the focus I guess, and I figured I’d better take this head on, deciding to make them think that I was mentally deranged in the hope that this strategy might save my ass. At that moment, I noticed the butt of a pistol being purposely revealed under his jacket. OK, so I am going to die now, In Kuantan. This is suddenly a very bad night. A bad bad situation.

Bolstered by booze though, I swung my legs off my stool, and prepared to approach them.

What I did not realise is that when I shouted out my abuse, a guy walking past me had dumped a crate of Coca Cola on the floor, right next to my stool, and high tailed it. I stepped straight into the crate and the bottles’ caps jammed over the sole of my Doc Martin. So, imagine this, as I swagger up to the gangsters, I’m walking real lopsided and awkwardly with 2 dozen small coke bottles stuck on my right foot. Step, swing, THUMP... step, swing THUMP. Etc.

But hang on, I think to myself...this is good, it could help convince them that I am mad. I think I peed my pants, which would have helped further. Should’ve foamed at the mouth as well really.

Anyway, so I walk up to the goons and confront the main man face to face. I put up my hand and bent down to finally get the crate off my foot, then stand again. At this stage he is holding back the goons, mildly bemused I think.

He says: “So, you think you tough guy”

Me (pissed and shitting myself): Yep, I arrrrmmmm very very tough Mister 47 guy, (hic) very very tough indeed la”

He: How tough you mister guitar man? (Smirking)

Me: This tough.

Now I look around and I do the only thing left in my power – I stub out the cigarette I’m holding, on my forehead. Really rub it in too. Normally it would have hurt but the adrenaline killed any pain.

This bought me about 2 seconds and in that 2 seconds, I espy, through the door in the street behind these dudes, a baby blue Mercedes saloon, waiting. And I just know it is Mr Guiness cause he spent half the night telling me about his bloody car.

So, I say “Now, excuse me I need to put my coke crate back on. One minute please, Mister 47.”

He is still bemused I guess - and not quite ready to execute me.

And as I bend down as if to 'put the coke crate on' I sort of lunge between their legs and roll onto the street and somehow get back on my feet and hightail it to the Merc. They’ve seen me coming, open the back door and I dive in the back to the sounds of a gunshot and a bullet embedding itself in the wall alongside the car – A warning shot I think? But fuck me, despite that, I have never, ever been that shit scared again in all of my life.

The car screams off, with half of me still hanging out of it - and boy, did Mr Guiness and his two mates ever give me a bollocking. We scream off in the general direction of Telok Chempadak but take some near-hidden side roads and end up 45 minutes later in a kampong in some swamplands in the middle of Malaysian nowhere.

Long story – transpires it’s a bona fide opium den and this was to be the beginning of a love affair with opiates (in all forms) that would, in a few years, drop me on my ass big time (but that’s another story).

While I am vehemently anti drugs these days, please remember I was young and dumb and full of it.

Anyway, it is a powerful thing the old opium. It doesn’t look like fun cause you can’t fuckin’ move really – you just lie or slouch there saying fuck all, kind of dreaming (but you are awake, just) and you get this really nice warm prickly feeling all over your body – especially under the nose and around the neck and shoulders - and it just feels so goddam nice. Any worries you had are, for the time being, non-existent. I guess that’s why Mr Guiness took me there? This shit is really very euphoric (at first). It would be the warmest most ‘flowy’ drug in existence.

Some time later I wake up. It’s about noon. I am relatively straight again and recall some of the events of the previous night.
Now I need a pee and I find this ‘sort of bathroom’ thing outside the kampong. When I look in the mirror I freak. I kid you not, there is a blister the size of a golfball on my forehead man! I lean forward and gingerly, gently touch the blister and it just explodes – splooshhy stuff – all over the mirror. Yuk.

Upshot?
Mr Guiness is pretty pissed off – as he can never go back to Kuantan he reckons. And he’ll need a new car – but he does make arrangements to get me to Telok Chempadak – that day - and also to get someone to go to my hotel and tell the lesbos to bring my gear and stuff. He was a pretty good man really. He did save my life and that counts for something in my book.

I still have the scar on my forehead.


Yep, it can be a dangerous thing for sure – being young, dumb and full of cumb.

This is a verbatim extract from a newlywed women's sex education manual published in the UK in the late 50's:

When retiring to the bedroom prepare yourself for bed as promptly as possible.

Whilst feminine hygiene is of the utmost importance your tired husband does not want to queue for the bathroom as he would have to for his train.

But remember to look your best when going to bed. Try to achieve a look that is welcoming without being obvious.

If you need to apply face cream or hair rollers, wait until he is asleep as this can be shocking to a man last thing at night.

When it comes to the possibility of intimate relations it is important to remember your marriage vows and in particular your commitment to obey him.

If he feels that he needs, instead, to sleep immediately so be it.

In all things be led by your husband’s wishes do not pressure him in any way to stimulate intimacy.

Should your husband suggest congress then agree humbly all the while being mindful that a man’s satisfaction is more important than a woman’s.

When he reaches his moment of fulfilment a small, audible sound of pleasure from yourself is encouraging and quite sufficient to indicate any enjoyment that you may have had.

Should your husband suggest any of the more unusual practices, be obedient and uncomplaining but register any reluctance by remaining silent.

It is likely that your husband will then fall promptly asleep so adjust your clothing, freshen up and apply your night time face and hair care products.

You may then set the alarm so that you can arise shortly before him in the morning. This will enable you to have his morning cup of tea ready when he awakes.

This, from 'The paperweight wars' :

Right now, Simon Garry was angry with himself.
Angry, because he'd allowed himself to fall .
Hungover. Remorseful. Suffering the pcbb’s (post cocaine binge blues) - about as low as it ever gets.
He collapsed back into his bed and took a long, hard look at his life; how he had so much opportunity yet had squandered so much creative energy on hedonistic indulgences.
He thought about his ex-wife Julie and their two little boys, Samuel and James, who were probably, right now, throwing a football around the yard of the home Simon had set them up in, in Walnut Creek.
Simon needed to see them. Soon.
He thought about his own childhood, his time with the 'Angels, his time wasted on hard drugs and his fortuitous escape to the good life.
He thought about his parents; a father who had been blinded in a freak accident then died from an alcohol-related physical breakdown when Simon was fourteen years old. And his mother who had somehow survived all the stresses only to be killed, murdered in a convenience store shoot out. This day had been the worst Simon had ever known. It took three years, until he was 24, for him to come to terms with what was such an unnecessary death; an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire of evil.
He had come to terms with the anger, but he still felt some guilt about the anguish he had caused this woman as she fought to guide him through his teens.
He thought about his God, the power inside that he failed to understand but had faith in all the same.
He thought about the story he'd heard many years before at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, about a man who had questioned his own God: "Back then , when I was so low, I walked the beach. I looked back but there was only one set of footprints in the sand. Where were you when I needed you so badly?"
"Yes, there was only one set of footprints in the sand" came the reply, "because I was carrying you".
He thought about himself. From the outside he had the life and the opportunity that a lot of people dreamed of. Yet, he had nothing.
He thought.
He cried.
Eventually, he drifted into a sleep that, for a moment, he wished was death.



Simon woke again at around ten pm.
He was still feeling jaded, but feeling a lot better than he had earlier; tears are sometimes a good cleanser.
After another shower he walked to his safe and carefully wound in the combination. From a white cardboard box he lifted a small, glass ampoule and an unopened, disposable hypodermic syringe.
He snapped the top off the ampoule, its no-nonsense label proclaiming the contents: 'Morphine Sulphate.' With the precision of a medic, he drew the liquid up into the syringe, then held it upside down to expel the air bubbles. The needle entered the vein, blood flowing back into the 10CC syringe. He released the pressure of the belt around his arm and gently worked the plunger home. Within 2 seconds, the rush - the warm, prickly glow that only a junkie knows - coursed his body and settled knowingly in his brain ready to write the scripts for opiate dreams.

Test cricket can be a long five days, and can often end in a draw or washed out by a couple of days’ rain, but I love it. For within those five days, a few extraordinary things will happen; they just do. That is why I can watch for hours, knowing that sooner or later, I will witness something special.

Over the years, test cricket has provided many great stories. Many are, obviously, based on prowess but others go beyond this – not just the hilarious moments, but the sad or emotional ones too. Chats, the Naenae Express, comes to mind. If they witnessed it, who could forget Lillie’s nine slips to Chatfield on the final ball of the game. Chats, amusingly, french cut for four (he never saw the ball it just found his inside edge!) to draw the game and the pitch was filled, not with annoyance or relief, but with laughter. At the other end of the spectrum, still back in the days before helmets, Chats again - that awful 5 minutes when he took a bouncer to the head with a sickening thud, was felled and clinically dead before his swallowed tongue was retrieved and he was finally resuscitated. This was a terrible wait, those five minutes, just terrible.

But in my opinion, the following is the most poignant moment in New Zealand cricket history, on 26 December 1953, just two days after the Tangiwai rail disaster. At the time, the New Zealand team was touring South Africa. The second test, at Ellis Park, Johannesburg, started on 24 December and recommenced, after a day off for Christmas, on Boxing Day. By the time play resumed, reports of the Tangiwai tragedy — at the time the world’s eighth-deadliest rail disaster — had flashed around the world. The news was especially devastating for one of the New Zealand players, fast bowler Bob Blair, who learned that his fiancée, Nerissa Love, was among the 151 victims.

As New Zealand began its first innings on the morning of the 26th, chasing South Africa’s 271, a distraught Blair remained at the team hotel. There was no way he could play, and the team was reduced to 10 players. On a terrible pitch full of pits, the ball was seaming out of control - to a extremely dangerous and almost unplayable degree. Much blood was spilled by the NZ batting lineup (no helmets back then). Bert Sutcliffe and Lawrie Miller (who was vomiting blood onto the pitch after a hit to the chest) were both forced to retire hurt after being hit by bouncers from the fiery fast bowler Neil Adcock; John Reid was struck five times before being dismissed for three. With the visitors reduced to 81 for six, Sutcliffe returned to the crease, his head swathed in bandages. He had been heavily concussed and for the first dozen deliveries was seeing 3 balls. He chose to weild his bat at the 'middle ball' which proved, in most cases, to be the real one! This was a true hero's innings. When the ninth wicket fell at 154, however, all of the players began to leave the field. Suddenly, the crowd stood in silence - there was a deathly hush as if to signal the unbelievable - as the lone figure of Bob Blair emerged from the tunnel, head bowed. After hearing of his team's woes on the hotel room radio, Blair had decided to rush to the ground to front up for the 10th wicket. As he walked out, he was greeted by by the bloody-bandaged Sutcliffe, who placed a comforting arm around his shoulder and many an eye in the crowd was 'observed to be moist'. They, the locals, were all aware of Blair's loss and all the flags at the ground were flying at half mast as a sign of respect. What followed now was sensational, as the pair smashed 25 runs (including four sixes — three by Sutcliffe and one by Blair) off a single over from South Africa’s Hugh Tayfield who was acknowledged to be the world's finest spinner at that time. By the time Blair was dismissed, the team total had climbed to 187, with Sutcliffe 80 not out.

A superb bowling effort then restricted South Africa to just 148, leaving the New Zealanders chasing 233 for an historic first test win. Sadly, it was not to be.
The South African press however, hailed the Kiwis’ ‘dauntless spirit’ and declared that ‘All the glory was for the vanquished’: ‘Memories of the match will not be of the runs made or of wickets taken, but of the courage displayed.’

It’s just one of those stories where, while you are reading it, you half expect to hear Jupiter, by Gustav Holst, welling up in the background. God, I’d love to make a movie about that day, that single day that held so much humanity in its hands.

When I was 14 years old, my dad had a coughing fit. During this fit, both retinas in both eyes detached and he went from 20/20 vision to being blind. Just like that.

We learned later that he had suffered a degenerative retinal syndrome which weakens the retinal attachments - but it had no warning symptoms and he never knew he had it. If he were alive today, it would have been picked up and he would never have gone blind.

It had an enormous impact on our family, obviously. He went from a great managerial job - which he loved, to screwing nuts on bolts in a factory, by touch, seated in his cold, dark world, 8 hours a day, year after year. Bolt after bolt.

One day I went into his little factory space and he was in complete darkness. He didn't know, but in the faintest light I quietly watched him for a minute or two. I just burst into tears it was so fucking sad. He hugged me and said I had everything going for me, and that now was the time to "go get the world." Until then, I had been a bit of a misfit, not doing much at all.

He would have given anything - both legs and one arm I reckon, to be able to get back into a decent career. But he couldn't.

That whole episode and quandary really made me change my view on a lot of things, in particular people who have talent, but for some weird reason, don't seem to want to apply that talent. A wonderful world is waiting for them, but they just do not want to jump into it. Until then, I had been one of them.

That 'moment' gave me a much-needed kick in the ass and at 18 I started working really really hard often pulling double shifts as an Oz Radio DJ, and working weekends whenever I could. 10 years later I owned a house.

I often think that - maybe?- if it hadn't been for my Dad, I might be stuck in a factory today, doing something like screwing nuts onto bolts.

Now its your turn - you younger ones. Go get the world!

Back....way back in the day.. I was a radio dj at a station called Radio Windy. Dr Rock (Barry Jenkin) had retired from fronting the TV programme 'Radio With Pictures' so Avalon basically approached every radio dj in Wellington inviting us all to apply for the new frontperson position. And every last one of of us wanted it. Bad. First we had to send a written application - which had to include a picture. Given that I had 'a great face for radio' I sent in a shot of my dog - figuring that curiosity may score me an audition. It worked. The shortlisted applicants numbered about 8 - 10 and we all had to audition on the same night - so it was going to be a long night. We had to prepare 2 spiels to present to camera; one a sort of music news bulletin and the other, a backgrounder/intro piece to introduce a new clip. Then we had to do a mock interview with a (then) local singer called Sharon O'Niell. In other words, it was a three part audition, and we each did our pieces on rotation. While we waited for our turn (watching other applicants on the monitor) we were allowed to drink, which helped take the edge off; I was pretty darned nervous to be honest and I was afraid it was showing on camera. Anyway, one of the other applicants flicked me a handful of little blue pills (10 mg valiums) and said - here, take these, they'll relax you nicely. So I did, and they did. When I did my second piece, I was very mellow, and I think it was a reasonably good performance.

But. Hmmm.... then I had to wait for about 45 minutes to do my interview segment. So, I had another free beer. And that felt good, so I had another.

Now - you know about mixing beer and tranquilisers, right?

Suddenly, I am on a tall stool, opposite Sharon, also on a tall stool, lights and cameras in the face, countdown, and suddenly - action, time to interview.
I will never forget the look of horror on Shazza's face as I started rocking, staring at her with what must have been a glazed, muscularly relaxed, stupid smile, rotating eyes and dribble coming from the corner of my mouth etc. Then gravity took over and whooooahhh, I'm on the floor. Whack. It was a slightly awkward moment in the context of the audition.

"I'm ok. I'm ok" didn't cut the mustard really, as I pulled myself up using Sharon's leg as an anchor, then falling full tilt into a camera, then accidentally whacking the floor manager with a mad flailing arm.


I did not get the job.

The 60’s:

Sunday morning bread and radio stories
The family down the road gets a TV
Space Race
The Beatles
GI Joe
Star Trek
Flower Power
Slim Jane Pretzel Sticks
The Avengers
Launch of Coronation Street
JFK assassination
Woodstock
Jimi and Jimmy and Janis
Martin Luther King
Vietnam
Anti War marches
The pill
The sexual revolution
Decimal currency
Pot
LSD

The 70’s

M*A*S*H
Thunderbirds
Munich Olympics, Nadia Comaneci
Elvis dies
The Walkman
Stevie Wonder
Saturday Night Fever,
Disco
The Sex Pistols
Dark side of the moon
Glam Rock,
Punk
Star Wars,
Grease
Cold War
Smurfs
Abba
Ready to Roll
Bay City Rollers
Fred Dagg
Jon Stevens
Monty Python
David Cassidy
Disco
Smack


The 80’s

Police violence during ’81 Springbok tour
Pat Benatar,
Police
New Wave
U2
Free Nelson Mandela
Dallas, Dynasty, Taxi, Charlie’s Angels, Fame
Madonna,
John Lennon
The death of disco
Rubik’s cube
ET
Thriller
Political correctness
Cold War, Challenger, Chernobyl, Mir, Berlin wall, Tianenmen Square
Aids, Apartheid protests, Stop the tour, Think Big
McPhail & Gadsby, A Dog’s Tale, The Exponents
Blam Blam Blam,
Duran Duran
Radio with Pictures
The Black Monday crash
Cocaine.
Shoulder pads
MDMA

The 90’s

Seal,
Nirvana
Grunge
Acid Jazz
Acid House
Seinfeld, Pulp Fiction, ER, X Files, Frasier
NYPD Blue
Nelson Mandela freed, collapse of Soviet Union and Apartheid
End of the cold war
Y2K bug
Unibomber, Columbine,
Princess Diana dies,
Clinton gets blown by Monica
Sarajevo,
Rwanda
Ebola,
Mad Cow
Internet
Broadband
Email
Generation Y
Epic Trance
Glow sticks
MMP

Technology for the nuclear (atomic) bomb and the technology to allow television broadcasts, were both discovered at about the same time – in the very early 40’s.

At that time, one can imagine that most people felt that the bomb would have the power to destroy the world.

And that they felt that television had the power to ‘save’ the world, through its ability to educate on a mass scale.


In fact, as pointed out by the unlikely Steve McQueen back in the day, the reverse has proved to be true.


The sheer scale of destruction capable with the nuclear bomb – as discovered by the Hiroshima ‘experiment’ – left the world in awe; fear to use it. It created the cold war. Had the nuclear bomb never been invented it is highly likely that Russia and the US would have been in a 'conventional' war with some fairly serious results and flow on effectys. Albeit swift, it could have made WW2 look like a kindergarten squabble.

Over the same era – the great saviour called television has hardly saved us.

It has dumbed us all down to a level that we just do not realise.

And it has served to feed a massive hunger for violence and crime and, indeed, it has promoted it to a disgusting degree.

It is one of the great ironies.

The world – for the last 50 years anyway, has been much safer, because of the bomb. Through the same era, our communities have become much less safe, because of television.

The safety delivered by the bomb however, will not be infinite. The technology is now within reach of very unsafe hands and it is my prediction that we will, sadly, witness a nuclear disaster of awesome (in the true sense of the word) consequence, by 2015.

Perhaps the Mayans’ predictions about December 2012 will prove to be correct.

But that is another story,

Way back in the day when I was a budding young 'radio announcer' on ZM - all the national programme guys had to speak like BBC guys and things like pronounciation and enunciation and projection were considered to be awfully important. We had a green room to prep in and on the wall were voice exercises with phrases that were written to exercise all the vowel sounds, mouth shapes etc so you sounded tickety boo when you went on air. Two voice exercises I remember are 'That's My Pie Bob' and 'Weave Bob Vie'. There were heaps more but basically you'd walk into the green room and there'd be all these guys like Geoff Robinsin, Joe Cote, Dick Weir and Philip Sherry all walking around saying - very loudly - stuff like 'Thats My Pie Bob, Weave Bob Vie' etc etc. We kinda got used to it, but to outsiders who happened along it must've looked like an institution for the totally insane. This one time, a typewriter repair man walked in, and he had a fucking pie! OK, you can imagine it now eh! he was fully gobsmacked. It went something like this:
That's My Pie Bob!
Eh - I just bought it at the cafe!!
That's my pie Bob!
No., it's mine. And my name is Carl, not fucking Bob!
Weave Bob, vie.

Another time my mate Chris was was leaning over the gestetner machine in the green room, and I crept up behind him, grabbed his hips and thrust my pelvic region into his butt-ocks, to kinda freak him out.

And he did freak out. Mainly because it wasn't my mate Chris - it was the gestetner service guy who I'd never seen before in my life - he was wearing the same goddam Sansabelt pants as Chris. I tried explaining but it really was impossible. "Sorry mate, I thought you were Chris' just didn't cut it with this dude, who was, by now, well wary of me. Well wary!
Never saw him again, last seen wandering out of Broadcasting House mumbling about the 'Pinko Faggot Homo Radio Guys" (sic).

Oh dear. All witnesses just threw their heads back and laughed and laughed and laughed a river of tears.

I wonder if that guy is still telling the story - somewhere - from his perspective of events? Dinner party fodder probably.

Who would be so silly as to wander down a very crowded Courtenay Place in Wellington one Friday night in an extremely intoxicated state?

Who would be so silly as to give a busker twenty bucks to borrow his guitar, that very night?

Who would be so silly as to try to play Stairway to Heaven, when totally inebriated, in public, on an out-of-tune guitar with a broken string?

Who would be so silly to allow the whole event to be captured in a series of still photos, then allow those stills to be stiched together as a 'sort of video'

And who would be so silly to actually wang it up on you tube?


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6tp5PCWKrcc

I'm talking about hide and seek in the park. The corner dairy, hopscotch, four square, go carts, cricket in front of the garbage bin and inviting everyone on your street to join in, skipping, hulahoops, handstands, bullrush, barbadoor, catch and kiss, footy on the best lawn in the street, slip'n'slides, the trampoline with water on it (or a sprinkler under it), jumping in puddles with gumboots on, mud pies and building dams in the gutter. The smells of 2 stroke and the sun leaching freshly cut grass. Flagons. A shandy with dad on the back step.

'Big bubbles no troubles' with Hubba Bubba bubba. A topsy. Jelly tips. Orange squash gums. Mr Whippy cones on a warm summer night after you've chased him round the block. 10 cents (or a shilling's) worth of mixed lollies lasted a week and pretending to smoke "fags" (the lollies) was really cool. Two bob's' worth of chips from the local Fish and Chip shop fed two people (And the vinegar was free!!). Every 'burb had a butcher's shop - always two guys who always cracked jokes and saved the best cuts especially for your Mum. Later you found out it was every Mum. Dog bones were free.

Being upset when you botched putting on the temporary tattoo from the bubblegum packet, but still wearing it proudly. Watching Saturday morning cartoons: 'The Smurfs', 'AstroBoy', 'He-man', 'Captain Caveman','Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles', 'Jem' (trulyoutrageous!!), 'Super d'', and 'Heeeey heeeeey heeeeeeey it's faaaaaaat Albert'. Or staying up late and sneaking a look at the "AO" on the telly, being amazed when you watched TV right up until the 'Goodnight Kiwi!'

Sunday bread. Milk in bottles - and the milk money was never stolen.

When After School with 'Nice One Stu' had a cult following and What Now with Danny was on Saturday mornings! When around the corner seemed a long way, and going into town seemed like going somewhere. Where running away meant you did laps of the block because you weren't allowed to cross the road.

A million mozzie bites, wasp and bee stings (stee bings!).

Sticky fingers, goodies & baddies, cops and robbers, cowboys and indians, riding bikes til the streetlights came on and catching tadpoles in horse troughs.

Going down to the school swimming pool when you didn't have a key and your friends letting you in, drawing all over the road and driveway with chalk. Climbing trees and building 'huts' out of every sheet your mum had in the cupboard (and never putting them back folded). Walking to school in bare feet, no matter what the weather. Ice in the puddles.

When writing 'I love....? on your pencil case, really did mean it was true love. "She loves me? She loves me not?" and daisy chains on the front lawn. Stealing other people's flowers from their gardens and then selling them back to them. Lesbians always had short hair.

Running till you were out of breath. Laughing so hard that your stomach hurt. Pitching the tent in the back/front yard (and never being able to find all the pegs). Jumping on the bed. Singing into your hair brush in front of the mirror, making mix tapes, playing Jimmy Page lead breaks on the tennis racquet.

Sleep overs and ghosts stories with the next door neighbours.

Pillowfights, spinning round, getting dizzy and falling down was cause for the giggles. The worst embarrassment was being picked last for a team. Water balloons were the ultimate weapon. Weetbix cards pegged on the spokes transformed any bike into a motorcycle. Collecting WWF and garbage pail kids cards.

Eating raw jelly and raro, making homemade lemonade and sucking on a Rad, a traffic light popsicle, or a Paddle Pop... blurple, yollange and prink!

You knew everyone in your street - and so did your parents! It wasn't odd to have two or three "best friends" and you would ask them by sending a note asking them to be your best friend.

You didn't sleep a wink on Christmas eve and tried (and failed) to wait up for the tooth fairy. When nobody owned a pure-bred dog. When 50c was decent pocket money. When you'd reach into a muddy gutter for 10c.

When nearly everyone's mum was there when the kids got home from school.

It was magic when dad would "remove" his thumb.

When it was considered a great privilege to be taken out to dinner at the Cobb'n'Co. with your family.

When any parent could discipline any kid, or feed her or use him to carry groceries and nobody, not even the kid, thought a thing of it.

When being sent to the principal's office was nothing compared to the fate that awaited a misbehaving student at home.

Basically, we were in fear for our lives, but it wasn't because of drive-by shootings, drugs, gangs, etc. Our parents and grandparents were a much bigger threat! Some of us are still afraid of them!!!

Remember when decisions were made by going "eeny-meeny-miney-mo" or dib dib's-scissors, paper, rock. "Race issue" meant arguing about who ran the fastest. Money issues were handled by whoever was the banker in Monopoly.

Terrorism was when the older kids were at the end of your street with pea-shooters waiting to ambush you, or the neighbourhood rottie cross chased you up a tree!

The worst thing you could catch from the opposite sex was boy/girl germs, and the worst thing in your day was having to sit next to one.


Having a weapon in school meant being caught with a slingshot. Your biggest danger at school was accidentally walking through the middle of a heated game of "brandies".

Birthday beats meant you didn't want to go to school on your birthday!

Scrapes and bruises were kissed and made better. Taking drugs meant scoffing orange-flavoured chewable vitamin C's, or swallowing half a Panadol.

Ice cream was considered a basic food group.

Going to the beach and catching a wave was a dream come true. Boogie boarding in the white wash made you the next Corky Carol. In winter your 'wetsuit' was a cut-off wollen school jersey.

Abilities were discovered because of a "double- dare".

Older siblings were the worst tormentors, but also the fiercest protectors.

Now, didn't that bring back some fond memories??

Ahhhh... must be getting old. ;-)