Dave is my oldest friend. We met way back in primary school and bonded over scale models and a fondness for inconsequential facts.
Dave is probably the most intelligent person I have ever met. He has an encyclopedic memory and can recount what I was doing 5 years ago, date and time of day. That's no exaggeration - he really can, I've tested him.
We were nerds together through school. His dad had built him a shed out back of his place and we'd hide there with our ship models and history books away from our fucked up families.
Dave's family had a penchant for alcoholism and suicide that would see off one of his brothers and his father. His mother was heavily inebriated for most of his childhood and his other brother was a full time car thief. Not that Dave would ever talk about that - he'd rather talk about ancient Rome and the latest model of the Graf Spee.
We knew that Dave would go far. He'd pass with honours any exam placed in front of him and would continue to do so as my schooling unravelled amid a dizzying variety of pharmaceuticals.
Socially awkward, Dave would still come to our parties. He'd be hanging out the window lest he got a whiff of dope smoke.
Dave was perfect as the straight guy you could always rely on as a comparison. We'd be having so much fun, then there'd be Dave, morose, out of place. We were certain he'd eventually commit suicide - we just weren't sure of the time and place.
Dave went on to Varsity while our school band, 'Swipe' petered out. He was doing science and history and didn't know whether he was going to be an astro-physicist or a history professor. He could do both if he liked.
Our guitarist, 'Rock' and I went on a series of motorbiking road trips that would leave us both hooked on smack. We drifted around various squalid flats, losing jobs and getting high, until he found a beautiful girlfriend and cleaned up.
A little later I, too, fell in love - with Dave's girlfriend. I contrived to hook up with her in a stunning bit of self-serving cunningness that even surprised me with it's success.
I felt a little bad, sure, but some things were meant to be. W and I remained together for 6 years and she probably saved my life. Dave never said anything but I know he was profoundly hurt. He cared for her a great deal.
I lost touch with Dave for a few years while I spent time in Europe. Eventually, though, I was to return and Dave and I met up again.
The change in him was unbelievable. From class nerd, he'd embraced punk rock with a passion. He now had a band, 'Domestic Blitz' that had been something of a pioneer on the scene in Wellington. He wore stove pipe trousers and jacket loaded with Union Jack buttons. He'd shaved his hair and clumped around in Doc Martin's.
Dave now had a vast circle of acquaintances and admirers including a fair number of women. The fact he never seemed to be interested in dating them led me to question his sexuality. They liked him - I couldn't see why - unless?
Dave also had a prodigious appetite for other people's stash - he took his Scottishness seriously. I'd kind of cleaned up - I was now the straight guy.
We never so much as talked as hung out, unless I primed him with a few scotches. Then he do 'morose' or ramble on about me being a 'bloody commie.' It bugged him and I'd blatantly tease him to death about it.
About the late seventies, I tried to regather my education and subsequently won a place at WTC. I took Drama and Geography as my majors and set about studying, taking odd jobs to pay for our house, be a daddy to our two children and work on a failing marriage. After a year, the strain was too much.
The roof of my domestic life fell in among much rancour and accusations. I called on Dave, depressed and desperate. He didn't know what to say - merely took me to some ghastly club where we sat on our own and got pissed. None of his friends were around - punk had metamorphised into New Wave and left him behind.
I thought he wasn't interested in my problems. Instead, he rambled on about nothing in particular and people I didn't know.
But, he did care. He got on the phone and rung people he knew would help. Soon, support arrived - support old Dave felt he was unable to offer personally. He hooked me back up with old friends and helped me reclaim some social life.
Later, I heard he'd gone on tour with Siouxie and the Banshees as - God knows what. He's also friends with Robert Smith of the Cure. Dave has a unique ability of coming on to celebrities without appearing a suck-up. He's also writes to Robert Fripp of King Crimson and the guy out of Van Der Graaf Generator - they write back, go figure?
He soldiers on someplace - probably back down in Wellington. Most likely he's in some job way below his skills so he doesn't have to break a sweat. If he'd topped himself I'd have heard on the grapevine.
I'll never forget the old bastard.
Don
Friday, October 17, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Swipe
My old friend claimed influences such as Brian Eno, Peter Gabriel's Genesis, Yes, Emerson Lake and Palmer, Premiata Forneria Marconi... In short, progressive rock, English style.
I'd venture Vanilla Fudge, but he'd scoff. Americans didn't play prog rock as she was written.
I didn't actually mind most of that - at least, when they actually played songs rather than 30 minute symphonies. But, Brian Eno was just a little too far out for me at the time. My tastes hadn't run much past Deep Purple and Black Sabbath. Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead and English folk was my little secret.
Bruce wanted to form a band. I was barely out of High School and with my first pay I'd bought a second hand drum kit. A friend of ours, 'Rock,' acquired himself an electric guitar, a genuine Burns Bison. We were in business. Rock was still at school so we used the hall as a rehearsal space.
Bruce electrified his mandolin and a mate had built him a bank of oscillators. The result was not unlike inoculation time at the cattery.
"Give us a 4/4, Don?"
"A 4 what?" I replied. I'd had the drums a week and I couldn't even change a drum head. I'd no musical training whatsoever and didn't know a time signature if I fell over one.
"Like this, tat, tat, tat, TAT..."
"Oh!"
In truth, the only reason I chose the drums was because I thought it was easy to play. I'd also bought an acoustic guitar and a fly string banjo - upon neither of which could I form so much as a basic chord.
The name of the band was 'Swipe,' Bruce's idea. He didn't know it was also the name of a domestic cleaner. 'Swipe, the cleanest band in town,' was to haunt us during our short career.
Bruce and Rock immediately launched into a jam that was impossible to drum to. Suddenly, they'd change times without saying anything, leaving me banging aimlessly trying to pick it up again. After a while I was completely ignored, so I wandered off to fetch a beer.
Eventually, one day I turned up for practice to find this other guy, Shane, in my seat. He did know how to play, but lacked a kit. From then on my role was to provide the drum kit and hump the fucking thing around.
A bass player answered the advertisement, Ari, an Indonesian guy who was stoned most of the time. He always wore shades and his well groomed long hair never moved when he shook his head.
That's the other thing. Both Shane and Ari were babe magnets and that fact became more important than actually playing music.
We did have a couple of good songs - mostly when Bruce left his horrendous home built Moog synthesiser alone. The kind of Brian Eno, John Cale pre-punk stuff really rocked - a bit like 'Babies on Fire" - but, the symphonic, early Genesis/Yes was going way beyond our collective expertise.
Our first gig was in Wellington, at the Opera House, no less. We'd entered into some rock quest thing.
Bruce wanted a persian carpet to stand on, like Greg Lake. Shane wanted dead leaves poured all over him like some dude in King Crimson. As official roadie, I tried to cater for all the band's needs. Ari got trashed all on his own, however, as he was a part time dealer.
We came third, behind a rock and roll outfit, whose 15 year old guitar whizz played a pearly white Les Paul. The winner was some outfit in matching clothes and choreography playing old sixties stuff like the Tremeloes.
The world clearly wasn't ready for 'Swipe,' yet.
Bruce went up to Auckland and held art/spoken word events until emigrating to Australia. Rock, eventually wound up in Canada, a history professor. Ari went back to Indonesia and Shane got married.
By then, another pal, Dave, had bought himself a Rickenbacker and plastered 'Never Mind the Bollocks,' over it. 'Domestic Blitz' and Punk were born and prog rock went into the museum.
Don
I'd venture Vanilla Fudge, but he'd scoff. Americans didn't play prog rock as she was written.
I didn't actually mind most of that - at least, when they actually played songs rather than 30 minute symphonies. But, Brian Eno was just a little too far out for me at the time. My tastes hadn't run much past Deep Purple and Black Sabbath. Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead and English folk was my little secret.
Bruce wanted to form a band. I was barely out of High School and with my first pay I'd bought a second hand drum kit. A friend of ours, 'Rock,' acquired himself an electric guitar, a genuine Burns Bison. We were in business. Rock was still at school so we used the hall as a rehearsal space.
Bruce electrified his mandolin and a mate had built him a bank of oscillators. The result was not unlike inoculation time at the cattery.
"Give us a 4/4, Don?"
"A 4 what?" I replied. I'd had the drums a week and I couldn't even change a drum head. I'd no musical training whatsoever and didn't know a time signature if I fell over one.
"Like this, tat, tat, tat, TAT..."
"Oh!"
In truth, the only reason I chose the drums was because I thought it was easy to play. I'd also bought an acoustic guitar and a fly string banjo - upon neither of which could I form so much as a basic chord.
The name of the band was 'Swipe,' Bruce's idea. He didn't know it was also the name of a domestic cleaner. 'Swipe, the cleanest band in town,' was to haunt us during our short career.
Bruce and Rock immediately launched into a jam that was impossible to drum to. Suddenly, they'd change times without saying anything, leaving me banging aimlessly trying to pick it up again. After a while I was completely ignored, so I wandered off to fetch a beer.
Eventually, one day I turned up for practice to find this other guy, Shane, in my seat. He did know how to play, but lacked a kit. From then on my role was to provide the drum kit and hump the fucking thing around.
A bass player answered the advertisement, Ari, an Indonesian guy who was stoned most of the time. He always wore shades and his well groomed long hair never moved when he shook his head.
That's the other thing. Both Shane and Ari were babe magnets and that fact became more important than actually playing music.
We did have a couple of good songs - mostly when Bruce left his horrendous home built Moog synthesiser alone. The kind of Brian Eno, John Cale pre-punk stuff really rocked - a bit like 'Babies on Fire" - but, the symphonic, early Genesis/Yes was going way beyond our collective expertise.
Our first gig was in Wellington, at the Opera House, no less. We'd entered into some rock quest thing.
Bruce wanted a persian carpet to stand on, like Greg Lake. Shane wanted dead leaves poured all over him like some dude in King Crimson. As official roadie, I tried to cater for all the band's needs. Ari got trashed all on his own, however, as he was a part time dealer.
We came third, behind a rock and roll outfit, whose 15 year old guitar whizz played a pearly white Les Paul. The winner was some outfit in matching clothes and choreography playing old sixties stuff like the Tremeloes.
The world clearly wasn't ready for 'Swipe,' yet.
Bruce went up to Auckland and held art/spoken word events until emigrating to Australia. Rock, eventually wound up in Canada, a history professor. Ari went back to Indonesia and Shane got married.
By then, another pal, Dave, had bought himself a Rickenbacker and plastered 'Never Mind the Bollocks,' over it. 'Domestic Blitz' and Punk were born and prog rock went into the museum.
Don
Monday, October 13, 2008
The Power of Love
The walls of Ward 21 were painted a kind of puke yellow. I remember the smell of iodine and the rattle of heels down the hallway. They seem to reverberate forever. I also recall the crash of the dinner trolley - a kind of chrome steel thing always polished to a mirror.
Sometimes I'd play in the day room at the end of the ward. They had these art deco windows from ceiling to floor and a real potted palm. There I'd build machine guns with the Meccano set some charity donated.
I knew my Bren gun from my Vickers, and I'd tell the nurses how I knew it was a Bren because the magazine slots into the top, see? Sometimes they'd nod and smile, or caution me not to disturb the other patients.
Ward 21 was truly God's waiting room. Only the most serious 'cardio-pulminary' patients wound up there. In those days, there was no such thing as an ICU - they just screened off a room and wheeled in all the equipment.
I'd get to know someone, then suddenly they were gone. My dad sometimes gave me the body count - the nurses only telling me that, 'they've gone to another ward,' or, 'so and so's gone home.'
"But they never said goodbye!!"
That was usually worthy of a double helping of steamed chocolate dessert that night for dinner.
I remember a girl, about my age or a little older. I used to visit her a lot and we'd play snakes and ladders and ludo. My dad later told me she had a hole in her heart, that it was too severe to operate, and she'd died. I still see her blond curly hair and smile. I never knew how sick she was.
Ward 21 was my home for the first ten years of my life. At age 12 months, I'd contracted German measles and it had wrecked my left lung. I could never be far from the oxygen, and I needed my lung drained every second day or so.
I would also develop pneumonia if I so much as pass by an open window. I've lost count the number of times I've had it.
Home visits rarely lasted longer than a couple of weeks. I tried school a few times, but no sooner I'd start, I'd get hit with pneumonia. I recall having to spend lunch hours inside and watch the kids playing through the windows.
Even now, hospital has a kind of uneasiness for me. But, they're nothing like my childhood memory. Years of taking kids to the ER - and having four of my babies born in them - has cured most of my aversions.
I was the youngest of a large family. Most of my siblings had something wrong with them - like we'd all chosen a mystery card at birth. Mine was 'fucked lungs,' but even so, I considered myself fortunate.
A brother and sister were born deaf - another brother continues to have eye problems - still another sister is developmentally locked into 5 years old. Why our family should be cursed so, never bothered me much as a child. A kid accepts what's around them as normal.
Other anomalies concerning our relatives didn't resonate either. Why my parents chose to live in the Wellington area while the bulk of my extended family lived in Auckland? How come none of my aunties and uncles ever visited? Tensions and long standing bitterness evident? I could never figure out the plethora of relatives - they were like some jumbled up word game.
Then I was about 24, and due to marry. My fiance and I needed to know whether there were any genetic issues we should be aware of. My dad took me to the pub - he'd never in his life taken me there before. I felt privileged.
It was there he gave me the last piece of the puzzle - like some game of Vulcan kelto. Suddenly the puzzles resolved into a coherent shape and our family made sense, finally.
Shall we say, my mother and father were a lot more closely related than I ever imagined.
How do I feel? Well, it's plain to me that my life was substantially different as a consequence. But, I'm too tied up with the here and now to devote too much emotional energy to regrets and 'might have beens.'
My brothers and sisters and I were never close. There was quite a gap between them and me and I was mostly in hospital. When I was finally discharged after a lobectomy, age ten, my siblings had mostly moved on or were in care. My brother Emails me now and again - that's about it.
Suffice to say, there was no great a risk of passing on bad genes to my kids than anyone else. I have had advice that consanguinity was unlikely to have been a factor affecting by brothers and sisters. Apparently, there needs to be a little more intergenerational inbreeding. I don't know - but my dad believed it was.
One positive thing my parents passed on to me was their utter faith in the power of love. They remained completely devoted to each other their whole life. I can't think of a greater gift.
Don
Sometimes I'd play in the day room at the end of the ward. They had these art deco windows from ceiling to floor and a real potted palm. There I'd build machine guns with the Meccano set some charity donated.
I knew my Bren gun from my Vickers, and I'd tell the nurses how I knew it was a Bren because the magazine slots into the top, see? Sometimes they'd nod and smile, or caution me not to disturb the other patients.
Ward 21 was truly God's waiting room. Only the most serious 'cardio-pulminary' patients wound up there. In those days, there was no such thing as an ICU - they just screened off a room and wheeled in all the equipment.
I'd get to know someone, then suddenly they were gone. My dad sometimes gave me the body count - the nurses only telling me that, 'they've gone to another ward,' or, 'so and so's gone home.'
"But they never said goodbye!!"
That was usually worthy of a double helping of steamed chocolate dessert that night for dinner.
I remember a girl, about my age or a little older. I used to visit her a lot and we'd play snakes and ladders and ludo. My dad later told me she had a hole in her heart, that it was too severe to operate, and she'd died. I still see her blond curly hair and smile. I never knew how sick she was.
Ward 21 was my home for the first ten years of my life. At age 12 months, I'd contracted German measles and it had wrecked my left lung. I could never be far from the oxygen, and I needed my lung drained every second day or so.
I would also develop pneumonia if I so much as pass by an open window. I've lost count the number of times I've had it.
Home visits rarely lasted longer than a couple of weeks. I tried school a few times, but no sooner I'd start, I'd get hit with pneumonia. I recall having to spend lunch hours inside and watch the kids playing through the windows.
Even now, hospital has a kind of uneasiness for me. But, they're nothing like my childhood memory. Years of taking kids to the ER - and having four of my babies born in them - has cured most of my aversions.
I was the youngest of a large family. Most of my siblings had something wrong with them - like we'd all chosen a mystery card at birth. Mine was 'fucked lungs,' but even so, I considered myself fortunate.
A brother and sister were born deaf - another brother continues to have eye problems - still another sister is developmentally locked into 5 years old. Why our family should be cursed so, never bothered me much as a child. A kid accepts what's around them as normal.
Other anomalies concerning our relatives didn't resonate either. Why my parents chose to live in the Wellington area while the bulk of my extended family lived in Auckland? How come none of my aunties and uncles ever visited? Tensions and long standing bitterness evident? I could never figure out the plethora of relatives - they were like some jumbled up word game.
Then I was about 24, and due to marry. My fiance and I needed to know whether there were any genetic issues we should be aware of. My dad took me to the pub - he'd never in his life taken me there before. I felt privileged.
It was there he gave me the last piece of the puzzle - like some game of Vulcan kelto. Suddenly the puzzles resolved into a coherent shape and our family made sense, finally.
Shall we say, my mother and father were a lot more closely related than I ever imagined.
How do I feel? Well, it's plain to me that my life was substantially different as a consequence. But, I'm too tied up with the here and now to devote too much emotional energy to regrets and 'might have beens.'
My brothers and sisters and I were never close. There was quite a gap between them and me and I was mostly in hospital. When I was finally discharged after a lobectomy, age ten, my siblings had mostly moved on or were in care. My brother Emails me now and again - that's about it.
Suffice to say, there was no great a risk of passing on bad genes to my kids than anyone else. I have had advice that consanguinity was unlikely to have been a factor affecting by brothers and sisters. Apparently, there needs to be a little more intergenerational inbreeding. I don't know - but my dad believed it was.
One positive thing my parents passed on to me was their utter faith in the power of love. They remained completely devoted to each other their whole life. I can't think of a greater gift.
Don
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Yje Power of Love
The walls of Ward 21 were painted a kind of puke yellow. I remember the smell of iodine and the rattle of heels down the hallway. They seem to reverberate forever. I also recall the crash of the dinner trolley - a kind of chrome steel thing always polished to a mirror.
Sometimes I'd play in the day room at the end of the ward. They had these art deco windows from ceiling to floor and a real potted palm. There I'd build machine guns with the Meccano set some charity donated.
I knew my Bren gun from my Vickers, and I'd tell the nurses how I knew it was a Bren because the magazine slots into the top, see? Sometimes they'd nod and smile, or caution me not to disturb the other patients.
Ward 21 was truly God's waiting room. Only the most serious 'cardio-pulminary' patients wound up there. In those days, there was no such thing as an ICU - they just screened off a room and wheeled in all the equipment.
I'd get to know someone, then suddenly they were gone. My dad sometimes gave me the body count - the nurses only telling me that, 'they've gone to another ward,' or, 'so and so's gone home.'
"But they never said goodbye!!"
That was usually worthy of a double helping of steamed chocolate dessert that night for dinner.
I remember a girl, about my age or a little older. I used to visit her a lot and we'd play snakes and ladders and ludo. My dad later told me she had a hole in her heart, that it was too severe to operate, and she'd died. I still see her blond curly hair and smile. I never knew how sick she was.
Ward 21 was my home for the first ten years of my life. At age 12 months, I'd contracted German measles and it had wrecked my left lung. I could never be far from the oxygen, and I needed my lung drained every second day or so.
I would also develop pneumonia if I so much as pass by an open window. I've lost count the number of times I've had it.
Home visits rarely lasted longer than a couple of weeks. I tried school a few times, but no sooner I'd start, I'd get hit with pneumonia. I recall having to spend lunch hours inside and watch the kids playing through the windows.
Even now, hospital has a kind of uneasiness for me. But, they're nothing like my childhood memory. Years of taking kids to the ER - and having four of my babies born in them - has cured most of my aversions.
I was the youngest of a large family. Most of my siblings had something wrong with them - like we'd all chosen a mystery card at birth. Mine was 'fucked lungs,' but even so, I considered myself fortunate.
A brother and sister were born deaf - another brother continues to have eye problems - still another sister is developmentally locked into 5 years old. Why our family should be cursed so, never bothered me much as a child. A kid accepts what's around them as normal.
Other anomalies concerning our relatives didn't resonate either. Why my parents chose to live in the Wellington area while the bulk of my extended family lived in Auckland? How come none of my aunties and uncles ever visited? Tensions and long standing bitterness evident? I could never figure out the plethora of relatives - they were like some jumbled up word game.
Then I was about 24, and due to marry. My fiance and I needed to know whether there were any genetic issues we should be aware of. My dad took me to the pub - he'd never in his life taken me there before. I felt privileged.
It was there he gave me the last piece of the puzzle - like some game of Vulcan kelto. Suddenly the puzzles resolved into a coherent shape and our family made sense, finally.
Shall we say, my mother and father were a lot more closely related than I ever imagined.
How do I feel? Well, it's plain to me that my life was substantially different as a consequence. But, I'm too tied up with the here and now to devote too much emotional energy to regrets and 'might have beens.'
My brothers and sisters and I were never close. There was quite a gap between them and me and I was mostly in hospital. When I was finally discharged after a lobectomy, age ten, my siblings had mostly moved on or were in care. My brother Emails me now and again - that's about it.
Suffice to say, there was no great a risk of passing on bad genes to my kids than anyone else. I have had advice that consanguinity was unlikely to have been a factor affecting by brothers and sisters. Apparently, there needs to be a little more intergenerational inbreeding. I don't know - but my dad believed it was.
One positive thing my parents passed on to me was their utter faith in the power of love. They remained completely devoted to each other their whole life. I can't think of a greater gift.
Don
Sometimes I'd play in the day room at the end of the ward. They had these art deco windows from ceiling to floor and a real potted palm. There I'd build machine guns with the Meccano set some charity donated.
I knew my Bren gun from my Vickers, and I'd tell the nurses how I knew it was a Bren because the magazine slots into the top, see? Sometimes they'd nod and smile, or caution me not to disturb the other patients.
Ward 21 was truly God's waiting room. Only the most serious 'cardio-pulminary' patients wound up there. In those days, there was no such thing as an ICU - they just screened off a room and wheeled in all the equipment.
I'd get to know someone, then suddenly they were gone. My dad sometimes gave me the body count - the nurses only telling me that, 'they've gone to another ward,' or, 'so and so's gone home.'
"But they never said goodbye!!"
That was usually worthy of a double helping of steamed chocolate dessert that night for dinner.
I remember a girl, about my age or a little older. I used to visit her a lot and we'd play snakes and ladders and ludo. My dad later told me she had a hole in her heart, that it was too severe to operate, and she'd died. I still see her blond curly hair and smile. I never knew how sick she was.
Ward 21 was my home for the first ten years of my life. At age 12 months, I'd contracted German measles and it had wrecked my left lung. I could never be far from the oxygen, and I needed my lung drained every second day or so.
I would also develop pneumonia if I so much as pass by an open window. I've lost count the number of times I've had it.
Home visits rarely lasted longer than a couple of weeks. I tried school a few times, but no sooner I'd start, I'd get hit with pneumonia. I recall having to spend lunch hours inside and watch the kids playing through the windows.
Even now, hospital has a kind of uneasiness for me. But, they're nothing like my childhood memory. Years of taking kids to the ER - and having four of my babies born in them - has cured most of my aversions.
I was the youngest of a large family. Most of my siblings had something wrong with them - like we'd all chosen a mystery card at birth. Mine was 'fucked lungs,' but even so, I considered myself fortunate.
A brother and sister were born deaf - another brother continues to have eye problems - still another sister is developmentally locked into 5 years old. Why our family should be cursed so, never bothered me much as a child. A kid accepts what's around them as normal.
Other anomalies concerning our relatives didn't resonate either. Why my parents chose to live in the Wellington area while the bulk of my extended family lived in Auckland? How come none of my aunties and uncles ever visited? Tensions and long standing bitterness evident? I could never figure out the plethora of relatives - they were like some jumbled up word game.
Then I was about 24, and due to marry. My fiance and I needed to know whether there were any genetic issues we should be aware of. My dad took me to the pub - he'd never in his life taken me there before. I felt privileged.
It was there he gave me the last piece of the puzzle - like some game of Vulcan kelto. Suddenly the puzzles resolved into a coherent shape and our family made sense, finally.
Shall we say, my mother and father were a lot more closely related than I ever imagined.
How do I feel? Well, it's plain to me that my life was substantially different as a consequence. But, I'm too tied up with the here and now to devote too much emotional energy to regrets and 'might have beens.'
My brothers and sisters and I were never close. There was quite a gap between them and me and I was mostly in hospital. When I was finally discharged after a lobectomy, age ten, my siblings had mostly moved on or were in care. My brother Emails me now and again - that's about it.
Suffice to say, there was no great a risk of passing on bad genes to my kids than anyone else. I have had advice that consanguinity was unlikely to have been a factor affecting by brothers and sisters. Apparently, there needs to be a little more intergenerational inbreeding. I don't know - but my dad believed it was.
One positive thing my parents passed on to me was their utter faith in the power of love. They remained completely devoted to each other their whole life. I can't think of a greater gift.
Don
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Busted Finger
I busted my finger at work the other day. It was one of those insanely stupid moments that, in my arrogance, I'd never believe I was capable of. But, shit happens!
I was in a hurry to finish a job before lunch. The centre mowing deck blocked up and, rather than run it up the ramp of my transporter, I pulled the tractor over a drain then rolled underneath to clear it. Foolishly, I forgot to allow the blades to run down - I reached underneath while they were still spinning.
Luckily, I was wearing protective gloves. The first blow felt like a hard punch on the hand and I immediately rolled away. The blade took me on the second knuckle and knocked my hand away. Otherwise, I'd have lost fingers.
'Flagrant disregard for elementary safety rules.' There'd be consequences, and I figured I could never formally report it.
So, I decided to cover it up. I obtained the help of a trusted workmate and together we strapped up my digit with a popsicle stick as a splint. The pain I had to live with.
My hand I keep firmly out of sight or inside a leather glove. I must remember not to shake hands and suck up any offense that may cause.
So where did my stoicism come from? God knows. I hate pain of any kind. Like all Kiwi boys of my generation I felt compelled to play rugby. I was never very good, being too light, too slow, with poor stamina. Consequently, about Form six, I drifted away and joined the Drama Club. That was 1971, and it was growing acceptable to do that sort of thing. I miss playing body contact sport like a favourite boil on the arse.
Geminis are noted for their contradictions. I took up the sport of motorcycling, both as a competitor and as a mode of transport. Falling off is part of the learning curve and I've lost count the number of times I took a tumble. Up to a couple of years ago I was still racing on Club days until the sheer cost, and other priorities, wound up my career for the present.
Gravel burns are the pits, but the sheer adrenalin rush is indescribable. It's an exercise in concentration and reflexes and it makes little difference if you're big or small. To make a bad judgement could bring down other riders and lose friends - a crash costs a lot of money and you can't get insurance.
Yeah, I love racing.
So what is this stoicism shit? I think the fear of being censured outweighs my need to complain. My finger hurts like hell and that should be sufficient to ensure I never do that particular thing again.
But, there's always some other dumbass, stupid act - I hope I get away with just a busted finger next time.
Don
I was in a hurry to finish a job before lunch. The centre mowing deck blocked up and, rather than run it up the ramp of my transporter, I pulled the tractor over a drain then rolled underneath to clear it. Foolishly, I forgot to allow the blades to run down - I reached underneath while they were still spinning.
Luckily, I was wearing protective gloves. The first blow felt like a hard punch on the hand and I immediately rolled away. The blade took me on the second knuckle and knocked my hand away. Otherwise, I'd have lost fingers.
'Flagrant disregard for elementary safety rules.' There'd be consequences, and I figured I could never formally report it.
So, I decided to cover it up. I obtained the help of a trusted workmate and together we strapped up my digit with a popsicle stick as a splint. The pain I had to live with.
My hand I keep firmly out of sight or inside a leather glove. I must remember not to shake hands and suck up any offense that may cause.
So where did my stoicism come from? God knows. I hate pain of any kind. Like all Kiwi boys of my generation I felt compelled to play rugby. I was never very good, being too light, too slow, with poor stamina. Consequently, about Form six, I drifted away and joined the Drama Club. That was 1971, and it was growing acceptable to do that sort of thing. I miss playing body contact sport like a favourite boil on the arse.
Geminis are noted for their contradictions. I took up the sport of motorcycling, both as a competitor and as a mode of transport. Falling off is part of the learning curve and I've lost count the number of times I took a tumble. Up to a couple of years ago I was still racing on Club days until the sheer cost, and other priorities, wound up my career for the present.
Gravel burns are the pits, but the sheer adrenalin rush is indescribable. It's an exercise in concentration and reflexes and it makes little difference if you're big or small. To make a bad judgement could bring down other riders and lose friends - a crash costs a lot of money and you can't get insurance.
Yeah, I love racing.
So what is this stoicism shit? I think the fear of being censured outweighs my need to complain. My finger hurts like hell and that should be sufficient to ensure I never do that particular thing again.
But, there's always some other dumbass, stupid act - I hope I get away with just a busted finger next time.
Don
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Notorious at Last
I once was refused entry to the USA. I kept the letter for many years until lost in some move somewhere. It was polite and gracious and gave no reason - just that 'your application for a visa to enter the United States has been declined.' I was at last 'notorious.'
It happened back in 1984, ironically. The Soviet Union was busy offering fraternal assistance to the Afghans and US buddy Saddam Hussein was slaughtering Iranians and Kurds. In Central America the Sandanistas had booted US's man Anastasio Somoza out of Nicaragua and the Americans had imposed an embargo in retaliation. Anyone named 'Anastasio' HAS to be a villain.
Outraged US aid groups decided to test the blockade by driving a convoy of humanitarian aid down to Nicaragua through Mexico. (Managua had been devastated by an earthquake 2 years before and Somoza had stolen most of the international aid). About eight of us from the NZ Socialist Action League thought it really cool if we paid a visit to our fraternal comrades on the way to Managua.
See, an 'International friendship Brigade' was being formed in Cuba to go to Nicaragua to help bring in the coffee harvest. I'd never been to Central America and I was keen to learn a bit of Spanish.
'Visa denied' to all of us. I raised the possibility of going to the Press with it - 'aid workers denied US visa,' or some such.
"We can't do that!" someone objected. "We're a secret revolutionary organisation. The press will want our names."
"So? The fucking US State Department has them," I replied, to no avail.
So we had to fly to Mexico. We changed planes at Honolulu, which you can do as a transit passenger. From Mexico City to Havana, Cuba, then from Cuba to Nicaragua.
The convoy did get through. Someone in the State Department pointed out to Ronald Reagan you can't stop US citizens leaving the United States and holding up a convoy of medicine was bad PR.
A better idea was to mine the harbour, which, of course, they did.
Cuba's contribution was 4000 odd doctors and engineers with a penchant for toting assault rifles and marching in columns. A battalion of Cuban doctors was camped near us at Bluefields on the Caribbean Coast, complete with BMP armoured personnel carriers and a Mi-8 attack helicopter. Our medical needs were well looked after.
President Daniel Ortega, himself, dropped by the first Sunday. He arrived in a Russian biplane, an Antonov An-2, that looked like it had come from the second world war. I was impressed with his courage.
I really liked Daniel Ortega, he was cool. There was a certain sang froid in his manner and tons of boyish charm. Okay, he was accused of accepting a few too many gifts from a grateful people, but that's hardly exceptional in that part of the world. He was a damn sight less corrupt than his predecessor and never made much of a fortune out of the job.
He shared a few bottles of Czech beer with us - Czechoslovakia's much appreciated humanitarian contribution involved daily shipments of Pils Urquell. His English wasn't terrific, but he arrived with a sexy young translator. Central and South American leaders accept young women as fringe benefits and Daniel sure didn't pass that up while building a socialist paradise.
Our guides were a pair from the Sandanista Youth, wearing the ubiquitous red neck scarves. They'd nicked the idea from Comsomol and I wanted one too. I still have it.
The woman, Maria, was cool and the only reason I would've stayed on if I was allowed. Frankly, it was far too hot and picking coffee lost its attraction after a week or two.
Maria had been educated in the US and Poland, for some reason. Poland is bleak, and I can understand why she wanted to come home to the Caribbean. She was 22, idealistic and happily married, unfortunately.
Our Cuban doctor friends had a habit of practicing at an improvised rifle range 6am every morning and far too close to our camp. They substituted accuracy for volume, insisting on blowing shit out of the targets on full automatic. I pity any Contra coming down from the hills dressed as a hay bale - they'd be shredded.
A doctor called Alessandro taught me to strip down an AK-47 in 40 seconds and basic triage. He really WAS a doctor. I reckon I could still strip down an AK-47, shoot it, and stop the bleeding afterwards.
I was once pompously labelled 'naive' by a snooty American on an Author's message board. I volunteered 'notorious', but he wouldn't buy it.
"You guys lost!" he declared, triumphantly.
So glad of that. Now the world can be at peace.
Notorious Don
It happened back in 1984, ironically. The Soviet Union was busy offering fraternal assistance to the Afghans and US buddy Saddam Hussein was slaughtering Iranians and Kurds. In Central America the Sandanistas had booted US's man Anastasio Somoza out of Nicaragua and the Americans had imposed an embargo in retaliation. Anyone named 'Anastasio' HAS to be a villain.
Outraged US aid groups decided to test the blockade by driving a convoy of humanitarian aid down to Nicaragua through Mexico. (Managua had been devastated by an earthquake 2 years before and Somoza had stolen most of the international aid). About eight of us from the NZ Socialist Action League thought it really cool if we paid a visit to our fraternal comrades on the way to Managua.
See, an 'International friendship Brigade' was being formed in Cuba to go to Nicaragua to help bring in the coffee harvest. I'd never been to Central America and I was keen to learn a bit of Spanish.
'Visa denied' to all of us. I raised the possibility of going to the Press with it - 'aid workers denied US visa,' or some such.
"We can't do that!" someone objected. "We're a secret revolutionary organisation. The press will want our names."
"So? The fucking US State Department has them," I replied, to no avail.
So we had to fly to Mexico. We changed planes at Honolulu, which you can do as a transit passenger. From Mexico City to Havana, Cuba, then from Cuba to Nicaragua.
The convoy did get through. Someone in the State Department pointed out to Ronald Reagan you can't stop US citizens leaving the United States and holding up a convoy of medicine was bad PR.
A better idea was to mine the harbour, which, of course, they did.
Cuba's contribution was 4000 odd doctors and engineers with a penchant for toting assault rifles and marching in columns. A battalion of Cuban doctors was camped near us at Bluefields on the Caribbean Coast, complete with BMP armoured personnel carriers and a Mi-8 attack helicopter. Our medical needs were well looked after.
President Daniel Ortega, himself, dropped by the first Sunday. He arrived in a Russian biplane, an Antonov An-2, that looked like it had come from the second world war. I was impressed with his courage.
I really liked Daniel Ortega, he was cool. There was a certain sang froid in his manner and tons of boyish charm. Okay, he was accused of accepting a few too many gifts from a grateful people, but that's hardly exceptional in that part of the world. He was a damn sight less corrupt than his predecessor and never made much of a fortune out of the job.
He shared a few bottles of Czech beer with us - Czechoslovakia's much appreciated humanitarian contribution involved daily shipments of Pils Urquell. His English wasn't terrific, but he arrived with a sexy young translator. Central and South American leaders accept young women as fringe benefits and Daniel sure didn't pass that up while building a socialist paradise.
Our guides were a pair from the Sandanista Youth, wearing the ubiquitous red neck scarves. They'd nicked the idea from Comsomol and I wanted one too. I still have it.
The woman, Maria, was cool and the only reason I would've stayed on if I was allowed. Frankly, it was far too hot and picking coffee lost its attraction after a week or two.
Maria had been educated in the US and Poland, for some reason. Poland is bleak, and I can understand why she wanted to come home to the Caribbean. She was 22, idealistic and happily married, unfortunately.
Our Cuban doctor friends had a habit of practicing at an improvised rifle range 6am every morning and far too close to our camp. They substituted accuracy for volume, insisting on blowing shit out of the targets on full automatic. I pity any Contra coming down from the hills dressed as a hay bale - they'd be shredded.
A doctor called Alessandro taught me to strip down an AK-47 in 40 seconds and basic triage. He really WAS a doctor. I reckon I could still strip down an AK-47, shoot it, and stop the bleeding afterwards.
I was once pompously labelled 'naive' by a snooty American on an Author's message board. I volunteered 'notorious', but he wouldn't buy it.
"You guys lost!" he declared, triumphantly.
So glad of that. Now the world can be at peace.
Notorious Don
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