Blogger Bill

“Priscilla, Queen of the Desert”

On Tuesday night my wife and I saw the marvellous stage show “Priscilla, Queen of the Desert”, and then the next day, together with our grandchildren, we saw a performance of “The Frog Prince” as a pantomime. They were all enjoyable performances ranging from the spectacular to the cute. There’s a common theme of winning through and overcoming obstacles, from which I take some object lessons for my life.

In Priscilla, three drag queens travel in an old bus from Sydney to Alice Springs for a season of their stage show. On their epic journey through the desert they meet prejudiced yobbos, accepting aborigines, physical violence, kindness, and the blossoming of love and acceptance. This is a twentieth century traveller’s tale of the genre of “Pilgrim’s Progress” where there are personal and societal obstacles to be faced and overcome. Not all the hope comes to fruition, but the seeds of hopefulness are sown to give a happy note at the end.

One man finds the love of another man, a mechanic who repairs their old bus, which is called Priscilla. Another man finds acceptance from his young son, aged about nine. But for these gay men, rejection and ridicule are always there from others. And as one man says “You’d think we’d get used to it, but it still hurts.”

That stage show was spectacular beyond expectations, and some of the time my eyes were brimming with tears and I was choking back sobs, so happy I was to share in the spectacular, glitzy, funny show full of music and light. The occasion was Glenyce’s seventieth birthday, and together we’d shared a delightful pre-show Thai meal of Red Duck Curry, Grilled Barramundi Fillet and a little excellent wine. We loved it all.

In my own life, there are things that I do and ways I think that can and do lead to rejection or ridicule, but I never get used to the prejudice and non-acceptance by others. It can still hurt to realise that others view me as “different”. But I cannot change my underlying personality, even though someone might view me a “fruitcake” because of my behaviour, ideas and view of life.

The “Frog Prince”

The next day, Wednesday, we took our granddaughters (7 and 8 ) to a small suburban theatre to enjoy the pantomime “The Frog Prince”. Although it was a contrast to the big professional show, nevertheless it had its own charm. The story involves a young princess who wishes to marry a handsome young prince. But an evil witch wants the young prince to marry her own daughter, a repulsive brat.

Rejected, the old crone casts a spell on the prince, who becomes turned into a frog. He can only be released from the froggy spell by the kiss of a maiden. Of course that eventually occurs, and everyone lives happily afterwards, except for the witch and her horrible daughter, who both get turned into frogs.

For me, the underlying theme of the panto is one of being cursed with some burden which prevents one from leading a happy life. From my own point of view, my own body and mind present certain obstacles (curses) that, unless properly dealt with, prevent me from having a happy, fulfilled life. Although these cannot be wished away by the kiss of a maiden, there are things I can do to, as it were, lift their “spell” upon me.

These ways of thinking can be faced and handled. For me the spell has been faced with the aid of my wife and family, my psychiatrist and doctors, my friends, and my own thinking processes. The struggle is ongoing, as my “curses” are always hovering in the background, but my resources are also available for me help life my life more fully.

The Show Must Go On

Held in a small suburban theatre called the Tivoli, the show was about to start, packed with kids, grandparents and parents, when there was a large bang, then a zzzzzzzt of electricity, and the lights went out! Much consternation as we sat, illuminated only by dim emergency lighting. The owners tried to phone the power company, but it was engaged. There was no telling how long this would last, but I suspected some time, because Melbourne was being hit by winds of cyclonic rating one!! Directly outside, we later discovered, a large tree had been blown over, bringing down power lines. There were to be extensive power cuts all over Victoria, and other wind damage.

In the Tivoli, they opened some front curtains to let in some daylight onto the stage, lit candles to place in the toilets, and found several torches. Terry, the owner, came on stage and chatted with us. With our permission and our approval, he asked us to be patient, and suggested that the show would proceed. And so it did! With the aid of dim light, and with some torches as spotlights, we enjoyed the show even more than usual owing to the unique circumstances!

And so it is for of each and every one of us. We must all continue living our own pantomime of life.

My wife Glenyce turns seventy years old tomorrow. The family had us out to a Thai restaurant yesterday (Sunday), and we all had a very good time, the whole ten of us!

Here’s what I’ve written on her birthday card for tomorrow:

We are not wealthy, but nor are we poor,
We’re not really ill, but often painful and sore.
Our children love us, it seems more and more,
And are happy to come home and ring at our door.

I have a good wife, who’s really the best
Companion in life: our love pass’d the test.
We have had our troubles and often been stressed,
But we’re here together and really are blest.

Today is your birthday: We’ll take in a show;
“Priscilla the Desert Queens” from near the back row.
But first to eat Chinese we’re going to go
Drink up some wine - just go with the flow!

In our life we seem to be doing alright,
Mustn’t let things worry us ‘wake half the night.
We’ll trust and we’ll try to hold our hearts aright
Hand in hand together to a future that’s bright.

Well, it’s been a long gap since I blogged, but here’s a summary:

Success at Inverloch Jazz Festival

My band the Jazz Travellers were included and successfully played two sets in the Inverloch Jazz Festival, but I came down with a moderately debilitating case of physical and mental exhaustion after-wards. I was done in by a combination of the hot days I spent in the caravan there, and medication for severe back pain originating from the caravanning. That and driving back to Melbourne and then taking my digital piano out to the other side of Melbourne for a one-hour gig in a nursing home.

My psychiatrist baldly stated that I had over-reached my self yet again. I didn’t think it was going to be too much until it actually happened! I seem to have settled down now.

Merimbula Jazz Festival

I have registered two bands to play in the Merimbula Jazz Festival in early June. We have ample time to prepare, and I am taking on board a singer, Ann Smith for the Jazz Travellers.

Colonoscopy

Today I had a “colonoscopy”, a medical examination of the interior of the large intestine. I haven’t had any symptoms like bleeding or real pain, but I can’t resist the temptation of the pun to say that let’s just say that I had a gut feeling about it. No nasties were found, but I do have diverticulosis, a modification of parts of the internal structure of the colon. This can give rise to pain and “discomfort”, and infections or even an abscess.

I remember talk that my father had something the same. I can’t see anything on the internet about the disorder other than it’s not uncommon in people my age, and probably not hereditary. The remedy seems to be lots of roughage, fruit, vegetables, grains and so on. Well, that’s been more or less my diet for many decades - we’ve always eaten healthily in this family. Perhaps the damage arose from my diet in my youth? Who knows?

But it’s nice to know I don’t have polyps or cancer of the bowel down there.

I get periods of constipation arising from pain relief from paracetamol/codeine combinations, but I do my best to minimize that usage. It’s a fine balance of pain relief over against constipation.

Well, I decided to apply the simple basic rules of Rational Emotive Therapy to myself, and seem to be climbing up out of the emotional trough. A reminder of false, ineffective beliefs to be avoided:-

(1) I must perform well to be approved of by others who are perceived significant.
(2) you must treat me fairly—if not, then it is horrible and I cannot bear it.
(3) conditions must be my way and if not I cannot stand to live in such a terrible and awful world.

To the extent that I can counteract those false beliefs, I can then live a healthier life.

And so, accordingly, I’ve conferred with my muso mates and registered the Jazz Travellers for the Inverloch Jazz Festival, which runs over the weekend of 7th-10th of March. The documents were sent by high priority mail, but we will not know if we are accepted until during this week.

We needed a bass player, and fortunately I managed to find someone at last Monday’s Showbiz Club, to which I belong. Unfortunately she is just shifting to Wonthaggi, a couple of hours drive from here, so it’s unlikely she will be able to rehearse with us.

In the meantime, yesterday I rehearsed all of our numbers with Rob Milligan (drums), and Colin Garrett (tenor sax and clarinet). We’ll do OK if we can get into Inverloch. But I’ve decided not to cry myself to sleep if we miss out. We’ll find places to play around here.

As well as that, we are planning to play at the Merimbula Jazz Festival, 6th-9th June, 2008. I’ve been twice to this large festival. You get a range of good bands from Sydney,
Melbourne, Canberra and Adelaide, and my players are keen to go. I just need to find a bass player who wants to travel that far, and preferably is prepared to rehearse with us here in Melbourne. I’ve phoned around, but so far anyone who’s going is already in several bands. There are restrictions on the number of bands to which a musician can belong; this is to make clash-free programming easier.

But we plan to get there in June, and enjoy the ambiance of a beautiful seaside town with an excellent jazz festival, in the South Coast of New South Wales. In the meantime I’ll try to get hold of a bass player, which is essential for the mainstream style of music which we play.

Let the good times roll!

This very date last January I had just come out of a 5 1/2 hour long operation in which my prostate gland was removed by robotic surgery. Results since then show that I am free of cancer cells.

What’s more, my waterworks has recovered almost (but not quite) completely, so that I am almost fully continent. I just have to watch it at night after having a few alcoholic drinks.

However, my sexual functioning is pretty well moribund, which is a great pity - although I haven’t given up all hope yet.

So you’d think that having had a potential death sentence removed from hovering over me, that life would be hunky-dory. Not unexpectedly, it hasn’t always been so. I always find some things to get upset, angry, anxious or depressed about.

I suppose that makes me a normal human being after all, instead of some sort of saint.

But yesterday I found that two jazz bands of mine that I was scheduled to play with at the Grampians Jazz Festival are not mentioned in the program. What’s more, the organizers say they never received my registration forms.

This means that the Jazz Travellers and Jazz Therapy apparently do not exist, and that my wife and I, and my fellow musicians, and their partners and a friend, having booked accommodation and made travel arrangements, are inconvenienced for the weekend of February 8-10th. Three of those musicians are in other bands, and so are not left out, but four other people are highly inconvenienced. To go to the jazz, they would have to pay $50 each, instead of much lower prices as friends of musos.

I know I mailed the forms, plus the cheque, because Glenyce watched me do it. I know posted it all on 26th November. But the cheque hasn’t been cashed, and the first I knew of the situation was a phone call from a friend to say we weren’t in the draft program, sent by mail.

I don’t know what went wrong, but I know it wasn’t something I did incorrectly.

This has hit me very hard. I wish it didn’t but it did. I wish I was tougher, but I’m not. In the last few years I have become more emotionally labile; tears are apt to come over little things, usually when watching the news or a show on TV: something touches my heart unexpectedly and the moisture comes, along with the quivering lip. I hide it because it makes no sense and I can’t explain myself. I have sometimes left the room because I don’t want my wife to see it. It’s a nuisance.

After my friend phoned to tell me we weren’t on the draft program, realization of the true import swept over me like a cold, white, rigid cloud that froze my soul and clutched at my heart. In a dream I walked in to Glenyce to give her the news. Oh, I went through the steps needed to find out the truth; scanning my computer banking records (cheque not cashed); phoning the organizer (nothing received); jogging my memory of events (Glenyce saw me assemble the paperwork and make up the envelope).

It availed nothing. By now, the coldness had invaded my body. I felt faint and weak. I had trouble speaking.

It felt so bloody melodramatic!

I sat down to phone my fellow musicians. My mind was clouded. I asked my wife to sit by my side as I dialed Rob the drummer, who with his wife Fay is booked into accommodation at Hall’s Gap, together with their friend Mae, who will be $70 out of pocket. Then I rang Colin, our saxophone and clarinet player. He’s just separated from a wife who disliked his practising at home. He’s keen to get out and play jazz, and I’d given him this opportunity to get back into the scene. Then there’s Charles, our bass player - he’s OK, because he’s playing in two other bands. I rang Russell (reeds player), bearer of the bad news in the first place, and he’ll phone up Marshall (drummer) from Geelong. They’re OK, because they are in other bands, too.

Everyone was just as incredulous as me, and very understanding for me. But it’s a very hard thing to do.

Right now, my stomach is knotting up, there’s a pain in my chest and a lump in my throat. I feel weak and have to break off typing this.

Why is this important to me? Well, back in 1988, after some years battling serious depression, I had to retire very early from my career as a chemistry lecturer - something I loved doing. It was necessary at the time, but that loss took a lot of getting over. I’ve never really recovered, unfortunately. I just have to accept that that’s what’s happened to me - and and is still affecting me. I wish I could let it go, but it doesn’t happen easily.

One thing I did then was to improve my piano-playing skills.

In 1994 I took some lessons from a well-known jazz piano player, Stephen Sedergreen, and 9 years later some from his father Bob. I’ve practiced thousands of hours. When I felt ready I got myself into a starting jazz band playing “traditional” or Dixieland jazz. I branched out and got to play with other bands, playing at country jazz festivals such as the Grampians, Inverloch, Merimbula, and other places. I’ve also played at quite a few paid gigs and done plenty of freebies. It’s quite hard to get paid work, and there’s competition from extremely good musicians.

A few years ago I started my own band called the Jazz Travellers to play a more modern style called mainstream, plus Latin, and various ballads. I’ve worked with singers, too, and played for a couple of amateur theatre shows.

Playing good quality jazz is something I aspire to, and I think I’m reasonably competent. I’ve become known to many around the scene here in Melbourne. I just want to play the music I like with competent, enthusiastic musicians who are prepared to rehearse. With a reeds player, Colin, and a drummer, Rob, I’ve been rehearsing, and we’ve have picked out the 16 tunes needed for the two sets you need to play to take part in a jazz festival. The reward is that you get to perform in public before discerning audiences, and can enjoy seeing all the other bands.

Glenyce and I have been looking forward to parking our caravan in the Hall’s Gap caravan park, enjoying the unique ambiance of that beautiful place, meeting all of our friends, and listening to some good jazz during the 3 days. It’s a place to play and be heard and judged by your peers, and to make new friends. We’ve been going on and off about for about 9 years.

But last year I had to pull out because of my prostatectomy in January.

So you can see that I’ve a lot of emotional investment in appearing in the jazz festival. I have to try to be philosophical about it all. But I can do all the Rational Emotive Behaviour Therapy (REBT) positive self-talk that I can manage, but my autonomic nervous system has a mind of its own.

Actually, it is a mind of its own.

And no matter how cool I try to be about life’s little dealings with me, on this occasion I feel absolutely knocked for a row.

Here are the main tenets of rational emotive therapy that I need to apply to my present circumstances - these are the irrational beliefs that will prevent me from having a good life:-

(1) I must perform well to be approved of by others who are perceived significant.
(2) you must treat me fairly—if not, then it is horrible and I cannot bear it.
(3) conditions must be my way and if not I cannot stand to live in such a terrible and awful world.

To the extent that I can counteract those false beliefs, I can then live a healthier life.

I’m working on it!

And Now - Grizzle Time!

I alternate from full-on activities to feeling ill, headachey, with strong persistent back and leg pain. That seems to be my lot in life - my vitality (good word) - seems to have decreased markedly, I’m afraid.

And I am afraid: afraid of becoming an old man. I’m 69 and people often tell me I don’t look it - I suppose I don’t - but I’m feeling it more and more. The back pain is there like a permanent spasm which affects the way I bend, twist and lift things. Even just when making some coffee and tea I feel the restraint in my actions.

I don’t really know what to do about it: I’ve had all the operations they’ll do. My specialist says walking is excellent for back pain, and we do go for walks, but never at the recommended level. Why? Because these suburban streets bore me shitless, and because it’s been very hot, and I have headaches, and because there’s something far more interesting when I read a book or surf the internet.

Somehow I need to break out, but I’m not sure how. Otherwise I feel like I’ll subside, slump, as it were, into some sort of pile of flesh and bones, waiting for death.

A Museum Outing

That’s the feeling always in the background. But I’ve done a lot of things to make life interesting. We went into the city and picked up some specs that had been made for us - that was the occasion for a coffee together, and a look around the swanky Collins Place. The freeway goes straight into city from near our place, and I enjoy driving.

Last week I had an afternoon of playing with a saxophone player with whom I’m going to play at the Grampians Jazz Festival. That was fun, and we did some hard work on arrangements.

Glenyce and I also took our granddaughters (7 and 8 ) to the Melbourne Museum, which was excellent. In some earlier years I’ve dreaded taking those kids somewhere because they were very manipulative and very exasperating. In the last year or so they seem to have been socialized, due to natural maturation and the influence of school.

It was a day of 42 degC heat, and the air-conditioned museum was chock-a-block with children and Mums with prams. I didn’t mind at all, even though I am not a person who naturally gravitates toward children. We found millions of interesting things to see, including an excellent Bee Circus, for which we had tickets (via the internet). This was put on by members of the National Institute of Circus Arts, who gave us an entertaining, enlightening and very satisfying show about the life of bees, using all sorts of circus skills such as juggling, tumbling, rope and trapeze work. It really made the day.

I could really enjoy just going to the Museum on my own, and just enjoy looking closely at the exhibits that really interest me, such as the mind and brain, minerals and gemstones, the history of surgery, and things to do with the history of science.

As we drove our little girls home, they fell asleep in the car, as they often do. But eight year old Chelsea woke up just in time to direct us into their home through a maze of back streets; she knew the street names and whether to turn left or right. Bless her little heart!

A West End Musical Sparks Me Up

A highlight of last week was going with our daughter Leanne to see the stage show “Spamelot”. From the pen of Eric Idle, one of the Monty Python gang, this show was replete with the absurdist humour characteristic of the best of British comedy. You either get that humour or you don’t; if you don’t, you usually prefer American humour, although, paradoxically, Monty Python did well in the U.S. Before the show we ate at a nearby Chinese restaurant; the food was quite nice, although the Malaysian Gado Gado had a horrible gluggy peanut sauce all over it.

“Spamelot” was simply stunning. We don’t get to many stage shows, because of the expense, but this was worth every penny of the $115 for tickets. It was extremely funny, with a lot of Pythonesque “in” jokes, the dancing, singing, costumes, and lighting and staging was absolutely world class, and we laughed ourselves silly. God it felt good!! I appreciate such performance quality very much - I loved it. I’m the person that often laughs at something that few others do. I have an ear for the ridiculous, and nothing is more ridiculous than one’s self. That’s why I can never really take myself seriously. but often use self-deprecating humour.

The Absurdity of Life

We came home with a couple of sets of coconut shells (at $25 per pair!), as a souvenir. This is because at the centre of the tale there is a ridiculous King Arthur character, looking for the Holy Grail, together with assorted knights. He is accompanied by a faithful servant with a pile of luggage tied onto his back. As they “trot along”, the servant bangs the coconut shells together to make a sound just like horses hooves. Life is like that!

The whole thing is adapted from a successful film made many years ago by the Monty Python comedians, called “Monty Python and the Holy Grail”, in which many such comedic features abound. The coconut shells are just one example of that. Ourselves and our three children are avid fans of Python humour, and we got the shells so we can muck around with them, and show our granddaughters how to do it. I hope they like Monty Python and similar humour as they grow up!

Hard Yakka With Rooting

Today I started to renovate a garden area ravaged by heavy flooding rain a month ago. We have an area covered by wood chips, because we can’t afford to pave it yet. But the flood-water floated all the wood chips all over the place, and we have to redistribute them and add some more. I discovered roots just under the exposed soil surface, and started pulling them up. They turned out to be fanning out in all directions just under the wood chips. They come from a couple of nice creepers which afford us shade and privacy. But I had to chop them out to redistribute and renew the wood chip cover. I Hope the creepers survive this.

It was very hard work. I find it painful to bend over and pull things out, but it had to be done. By the time I’d got rid of the roots and raked the old wood chips and disturbed soil even, I was sweating and out of breath. My muscles tend to go into spasms, and I just have to stop. I’ll do the rest tomorrow, which unfortunately will be a hot day. Today was a beautiful day - a welcome relief from series of 40 degree days we’ve had over the holiday season.

It did me good to get some exercise out in the fresh air.

I vary so much in my moods, it’s not funny at all! Actually I don’t - vary that is. I’m mostly kind of struggling. In the last two weeks Glenyce and I have really battled against common head colds. Nothing grandiose like “flu”, as some folks mostly like to call colds. Just colds that fill the nose and throat with mucus, a body feeling sapped, and a mind that’s full of cotton wool. Been going over two weeks. Add to that the festivities, season with some days over 40 here in Melbourne, stir in constant niggling pain from the arthritis/sciatica and garnish with dull headaches from I don’t know what - prolly Codeine poisoning, I’m told.

Anyway, last week I got really pissed off at not being able to copy music CDs (let alone a DVD) with my gee-whiz computer with two DVD read-write drives. This has been going on for 12 months. Oh I could copy files onto CD OK, but Windows sort of didn’t really invite me into its interstices and offer to do a straight disk copy. I could copy music off a CD as .wav files or others with CDex. Not game to try to write data to DVD in case it fails. Then I’d get all depressed or morose or pissed off. Silly, I know - but I’m neurotic - if that helps to explain it. I had this computer built, added a second DVD drive I had, and later a second 250 GB hard drive. I can do a few things, but I’m not really expert.

Nero and Me

I used it have Nero CD Burner for the copy task, on the previous computer, but it vanished along the way. So I finally bit the bullet and hit the nail on the head, nose to the grindstone - funny position to work in - and purchased Nero 8, for $199. This is a suite of a couple of dozen programs to handle everything to do with sound, images, CD and DVD writing, maintaining your computer, feeding the cat and - oh yes - copying disks!

Day before New Year’s Eve I installed it, latish. Went fine, it registered OK, and went to look for updates on the net. Found them. “Download and install?”, it asked. “Sure, why not?”, I said. but first it had to un-install the programs it had just installed. OK, why not? Then off it raced off up the internet, and downloaded. For over an hour!

Meantime, Windows Update pops up and wants to download and install critical updates. “Why not?”, I thought. Off it went, too. Then it installs said critical updates and wants to restart my computer. “No way!”, said I, “I want to get this friggin’ Nero going.” Windows update reminds me about every ten minutes that I really ought to restart, y’know! I hate nags.

By now my night time pills are working, I’m dying to lie down, I’m having coughing fits, a headache, and I can feel gastric reflux setting in. Off to drink some warm milk, take some Duro-Tuss Forte (good cough suppressant - but double the dose is needed), some more back pills, head pills and another half a Temazepam. Nero 8 does its business again into my machine, so to speak, sets up with all updated files, but wants to restart. It’s past 1 am. I give up ’til next morning.

I sleep in thoroughly, have brekky, get human, and then tackle the machine. Startup brings in some more fiddling by Nero 8, which wants to take over most of my file types. I prefer image viewing with Irfanview, and image manipulation with Paint Shop Pro, and I don’t really know how good Nero 8 will be for me. Well, it’s OK, but will take some getting used to. I try it all, get confused and wait until my mind is clearer - if ever again! Its over 40 today - again! It will be tomorrow, too!

New Year’s Eve we go to my son’s place, where we watch TV (grrr - I hate Elton John and avoid Andrew Lloyd Webber if I can). Then it’s nibblies and a glass’a two of champagne, fireworks on telly, party poppers for us, and a bit of pavlova and chocolate cake. “Gastric reflux tonight”, I think. It didn’t happen! Hoo-bloody-ray!!

Happy New Year

New Year’s Day I discover that I cannot send emails!! The Outlook Express settings have been changed by something!! Nero? Windows Update? (I suspect the latter.) It takes a while to find out what to fix, and I swore out loud a few times. One email account still doesn’t work… I wind up with this real sense of frustration that while I’m doing all this fucking around I can’t get onto some creative writing.

But I can do a simple smooth CD copy now!!

I tried to go to an older Restore Point, but something different had done Restore Points I didn’t recognize - probably Windows Update. If I went further back in the Restores, I’d muck up Nero 8 and have to go through their whole blasted install, un-install, update, re-install, and so on. I’d had it! What in God’s name did something secretly, unilaterally change my email settings??

Yaaaaaaaaaah! There, that feels better.

Then I got suspicious of a few programs running in the background that might have come in with aspects of Nero. Or something - I dunno.

Fishing around Googling on stuff I can see happening in Windows Task Manager, I Google off looking for info. I notice a good site called Answers That Work. I see advertised a program called The Ultimate Troubleshooter which can help to figure out what some tasks and services are doing. I buy it! now for over 50 bucks I’ve got a tool to figure out whether there are things that interfere with the smooth running of the computer - perhaps it will help.

It certainly chews up my time poring over this stuff. The hours go by like the wind. One reason is that years ago I adopted the practice of taking very careful notes of what I do in a Log Book. This valuable practice I acquired when studying chemistry, but it takes time.

Now, here I am, flapping around my computer, making some progress, but appalled at the time it takes just to keep it functioning properly. I can do the real stuff with CDs and DVDs, I can see what the hell’s happening in my machine, perhaps I can get onto doing some more productive tasks.

At least I finally got to write in my slightly neglected blog.

Just a diary entry - no nice prose, but it records where I’m “at”, as the modern saying goes. Better then nothig.

Would you agree?

OK, you have a jazz band, playing good old standards, doing some great solos, nice audience. What’s a fan supposed to do to show his appreciation?

Some sit at the bar or at the table, unmoving, cool as a cucumber. No tapping feet, no body movement, no finger moving with the beat sully this cool Joe. When the band finishes, this guy gives polite, restrained applause. He’s heard it all before, spent countless hours listening to live jazz and recordings. He has standards, he’s a critical listener. If I play the piano he’s comparing me with Fats Waller, with Oscar Peterson, with Bob Sedergreen, with Graeme Coyle or some such star.

He doesn’t give unearned applause. He doesn’t applaud just any old solo - oh no! - you’ve got to be good. He’s jaded, casts not his pearls before swine. When others go wild with appreciation, he holds back. The milk of human kindness oozeth not from his dugs. Such constipated audience members are always there. Because they feel superior they get their kicks that way, there they sit, casting a kill-joy pall all around.

Damned Enthusiasts!

At the other extreme (I plead guilty, m’lud!) is the Enthusiast!! Fingers and feet virtually flailing, he lets it all hang out, the devil take the hind-most. Unabashed at his bodily excesses, he wants to show his appreciation every which way! Jazz must be not only enjoyed but must be seen to be enjoyed. Tabletop or bar is enthusiastically tapped, ankles are wiggled, a broad grin lights his dial, and bon-homie exudes from his soul.

Tapping spoons on glasses, though, is beyond the pale!

Musos notice it. I once saw reeds player Alex Hutchinson step down from the stage, stride across the floor and offer a fiver to a highly animated mate of mine, so embarrassed was he by the antics! A good joke, but it made the point.

About Jazz Solos

What do you do about solos? Do you applaud after each one, no matter how good, just to encourage the hapless soul? Purists adopt the classical music approach - clap only at the very end of the concerto - not even between movements - and then the applause must be wild, even extravagant, perhaps with muffled “bravos” interspersed.

But this is jazz, most of which cannot even remotely compared with classical music; the raison d’être is quite different. The essence of jazz is improvised solos - it’s made up on the spot, and on a good day, it can be brilliant, on a bad day forgettable. Improvisation is very rare in classical music - it’s essence is in the delivery, the virtuosity, the rendition.

Some say that clapping only spoils the entry of the next soloist. They do have a point, but - nyah! - really good solos are rare. It’s just that every dog deserves his day.

Well, I sp’ose most folks are in between. Most tap along a bit, or just nod their heads and smile - in time with the music, of course. The day has long gone when I worried about how other listeners react to however I enjoy my jazz. I just kinda let it all hang out - in a sophisticated way, of course. Wouldn’t wanna be taken for one of those - shudder - Enthusiasts!!

Let the good times roll!!

It came to be that last Tuesday I went to the funeral of a trumpet-playing friend of mine, Royce Charlett. Ten days earlier, he had suddenly collapsed at home and died, to be found by his partner Christine, poor girl. He had had no previous symptoms of heart disease, so when she found him dead on the bedroom floor it was a huge shock.

It’s not as if I played regularly with him, but we played some gigs at the Grampians Jazz Festival, 2002, plus a couple of well-paid commercial jobs about the same time, at Xmas luncheons of the Brain Research Institute, at the Austin Hospital. The thing is, I came to realize that it’s not so much how often I play with a musician, or just listen to them, but it’s the fact that a friend or acquaintance is just there, doing their thing in a way that I enjoy or admire. I suppose that even if I dislike someone they still have a part in the warp and weft of my life’s fabric!

His death left a hole in my life. I came to realize that my grasp upon the world I inhabit comprises a matrix of connections with people like Royce. My connections range from intense to casual, from right now to way in the past, or even just some connection from even my earliest years; but each has its place in my being.

Way back about 1999 I formed the first band of my own. Until then, from 1997, I’d been playing with various bands playing what is called, variously, “trad jazz” (traditional jazz), or Dixieland, or New Orleans jazz. Before then I’d just played some solo piano in a few places, and much earlier in my life I’d played the drums for thirty years with my mother’s dance bands - but that’s another story!

My new band was called the Jazz Travellers, to play the style of music called “mainstream”. I was looking for a drummer. Royce at that time was running the Monbulk Jazz Festival, and I phoned him for help to find a drummer. He was very helpful; I did find a drummer and in due course that band played at Monbulk and several other festivals. This year I’m playing with my Jazz Travellers yet again (after some years’ break) at the Grampians.

Trumpeter Royce Charlett playing at Merimbula, June, 2007.

I took the above picture at Merimbula Jazz Festival last June. Like many jazz musicians he plays with his eyes shut. Sometimes I do that while playing the piano here at home, and I don’t quite know where you go to, but it’s somewhere where the good jazz comes from. It must be an altered state of consciousness, because it’s similar to times that I meditate. I don’t meditate enough these days - should do it more often.

I happen to be an atheist. I find no advantage in my life in trying to believe in a non-existent deity, and do not believe that I will exist in any way after my death. But I do know that there is a lot not known or understood about the brain and the mind. I have had many valuable experiences whilst meditating, and I think it’s a healthy thing to do.

Now, I don’t know where my good mate Royce has gone to now, but I’d like to believe that he’s gone to wherever he was when he was playing his beloved trumpet in that picture that I took. That’s a nice idea.

My best-laid plans for regular blogging have (not unexpectedly) taken a nose-dive already, so here’s a summary of this week.

Last Sunday we had the family over for a BBQ lunch. I had trouble with the gas fittings, then in the hands of my son it came good: I don’t know what he did differently, but all of a sudden it worked properly. Now I have to return $70 worth of replacement gas plumbing that I’d bought, unnecessarily so, it seems. Still haven’t got back to Bunnings with that.

Monday I recovered from Sunday.

Tuesday I went to the funeral of a jazz friend of mine, where I shed tears. Then we went to a wake afterwards, and I managed to play the piano for an hour or so with some of the jazzies there. That was good practice, as well as a little exposure to other guys. Several took my details. We’d left home at 9:25 am, and arrived home about 4:45 pm. so it was a long day.

Wednesday I saw my psych on the morning, then played with a trio at the Monash Uni Staff Club for 2 hours before whizzing off to Bentleigh to play with the same musos for about 30 min at a large retirement village/nursing home. Then I shot back to Glen Waverley for an appointment with my urologist. He said my prostate PSA level is zero, so the January surgery can still be called successful: no cancer left. I was pretty tired after all that!

Thursday I wrote letters in some Xmas cards, to get the 6 pm mail in our street (cutting it fine for deliveries). But in the afternoon, nature intervened in the form of a torrential downpour that caused serious flooding and damage in our suburb, plus others. Our back yard was flooded to 9 inches (do your own conversion). The cards missed the mail!

Friday I posted said cards at the Post Office, dropped in 17 prescriptions to get them paid for on the safety net which expires next week. Then I picked up Chelsea and Victoria (grandkids) from school, it being the last school day, all getting caught in yet another brief torrential downpour while we were at it. It rained hard all afternoon, and the underground car parks at The Glen (big shopping centre) were still flooded from yesterday, so the medicine I’ll pick up on Sunday, when we can park properly.

Tonight I have insomnia and have the head cold Glenyce already has. But I did get to cook some Thai red curry and rice for tea.

Now it’s going on 5 am, and I’ll go back to bed. Have to go early to my daughter’s place to be there when the electrician comes to inspect her light fittings which were damaged by water leaking from the ceiling during Thursday’s amazing rainstorm.

I’ll be very tired, but that’s life.

In a previous life I taught organic chemistry at RMIT University Applied Chemistry Department for 25 years, until I needed to retire because of ill health. Although I left 20 years ago, I regularly attend the department’s Xmas luncheons. As the years have rolled by, I meet fewer and fewer of my old colleagues. Some just don’t come any more, others are in ill health, and some have died.

They always seem glad to see me, which is heartening, because I left suddenly, leaving some of them with an increased work load. I am often assured that they missed me. With the passing years, student numbers have dwindled, money has tightened, and no doubt well-meaning “managerial types” have made many changes. Staff have been reduced, and work-loads have increased.

Each year I am usually greeted by remaining staff saying: “You’re well off out of here, Bill. It’s just getting worse!”

Receiving this opinion with mixed feelings, I nevertheless go on to have a jolly time chatting over food and drink, hearing how things are going for each friend, and swapping old stories with lots of laughter and camaraderie.

Last Thursday at the restaurant I spoke up: “You wouldn’t believe it, but last January I had my prostate gland removed by laparascopic surgery.”

Hugh (77), to my right, said: “That’s interesting. So did I!”

We laughed at the coincidence, comparing notes. Turns out mine was slightly enlarged but cancerous, but his was grossly enlarged, preventing urination, but not cancerous. His was by manual laparoscopy, and mine was by the new-fangled Da Vinci Robotic laparascopy. We joked about catheters and pelvic floor exercises.

Ann (younger than me), to my left, said: “I know all about pelvic floor exercises because I’ve recently had a hysterectomy!!”

And so we all laughed, acutely aware that we’re all of an age where these things, operations and health “events”, are par for the course.

Then I remarked that I’ve had hearing tests and it’s recommended that I would benefit from hearing aids - rather expensive ones - up to $4,000 per ear!!

“Like these?”, said my mate Tom from across the table, adding: “These cost a couple of thousand per ear!”

Wryly, I nodded, and had a chat about hearing aids. Yep! Definitely all of a certain age.

The meal dishes came and went, and wine was imbibed. In no time we got into some humorous awards, jokes, and carol singing (with chemically altered words). After enough drinks I soon found myself out the front, part of a quartet leading the songs. I’m not much of a singer, but I even sang harmony!

Finally, after a four-hour lunch, we made our way walking the kilometre or so down towards the RMIT Uni, on the edge of the Melbourne CBD. They were going for more drinks and Xmas cake in the department, but I’d had enough: I had to drive through peak hour traffic back home, ready to go out to a music concert. I know my limits these days!

I had a bloody good time! What a great bunch of people to have known and still know.

I wonder who’ll be missing next year?

It’s not as though I’ve stopped living my life, but it’s just that I’ve stopped recording it or commenting on it, here in this blog.

My last blog item was early in September. The year just dribbles by. Since I enjoyed the last few outings of the fungi season with my Field Nats friends; I have dozens of excellent photos with with I’ve done nothing. I’ve played jazz piano at monthly outings of the Showbiz Club I belong to, and started rehearsing with several musician friends. We’re playing really well.

In early February I’ll be playing in two bands at the Grampians Jazz Festival. (Don’t expect much from that web site because the bounders don’t keep it up to date at all!) I was going to play in two at this year’s at the Grampians, but I had a radical prostatectomy instead! This time last year I had no idea I had prostate cancer, but glad I had the tests. It’s wrecked my sex life, but for years that was pretty abysmal anyway. A sore point with me, that is. Musn’t dwell!

Since last writing in an act of hopefulness that I could be of service in a fine organisation, the Victorian Jazz Archive, I got involved with learning to be a tour guide and also help them update their web site. But this week I resigned from that endeavour because I am finding too many fuzzy-headed, painful days. When that happens, I can’t be of value to anyone and just an embarrassment to myself.

I’ve learned from the past to restrict myself to just my core activities, namely, being a good companion to my wife (42 years married yesterday), playing my jazz my way with my friends, and attending to my internet activities here and in my elfram.com site.

And…Oh yes!…In mid-October we went away for a month in our caravan, touring the south coast of NSW from Lakes Entrance to Nowra. God, this country’s beautiful in springtime, regardless of the drought. We did a lot of things, saw many sights, and went on three boat cruises. The first was out to sea from Two-Fold Bay, Eden, watching for humpback whales. We did see them, but they weren’t very spectacular.

What was spectacular was a fall by yours truly, smack down on the deck of the cruise catamaran, bucking around in rough seas! To add injury to the loss of dignity, that solidly sprained my ankle. I hobbled around for the rest of the month, dosing heavily all the time on Panadeine Forte and Neurontin for my normal pain in the back and legs, exacerbated from holiday exertion, plus the sprained ankle.

I came back an exhausted mess, then dried out over a fortnight from the analgesics, but have never really recovered. I’m up and down, but continually depressed, very tired, fuzzy in the head, and with unpredictable bursts of back and leg pain. Some days I can barely utter a coherent sentence - or so it feels.

But this is a new start to my blogging. I turn 69 on Saturday, am feeling my age, but resolve to keep enjoying what I can. I’m better off than a younger musician friend of mine, an excellent trumpet player and nice fellow all round. Last Saturday Royce Charlett dropped dead from a sudden heart attack, with no prior warning and no previous illness. I’ll miss him, and I’m going to live as though this could happen any time to me!

Vale Royce! A true gentleman, trumpet player and entertainer.

I went to the Crown Casino in Melbourne last Wednesday night. Their promotional video (Note 1) shows how luxurious and extensive are their facilities. They promise a “experience that will linger in your mind forever”.

Well, it really did impress myself and my wife, but not in the way they intended. We were there to have dinner in a relatively modest bar and bistro called The Pub; they offered a Wednesday night meal deal of Porterhouse Steak and a pot of beer for $12. I was with an ad hoc group of friends who occasionally have a meal and a chat in various venues.

Last night’s dinner was for eighteen people, and we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly. We all swapped anecdotes, experiences and opinions on almost everything. Six of our group were there for the first time. But the evening drew to a close and we wended our various ways home.

But as Glenyce and I had never been to this giant, complex venue, (more by design that by accident), we thought we had better have a look before we launched. It was quite an eye-opener. Apart from many lavish shops, restaurants, cafés, bars, theatres and night clubs, there is a huge gambling area that seemed to go on forever. This was absolutely staggering in its size and scope.

Hundreds of poker machines stretched in all directions, garishly glittering lights hypnotising the players as they spun the machines in the hope of a big win. That, of course, will only impel them on to the vain hope in another big win before their assets vanish down the tube. I have friends who’ve been seriously damaged by this mind-set; one of them is essentially destitute.

But, of course, I know that many people get a lot of pleasure from the pokies and all the other types pf games - poker, roulette, and so on. And of course, vast sums arrive in the coffers of the state of Victoria, much of it earmarked for those support for unfortunate citizens who have a gambling problem! Moreover, of course, Crown Casino can offer much free or subsidised entertainment because of the cross-subsidy from the afore-mentioned gamblers. It might be that our $12 cheap meal was possible in this way, so perhaps that sort of makes me a hypocrite!

The thing is, all of this has no charms at all for my wife and myself. In the past I have actually put a dollar or two through a pokie, but mainly to see what it’s all about. And for me, it’s about nothing! It intrigues me that an activity that is hugely attractive for millions of my fellow humans has absolutely no impact on me whatsoever. There seems to be a distinct psychological divide between people like me and people like them.

I wonder if it’s genetic?

I’m not religious (I’m an atheist), I try not to moralize about it, and my beef really is how powerful the whole thing seems to be for the punters. But for us, it just looks and feels crass and tatty.

Perhaps I’m getting old and conservative. That’s a worry!

Note 1: Caution: Streaming video requires broadband ADSL and runs for 3 mins.

For a long time now it has been recognized that the way that we talk to ourselves about the experiences that life offers us has an important influence upon our mental health. And if we can pick up what we telling ourselves at the time we are doing it, we can change those dysfunctional messages to healthier self-talk. This is the crux of Rational Emotive Therapy.

Recently I was able to pick up some of that for myself, and come out of the situation much the wiser and, hopefully, healthier. Only time will tell.

On the Friday I had been to the circus with my wife, daughter and grandchildren. The Big Top was erected in the large car-park of a local pub - basically a beer-barn, concentrating on rock music. Ar half-time I visited the toilet of the pub bistro, and I noticed a grand piano in there. Enquiries to the barmaid told me that “someone used to play it but they don’t now”. She encouraged me to play it there and then; it was about 9 pm, and one table of diners was left. Sitting down, I played a few runs and chords, and to my surprise the table cheered and clapped. I apologised, explained, and left, to their disappointment, as I went back to the circus.

I have been looking for places to play the piano, to enjoy myself, to overcome the anxiety that has dogged me for years, to gain more experience, and to provide pleasure to others. This pub seemed a likely venue; after all, they did have the grand piano, and possibly had some sort of use in mind for it, although my experience tells me that it might once have been used, but a change of management might have made it a white elephant. From my experience, it was unlikely that I would get paid, but maybe petrol money would be possible.

And so on Saturday night I turned up about 6 pm, with my bag of music, to see if I could play for a couple of hours or so. Seeking out the manager, I explained my aim. But he simply said that it was not a decision he could make, but that it would have to wait until the actual manager came back from holidays in a couple of weeks. Slightly deflated, I left, wishing that a manager could simply have made such a simple decision as inviting me to play for one night at least. I wondered at the management arrangement that disallowed such a minor thing on one night. Now I was irritated!

Driving back toward home, I sped up through a set of lights just as they turned amber. As I did so, I’m sure that I felt the flash of a traffic camera going off. I was sure I was though well within the amber time-frame, and wondered whether I was over the 70 kph limit. I couldn’t be sure, and winced at the expensive fine. This had not improved my mood; in fact, I was now pissed off, as they say.

Nevertheless, I decided that as it was early on Saturday night, I might call in to another potential playing venue that I had my eye on, namely the local RSL. Recently remodelled, this boasted a bistro restaurant. They had had a jazz band there occasionally, but not since remodelling, which had reduced the dance floor space. I knew that through a muso friend of mine who’d had that gig. I didn’t hold out much hope, because from a casual glance, diner numbers were not exactly over-flowing. Anyway, such RSLs tend to be oriented toward the poker machine revenue; a musician is unlikely to attract enough extra patronage to pay for the meagre fee I might earn, or so I thought.

But seeing as I was out anyway, I decided to look in. I parked the car and presented myself at the desk. Just as I thought: I would need to see the real manager, Hank, some time during the daytime. I had been primed for disappointment, and here it was, handed to me on a platter. All I had to do was the usual: tell myself how hopeless it all was, and how there’s “no place for live music these days”!

It was while driving the few blocks back home that I caught myself at it. I was busily doing the self-indulgent, self-fulfilling prophecy of no hope, not competent, no room for what I do, yada yada! When this happens, the pattern seems to be that there’s always enough element of truth in it to make it all sound feasible. And all the times that I’ve “failed” in some way, that is, not lived up to my own very tough expectations, come crowding in, a well-lubricated chorus of hopelessness, anxiety and fatigue leading to a fore-gone conclusion.

Except that this time it didn’t work. Why? Because somehow I managed to reply to my own self-sabotage. Don’t ask me why. Perhaps it comes from being desperate enough to realise that I can’t do this for the rest of my life. But of course, I can, but I know that it just feeds into the underlying depression that’s been dogging me day and night for the last 30-odd years.

The facts are that I’m an OK jazz piano player: not brilliant, but competent up to a point, and on a good day I can play beautifully! Also a fact is that I can simply await the return of the pub bistro manager from holidays, then turn up and see if I can get a go at the grand piano on Friday or Saturday night. My chances are not bad, and, see - the thing is - I do like to play a nice grand piano. It brings out the best in my playing.

Another fact is that I’m sure I didn’t run the traffic light on any part of red; I just don’t do that. But if I was a little over the speed limit, as I accelerated uphill, I’ll just cop it sweet, like the other few times I’ve been caught over the years. And the flash might juts have been photographing someone else!

And if I want to go to all the trouble of lugging my own digital piano keyboard into the RSL to play for a modest crowd of diners for some frugal or zero fee, then all I have to do is drop in on Hank the day-time manager, put it to him, and come to some accommodation. After all, I’m getting nothing now. Although I’ve been playing jazz piano seriously for over 12 years now, I’m sufficiently developed enough to make a really good go of it now.

Here’s where the next hurdle comes up! I feel I need to have a CD of my playing so I can hand it to said managers so as to land the gig.

Isn’t it amazing? Here I am, having successfully overcome a slough of negativity, all ready to go, and I hand myself another obstacle in the way of my own success and enjoyment.

I’m currently sixty-eight years old. Is this going to happen until the day I die?

Not bloody likely! Onward!!

For readers in the USA, this is called a napkin! Read all about them and how to fold them here.

A day or so ago, we went to an Ethiopian restaurant called The Horn in the inner suburb of Collingwood, distinguished as the birthplace of my wife. Never had Ethiopian before, and found the combination of four vegetarian and meat dishes delicious and spicy.

Ethiopians eat with their right hand only: presumably the left is reserved for personal hygiene. You get a roll of soft, damp, cool cooked bread called injera. To eat, you put a large piece of injera onto the plate, then tear off a smaller piece. You spoon some food onto the large piece, and then you use a smaller piece to transfer the morsels and gravy to your mouth.

We were there on Thursday night to hear some contemporary jazz from a regular group called The Blow.

I had finished my food and had my head turned talking to a friend when my wife urgently said “Bill, careful!!” I looked down to see that my crumpled paper serviette had caught fire from a small candle nearby! I quickly popped it onto my empty plate and helplessly watched it combust to a thin pile of ashes. Swiftly, the waiter took my flaming plate away while I sat sheepishly looking at my wife, who started to giggle!

I had become the centre of attention by other diners, and tried to look small. However, my efforts were in vain, because all of a sudden we were assailed by the urgent, piercing sound of the smoke detectors going off If I had escaped attention before, I didn’t now, as curious diners craned their heads around the corners to see the middle-aged dick-head who set fire to his serviette (napkin)!

Effecting nonchalance, I took myself off the the toilet to wash my spicy fingers and hide from the crowd a bit. Gathering my wits, I went back in to spend the rest of the evening listening to some hot jazz from The Blow. Their music is rather experimental in the style of free jazz. It takes a bit of getting used to, but is played with a very high standard of musicianship.

My mate Bob Sedergreen was getting used to a new digital piano. I listened with fascination as he explored all the new sounds he could evoke from the large range available on keyboards these days. I was also struck by the style of Peter Harper, where he swayed and crouched as he wrestled all sorts of notes and phrases from his alto sax. Jazz as a spectator sport, as it were!

We’ll be back there soon!

My wife Glenyce and I go on forays for fungi in the bush with a group of knowlegeable enthusiasts from the Field Naturalists Club of Victoria. Last weekend we went via Lady Talbot Drive deep into the forest at “The Beeches”, along an unmade road 15 km NE of Marysville. We were a bit daunted at first, because there was a “Road Closed” sign at the start. Stopping to consult with other members of our group just off the road-side, we heard that other cars had apparently gone ahead of our group, and so eventually up we forged.

We soon saw the reason for the sign, because recent snow and winds had caused damage from fallen trees, and the road was becoming slippery and pot-holed. And at the place for our fungi foray there were still a few small patches of snow.

Slippery forest track and residual snow patches.

Undaunted, rugged up and water-proof, we forged eagerly into the forest gloom. By lunchtime, we’d found a few interesting fungi, but not as many as usual. This forest has 300-year old Myrtle Beeches Nothofagus cunninghamii. Since many fungi are mycorrhizal, being associated with the roots of specific plants, we tend to find a different collection of fungi in different forests.

Inonotus nothofagi top view and pores underneath.

Amongst the interesting fungi of that day was one new to me, Inonotus nothofagi. It grows only on rotting Nothofagus wood as brown brackets, “radially and concentrically grooved with a distinctive pale, crenulate margin” [1] (crenulate: finely toothed with rounded edges). The underneath surface has a greyish-brown irregular labyrinth of open pores.

And so we decided to go back down the weather in convoy owing a bad weather forecast and due to the deteriorating state of the track. It was then that Glenyce discovered that she’d lost her keys! The key-ring had our car key, electronic car lock, front door key and caravan key on it.

We wear waterproof trousers over our slacks, fastened loosely at the ankles. When we put something into our pocket it must first go through the slot in the waterproofs and then safely into the real pocket, the one in our slacks. If we put it merely inside the waterproof’s slot, but not as far as the real pocket, then it falls inside the waterproofs but outside our slacks. From there it might work through the loose gap at the ankle, to fall at random onto the ground! This is what must have happened. We’ve both made this mistake before but caught it at the time!

Her keys could be anywhere inside the forest on or off the tracks. It was a hopeless task to go back and find them, and so we left. At the base of the mountain we all lunched at a charming picnic ground, looked around for more fungi, which we did find. As dusk fell we drove back the 90 km or so to Melbourne.

Later that night, around 3 am, Glenyce woke up, her mind on the keys; she’d gone over all her movements and thought should could remember where she’d last used them. As she recounted it to me over breakfast, we both decided it was worth another round trip of almost 200 km. We would need to buy new keys anyway, and reckoned that if we found them up there, the cost of the petrol would be worth it anyway.

We both enjoy driving and apart from the odd sprinkle or two it was a nice day. She thought they might be on the ground where we’d consulted with the group before forging up the mountain. Searching the gravel and mud closely, we hoped to find them.

But they weren’t there!

I wandered around some more and Glenyce walked off into the deep ferns and shrubs of the open forest. Then I heard a strangled cry of triumph: “I’ve found them!!”

“Fantastic!!”, I yelled back, jubilantly.

Glenyce finding her lost keys in the bush.

She’d had second thoughts, remembering that she’d had a maidenly “bob in the bushes” somewhere in there. She also remembered seeing a couple of interesting fungi near there and had brought one back to show me. It was at that very spot, that the keys had dropped out from the bottom of her waterproof trousers. And so she found them! I rushed into the bush, gave her a great big hug, and told her what a clever girl she was!

Elated, we wandered together around this pretty little spot for a while, looking for nice little fungi, which we always do. It was then that we spied more of those very same ones that she’d seen the day before. Here’s the photo I took:

A nice find, the “Wood Hedgehog”, Hydnum repandum.

Hydnum repandum [2] grows widely in many countries and is relatively common on the ground in Australian forests. The cap and stem are pale peach in colour, and as you can see, underneath there are many delicate, fine, soft teeth. It is from there that the millions of microscopic white spores are continuously released.

Ref: [1] Fuhrer B., A field guide to Australian fungi, Bloomings Books Pty Ltd, Melbourne, 2005, p. 259.
[2] Ditto, p. 242.

In the previous blog entry I summarized my experience of having had a radical prostatectomy in January by the Da Vinci Robotically-Controlled Laparascopic method. I looked forward to regaining urinary continence, and faced my first blood test for residual prostate cancer cells.

Well, on May 1st I went the whole day without using the now-familiar Tena pads in my underpants. Since then I’ve stayed pretty dry apart from the odd easily-concealable dribble which tends to happen when I’ve had a few alcoholic drinks, which seems to make my control slightly wonky as well as it being a diuretic. I am back to normal in the waterworks department!

In May a blood test showed a PSA (Prostate-Specific Antigen) reading of zero, which is very encouraging. But it’s early days and escaped cancer cells can still grow somewhere, so as I come up to the next of my 3-monthly blood PSAs, I await with interest.

In the meantime, I’ve been to several meetings of a local Prostate Support Group, and some of the disturbing stories I heard there make me grateful that I’ve had this cancer detected early, and that I met a good surgeon who offered me the operation that I’ve had.

Now I shouldn’t have anything to grizzle about, but being human, no doubt I will do so!!

Occasional readers of this blog might remember that about Xmas time I was diagnosed with cancer of the prostate gland, with complete removal of that organ recommended by the urology specialist. The story so far in this blog is as follows:-

Startling Probe
What Happens Next
The Journey Begins
First Steps to Killing a Cancer
Expensive Emasculation by Robotic Surgery Coming Up!
Cancer Cure Wrecks Our Budget
Head In Financial Noose
Life Goes On
Seven Shoe Shops Slipper Saga
More Bleeding Dry By Surgical Leeches
Prostate Removal Now Done and So Far Successful
Commencing Recovery, and Some Good News
Back onto learner’s permit for my bladder
Midnight bladder drama! When will it all end?
Bladder catheter taken out today. Second time lucky?
A word of despair. I hope it lifts. I must be patient!
Widdlers anonymous update…
Filletted prostate gland.

You can see from those link headings that it has been quite a journey for me. I’ve had the operation and am cancer-free, so far. I have a PSA blood test in a couple of weeks, and that will show if there are any escaped prostate cancer cells in my system.

In the meantime I have been wearing Tena pads to soak up the dribble of urine that occurs because I don’t have full urinary control yet. The operation was on January 24th, and I still need the pad inside my jockey underpants.

Why do they call them jocks? Who was Jock anyway? Or were they originally worn by jockeys, and if so, why?

The good news is that I am needing to change over the Tena pads at longer and longer time intervals. I put on a new pad about 11 pm when I go to bed, I stay pretty well dry all night, (which is a great relief) and if I don’t do anything too strenuous, I can wear that same pad until lunch time or even late afternoon, change over, or even go overnight with the same one. So the story is that although I don’t have full continence that would enable me to wear normal underclothing without the pads, I am approaching the possibility of just using one pad for the whole 24 hours!

You have no idea how that improves the morale!

But on the down side, I have absolutely no sexual response at all. Not a skerrick!

What a whinger…

Like all of us, I am quite affected by the books I have read. When I was a boy it was Arthur Mee’s ‘The Children’s Encyclopaedia’, Digit Dick, Coral Island, Treasure Island and Biggles. In my youth it was science fiction, horror stories and the Bible.

From the books I read there a form of osmosis whereby the ideas and attitudes seep into my brain to make me who I am. So here are a few some of my influences, from my most recent reading.

Steven Pinker (1997) “How the Mind Works” (660 pp.).

From the above discussion: This “…book by American cognitive scientist Steven Pinker… The book attempts to explain some of the human mind’s poorly understood functions and quirks in evolutionary terms. Drawing heavily on the paradigm of evolutionary psychology … Pinker covers subjects as diverse as vision, emotion, feminism, and, in the final chapter, ‘the meaning of life.’”

I’ve been dipping into this book on and off over the last few years, and never fail to be engaged by Pinker’s writings on these difficult subjects. Although the pages are starting to yellow, it’s on my list of “to be read again some day”.

Monk, R., & Raphael, F. (2000) “The Great Philosophers; From Socrates to Turing” (563 pp.).

A series of articles by different authors on the great philosophers from Socrates to Turing, this book collates a sequence of expositions on the ideas of those men, and their pros and cons. Like the Pinker book, this is really hard going.

About 1964 in Melbourne University, where I did a Diploma of Education, I was introduced to serious readings of Plato, Popper and the like. Ever since then, my interest in philosophy, and its cousin psychology, has simmered away in the background.

This book is hard going, just as expected. But so rewarding!

Peter Carey (1997) “Jack Maggs” (402 pp.)

Last year I played the piano on a jazz band at the Wagga Wagga Jazz Festival. In a spare moment I popped into a used book shop and thought to look for something by Patrick White or Peter Carey, two Australian authors whom I enjoy. Travelling in a caravan gives you plenty of spare time to lie down reading a good novel. It’s one of my favourite pastimes!

To my delight I spied “Jack Maggs”. Clutching it to my bosum, I hied me back to the caravan park and immersed myself in this wonderful, complex story. Now although it is set in 1830s England I shall always associate it with Wagga Wagga, Hay, Mildura, Broken Hill, Ouyen and Hall’s Gap.

It won a swag of literary awards as soon as it was published. Having read and enjoyed “Illywhacker” another of Carey’s novels, I knew I was in for a treat. I was not disappointed.

Kathy Lette (2006) “How to kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints)” (326 pp.)

Almost a year ago my wife, Glenyce, was hospitalized by startling symptoms of mysterious origin, which resolved into blood poisoning followed swiftly by bladder poisoning. She celebrated her birthday in hospital. On impulse, a member of the family bought her this book as a whimsical gift. I suppose it was whimsical rather than serious?

Anyway, it tickled her fancy, and so last year I read it, too. It’s quite a light read, but quite funny. The essential plot line is based on the general thesis that wives withhold sex from their husbands because husbands never do their share of the house-work. And “All women want to kill their husbands some of the time“.

I my opinion, the flaw in that idea is that most men who live alone are happy to tolerate degrees of untidyness, dust and general filth that would send most women gaga. It’s a matter of degree. Despite that gross over-simplification, I liked the book. Not memorable, like Carey’s “Jack Maggs”, but worth a look.

For what it’s worth here, my comments are that most men never ever get the amount of sex they’d hoped for, and there’s a general monumental mismatch between the libidos of men and women. The comeback from women is that men have no idea of the existence and potential of the clitoris. Something along those lines.

Lynne Truss (2005) “Talk to the Hand: The Sheer Bloody Rudeness of Everyday Life” (210 pp.)

I bought this with the ubiquitous Xmas gift book voucher, because I have read another book of Lynne Truss, namely “Eats, Shoots & Leaves “.

That was about the demise of correct punctuation in most aspects of daily like. I was impressed by the way she had taken a subject that was potentially as dry-as-dust and made it a delight to read. And so I had great expectations of this later book.

I was not disappointed: “Talk to the Hand” is a dizzy romp describing the myriad ways that good manners and thoughtfulness seem to have diminished in modern life. This could have become a rant-fest, bit in my opinion the author retains the high moral ground by avoiding the pitfall of descending to abuse of the things that she, I, and probably you, dear reader, abhor.

I hope to read more from this writer.

Shelley Gare (2006) “”The Triumph of the Airheads and the Retreat from Commonsense” (296 pp.)

Somewhere there’s a quotation about Shelley Gare: “In her latest book she questions the sort of society we have become, where Paris Hilton is a teen idol and if we don’t like someone we just vote them off the television. In short, Shelley argues that society is losing the plot.”

And from a review: “Gare is clear about the following dilemma. The people who do something or produce something are a threatened species, while the strategists, public relations and human resources types thrive like Paterson’s curse. They’ve absorbed all the ground nutri-ents and they use up all the spare oxygen. They are paid unhealthy amounts of money to inflict themselves on hapless colleagues, whose career paths (if they’ve survived the purges and retrenchments) they hold in their hands.”

I agree. I never cease to be amazed by the degree of sheer ignorance and fatuousness found in what passes for popular culture in this country. Especially prominent in the ferment of sporting heroes, popular music, the cultish “celebrity” world, merging into politics and all that is associated with that arena today.

Have these banana-heads ever read a book? Have they ever studied a subject in depth? I don’t mean law and I don’t mean accountancy. Proper subjects engendering wide reading and reflection.

If I hear anything more about Warnie or Britney Spears I swear I’ll throw up. I just put her name into Google and got 34,500,000 hits!!! Jesus Christ!

If you Google on “Jesus Christ”, you only get 15,900,000 hits. Go figure that out!

In my own town of Melbourne, “The Age” used to be a paper that I respected as a balanced source of news and commentary. Not any more; there’s been a slow but sure degradation. Recently some sporting team won some prize or other and there was a banner headline; the same headline size that used to be reserved for announcements of World War III!!

The emotional and intellectual currency is being degraded left, right and centre. And no-one seems to care, except Shelley Gare and myself.

And maybe you, dear reader.

As I have already blogged almost ad nauseum, I had my cancerous prostate gland completely removed in January. For interest’s sake here are the results of a scan done by the pathologist on the removed organ.

cancer (black) in my sliced-up prostate gland

I’m not quite sure how the slices add up to the offending gland, but you can get the general idea.

The healthy tissues are shown, appropriately, in pink, whereas the nasty, villanous cancer trying to hijack my body are shown in black.

The cancer was spread around a bit, but doesn’t appear to have spread beyond the prostate. The section near bottom left is a region where the cancer goes closer to the edge, but a microscopic examination of that edge apparently shows that the cancer cells do not go beyond it.

That is a great relief!

The cancer growth had a Gleason rating of 7, which means moderately aggressive, so I’m better off without the prostate.

All I have to do is get control of my water-works and life will be a bowl of cherries.

Dare I hope for any retention of my modest erectile power?