THROW ME A BROKEN BONE

This is how it happened. If DOCS come to my door tomorrow I've got my story straight.
 
So anyway, there I am, jumping on the trampoline with Aidan. Having the time of our lives. Aidan was begging me to let him jump off the roof of our house onto the trampoline, but being the responsible parent I refused to let him. He did not take my rules well. His jumping became increasingly erratic, at one point hurling himself across the trampoline face first into the safety netting, that his father, with so much love in his heart, had erected in order to prevent anything hurting his precious boy.
 
This act of lunacy only increased Aidan's frustration. He became abusive. Yelling obscene things whilst I pleaded for him to calm down before someone gets hurt. He saw this statement as a threat and intensified his verbal barrrage to a point that bordered on racism. (?)
 
I noticed his body tensing as I began to cower and weep. I don't think I will ever forget the sight of his eyes turning blood red. His veins swollen to bursting point on every limb.
 
Then he lunged at me. Out of the backs of his hands, two sets of wolverine claws suddenly burst out, pointing straight at my exposed jugular.
 
In a desperate act of self defense, I leapt to my left, causing the trampoline surface to rebound as Aidan was about to land. Falling awkwardly, all sense of aggression disappeared as he began to sob uncontrollably. At first I assumed he had cut himself with his wolverine claws, but I could see no lacerations on him.
 
Fearing the worst was not over, I reluctantly approached him as he lay crying on the still bouncing surface. And reminiscent of Luke Skywalker with Darth Vader at the end of Return of the Jedi, I picked him up in my arms (after checking his claws had retracted) and carried him to safety, only just escaping the exploding death star.
 
Now, if I read this often enough, will I begin to believe?
 
Knowing that I was indirectly responsible for the breaking of my sons leg is hard. It has been an emotional couple of weeks. My heart breaking no more than when Aidan said to me in the bath a few days later "I'm so sad you broke my leg." I am too son. Very sorry.
 
But as the weeks pass and every day he gets more mobile, and with that much happier, I start to forgive myself a little bit more every day. I can't wait to see his face when the cast comes off. That will be a healing day for both of us.
 
Until Then
 
 
 

AN ODE TO MY FAVOURITE BITCH

Many years ago drinking. A University function.
A vision that aroused so much lust.
2 hours later, entwined against a cabinet.
Cheered on by all all who walk past.

As the union developed, and vows were exchanged.
We easily cleared all life's hurdles.
She brought two beautiful boys safely into our life.
Using language that would surely blood curdle.

She is funny, a sweetheart and sexy no doubt.
Can also be really reserved.
But my suggestion to text the boys about getting laid
Got the look that it probably deserved.

She is basically faultless, both as mother and wife,
Her dedication and caring are exemplary
But there's also the fun times we've had through the years.
Legen- wait for it, dary!

Globe trotting round Europe, New Zealand or Fiji.
Seeing sights that are foreign to our eyes.
But nothing like the room service boy saw thanks to Lisa
Allowed in with dinner, my pants still around my thighs.

Sure there are some serious flaws,
Some issues that shake the foundations.
Like sleep-ins, and watching endless games of league.
Fuck, that one can ever strain relations.

But the cardinal sin that has been committed.
An unforgivable act of torment.
I shudder to recall the events of those weekends,
With murderous thoughts ever present.

An afternoon watching replays ruined by few words.
"Oh darling, did you hear the knights lost?"
So whilst pointing the remote, my finger on pause,
I shoot a look to turn embers to frost.

Dinner in silence.
The relationships done.
No bond can survive this.
The fat lady has sung.

Still rather angry, Bitch, you ruined my day!
It invariably comes time to hit the hay.
So as I lay down next to her quietly snoring,
I'm still thinking of terms other than adoring.
Thoughts of vengeance creep up as I climb into bed,
To slap her quite firmly on top of her head!
She'll wake with a start as I feign to be sleeping
I'll hold back a laugh, "Love, why are you weeping?"
As I raise up my hand, preparing my slap,
I fall into an all too common trap.
One look at that face, so peaceful in tone,
And all off a sudden, my heart turned from stone.
Okay, you have this time, escaped retribution.
Besides I now think that I have a solution.
All this anger and tension has left me quite hazy.
So rollover, pants off, climb on and go crazy.

I love you darling.
I will never leave ya.
Your spirit, loyalty, and beautiful blonde hair.
You're my very own golden retriever!

OFF THE LEASH

Ahh, a well earned 2 week holiday. A tour of the NSW and lower QLD coast should be just the tonic for recharging the the batteries, which have of late been as reliable as that of a 5 year old iPod.

First stop, Port Stephens. A few days with the family meant the 'No Beer' policy that was tabled before the start of the holiday lasted all of three hours. As the first mouthful of Murray's Brewery Whale Ale passed my lips I began to mentally prepare for tomorrow's hangover.
Nothing could have prepared me for the overnight metamorphosis from a slight scratch in the throat to the head cold from hell.
Waking at 4am, unable to breath through nostrils full of more crap than a Reject Shop, I began blowing my nose in what became a desperate race against my mucous membranes. Production vs Distribution. Never one to back away from a fight, I just kept blowing. After every attempt to clear my nose once and for all, that squeaking and clicking noise like dolphins communicating inside your head, that signalled the fight was to rage on.

By 6am, others started to wake and join me in the living room. I resented every sideways glance. Ok. Yes. I woke up at 4am, turned on The Man Show, and abused a box of tissues. So what?

By mid-morning I was still full from breakfast. 2 instant coffees, 1 large skim cappuccino, 6 sudafed and a couple of panadeine. I would have felt even fuller, but as luck would have it, spilled my entire cooked breakfast onto the apartment floor. At this point I was seeing red. Not angry. I just think there may have been some splashback of tomato sauce from the flipping plate as it dropped.

Where to from here? I considered admitting defeat and marching my sorry arse back to bed and accept defeat.

Then I asked myself, what would Kurt Gidley do?

He'd turn up to the Knights vs Dragons game ready to give 100% to his team. So that's what I did. I headed to Ausgrid Stadium to support the boys.

Upon arriving at the stadium and finding my seat, I could smell the sickly stench of St George fans all around me. I tried to breathe though my mouth to block it out but realised I was already doing that on account of the blocked nose.

As the game starts, and my 3 year old takes a cue from the parochial home crowd to cheer his first ever "Go Knights!", I realise that my sinuses have magically cleared, clouds have parted, and the buzz of the crowd seems like angels singing. 80 minutes, and a great game of footy later, everyone walked away satisfied. The Dragons fans had their two points, and Knights fans had just enough controversy to yell 'We was robbed!'

As we pack the suitcases to move the holiday up the coast to Coffs Harbour, Aidan becomes distraught at the thought that our holiday is over. At that point we explained that Port Stephens was holiday number one, and there was four more holidays before we had to go home. That's right son, FIVE holidays! Five holidays in two weeks? What were we thinking? But I'll get to that later.

Until holiday number two.

THE BARKING DOGG

the social network is a great film. I saw it last night and was not only blown away by the performance of Jessie, who plays Mark Zuckaberg, the inventer of facebook, but watched one particular scene with such awe, I may have stopped breathing momentarily.

I speak of the scene where Mark is on the phone to co-founder, Edwardo. He speaks of the risk of the facebook site crashing due to inadequate infrastructure. In itself, the line was inocuous, merely establishing the characters intimate understanding of his product. But it pulled at my heartstrings mainly due to the situation I currently find myself in.

Basically, the ConDitioNs at work are what sprang to mind during that scene. As a radiographer, it has become increasingly Critical to have a good Digital Network. In the abscenCe of a reliable system, a Department could literally be brought to it's kNees. Patient care CoulD be Negatively effected. Of even greater conCern, any Department without a deceNt system is now basically unreliable as a referral centre.
A poor paCs/ris system creates such a negative atmosphere within a raDiology departmeNt that it could potentially self destruct.

The next line in the movie was even more inspiring.

ZuCkaberg suggested that any Downtime of the site could have dire coNsequences. The idea that poor performanCe woulD be detrimeNtal to the company was quite refreshing. I pity any radiographer having to work under any other ConDitioNs.

I am inCredibly grateful that I am surrounDed by such a great team of radiographers that I don't believe aNything could break us.

Time CoulD prove me wroNg.

CHASING MY OWN TAIL

It was inevitable that being a newly crowned father of two, that my experiences in parenting would someday be the focus of an entry. Today is that day.

Some back story.

It was a beautiful spring day in 2007. I was working on a Sunday and, as was our tradition, Lisa picked me up to take me out for lunch. I'm not too sure how it came up, but I commented to Lisa that perhaps I should ring my Dad and talk to him. I just wanted to get a feel for where his head was at in the moments before trying to start a family. I expressed genuine concern to Lisa that I couldn't imagine ever wanting to have children. How was I to know that moments earlier, Lisa had returned a positive pregnancy test only half an hour earlier?

Since the arrival of our second boy, I have come to realise that fatherhood is a lot like slavery, except you have to pay for the privilege. You wake up, look after your children's every need, go to work, come home, look after your children's every need, and go to bed. And much like the slaves of ancient times, many conversations centre around some distant time where we will no longer feel the sting of our master's whips at every waking moment. When we will have earnt our freedom through 20 years of faithful servitude.

Nevertheless, fatherhood is full of the most heart-warming, and often hilarious, moments which somehow cushion the blows. Like when my 2 year old won't allow the toilet to be flushed until both Mum and Dad have inspected his most wonderful creation. Perhaps sanity prevails because every day when I put the key in the front door I hear him yelling 'Daddy's home!' on the other side of the door.

Then there are the moments where an act of sheer naughtiness is so amusing that instead of smacking the back of my sons hand, I almost feel that turning his palm up and giving him a low five would be more appropriate. Like when whilst trying to ride a push along car through long grass, he dismounts, kicks the bike over, and mutters two words. 'Fucking Car'.

There are also little moments which are disproportionately devastating. Like when I leave home for work, knowing that both my boys will be a day older the next time I see them. My 2 year old so disappointed I could cry. That I guess is the curse of the working parent. Sleepless nights reduce performance at work. Long hours reducing quality time with family. I know this is nothing new for working parents. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear.
I have become something to everybody, and everything to nobody.

That notion got me thinking...

If you believe Hollywood movies, (and lets face it, we do all too readily), the next steps in human evolution are a range of wonderful super powers. Mind control, instant healing powers, and incredible strength are the future of the human race. This of course totally ignores the basic principle of the purpose of evolution. To adapt a species to the environment, and to assist in the survival of that species.
So, in a world where men and women are equal and ideally interchangable, where will the next step in evolution take us?

As I helplessly soothe my 8 week old child who is starving hungry, waiting for his mother to come home, I can only imagine, the evolutionary process will not create the fierce, hairy, monster we know as BEASTMAN! No, it will be the mammary wielding poor bastard, BREASTMAN! With the ability to feed young in a world where husbands are more hands on than ever. Tragically, career women with a desperate desire to have children, will find the male of the species with huge cans irresistible.
The sleep deprivation that is becoming a way of life in our 24 hour a day culture will create the next mutation of the human genome, in the form of the ever-alert INSOMNIATOR. The blood-shot eyes, the mark of the creature that never sleeps. Essential to employers, this new sub-species will become the top echelon of high society.
Lastly, due to the exponential increase in the morbidly obese over the next 500 years, CARDIOMAN will be spawned. Born at normal size, this human will have a beachball sized heart, pumping 5 litres per beat, at a resting heart rate of 2bpm.

But until that day, we will all continue to wander the earth, exhausted.

ONE OF THE OLD BREED

There are a few occasions in a man's life that leave no doubt in the minds of those around him that he is of another time. In his prime long before current technologies that are now taken for granted. Old enough to have partied like it's 1999...when it actually was 1999. For any man, these occasions are light bulb moments, preceding a despondent slumping of the shoulders, and the subsequent trip to Big W to buy comfortable slippers and chequered pyjamas, both of which may be worn in public.
The moments I speak of are minor things that begin a downward spiral ending in death, or even worse, the kind of dementia that makes you say sexually inappropriate things to women 60 years younger.

Physically, the first grey hair represents the transition into looking like your grandfather. I thankfully, have yet to be cursed with the follicular version of 1950s television. No, my moment was much worse.
There is also the moment a man realises that modern music is stupid and does not compare to the wondrous tones of great musicians of 90s Grunge and 80s Pop era. And of course Whitney Houston actually could sing without coughing up a lung. Now I'm not saying that I think the likes of Rhianna, Kes$ha and every other mass produced modern pop icon are anything more than cash cows for studio executives. Just that I appreciate that there are some great current artists. No, this is also not my sin.
I don't check to see what's on Fox Classics before switching to the news. I don't assume every young teen wants to vandalise my house. I wish it were that simple. No, I have condemned myself to old age by muttering one little sentence.

"You know what's wrong with your generation?"

It slipped out. People heard. My shoulders slumped.

Then I realised something. I can argue this. If I can prove my hypothesis to the group of Gen Ys around me, the opinion of a middle aged man angry at getting old would become an insightful look at why Gen Y is ruining the world. (That may have seemed harsh, but if I was to pull this off I knew I had to be extreme)

So here's the situation as I see it.

Those that lived during World War 1 and the Great Depression (The Lost Generation) or were of service age in World War 2 (The Greatest Generation) gave everything of themselves for their countries asking for very little in return. They experienced depths of poverty that is now unthinkable in the developed world. The children of World War 2 (The Silent Generation) rebuilt nations destroyed by war and created the platform for some of the worlds most prosperous times. Baby Boomers, also of a time of families broken by war, are fast establishing themselves as a generation devoted to their children's success above their own. In the absence of any great national need, they redirected their generosity internally. This created Generation X. My generation. Although hard working and driven,  believe they are entitled to a life time of parental assistance, some to the point of reliance. Looking back, the guy that once asked me "You know what's wrong with your generation?" may have been on to something.
And so we arrive at Generation Y and Z. If Gen X are guilty of expecting everything from their parents, Gens Y and Z seem to be taking it to a new level. Expecting everything from everyone. Gen Y could be defined by a sense of entitlement.
The existence of such a thing as Twitter suggests a level of self absorption that even the makers of the Viva paper towel would envy. The idea that someone thinks I care what they had for breakfast is an embarrassment to the human race. Which brings me nicely to my next rant.
Writing '..is bored', as a status update on a social network site displays the intelligence equivalent of that monkey who picks his butt, smells it, and falls out of his tree. (which is obviously hilarious)
Like it or not, facebook has single-handedly transformed the developed world. However the constant need to be in contact with everyone is creating a generation with the attention span of fish. Incapable of being more than a metre from iphones just in case a 'friend' updates their status with some witty remark about nothing important.
It is the next big drug.
And there are a generation of addicts.

There is also another addiction affecting the young. Credit. A culture of spending on luxuries with the assumption that enough money can be made over the long term to cover the debt. Where saving is a dirty word and having everything can mean owning nothing. Economies destroyed worldwide on the back of excessive debt.

But maybe they are onto something with this one. If I may digress.

Late last year I made the last repayment on my home, becoming basically debt free. The moment coincided with a sudden decline in motivation at work, and the feeling that I'd rather be doing anything but work. I realised that having no debt hanging over my head released a pressure valve that once kept all my motivation safely locked in. Alternatively,  I wonder if I never really enjoyed my career, but the desperate need for money created a subconscious so powerful to actually convince me otherwise. Either way, I'm certain I was happier at work when I had to be there to service my debt.
I can only then conclude that Gens Y and Z will experience levels of job satisfaction and happiness beyond anything I could ever contemplate. It may be true that money can't buy happiness, but could it be possible that debt can? Only time will tell.

So there you have it. Irrefutable evidence. That's right. Irrefutable.
There is no crack in the logic. No counter claim that can be made. The jury is out.
Irrefutable evidence that I have in fact taken my first step to becoming a cranky old man.

Now if you don't mind it's 730 at night, and I'm off to bed.

Where are my slippers?

MANS OTHER BEST FRIEND IS A QUEENSLANDER

There have always been a million reasons for New South Welshmen to be slightly envious of our siblings from the north. Upon examination, and resisting all arguments based on some territorial rivalry, there can be no argument that the quality of Queensland is proving superior in so many aspects.
Cathy Freeman, Steve Irwin, Shane Watson, Grant Hackett, Stephanie Rice and Pat Rafter.
All Queenslanders. And those unbeatable Maroons. Also, all Queenslanders. Well that isn't totally accurate. Greg Inglis emmigrated through the no-mans-land of Tweed Heads, crouched in a gold plated suit case, in a hidden compartment of Wayne Bennet's car. Waking from a daze at the feet of a bronze Wally Lewis, confused and frightened, Inglis was welcomed by the locals and....well you know the rest.
Either way, Queensland definitely boasts an embarrassment of riches.

Living in New South Wales, the only thing more exciting than the March election, and the end of the state Labour government, is the thought of the inevitable Underbelly series starring Lisa McCune as Kristina Keneally and Mick Molloy as Joe Tripodi.
Jaded by a NSW Labour government that has raped its once proud people of prosperity and dignity it was amazing to watch the Queensland Premier, Anna Bligh, speak with such honesty, sincerity and empathy as mother nature swallowed up her beautiful state. I have no doubt her demeanor stirred her people, and indeed the country, into action.
Although credit for the military precision and organisation of the recovery would have to be placed on the shoulders of one Major-General Mick Slater, Bligh has been a beacon of humanity in Queensland's darkest hour.

The willingness of every Australian to extend their open wallets to the cause was, although not surprising, a source of immense national pride. Queenslanders took the hand gratefully and, on the day now forever known as Salvation Saturday, declared 'We'll take it from here.' People from around the country, and indeed around the world, saw a community mobilise to help out friends they'd never met.
And as the media vans roll south for the next big story, and Queensland is left to rebuild itself out of the spotlight of headline news, I know they will create a state, prouder and stronger than the one now burried in sludge.
The people of Brisbane, Toowomba, Ipswich and other towns most of us have never heard of before, have reminded us all what it is to be an Australian. To understate any situation. To appreciate what we have despite the loss of so much. And that strange juxtaposition of a willingness to help others and instinctual reluctance to accept help for ourselves.


I've always been amused to to hear Sydneysiders and Melbourners discuss the pros and cons of each others city, desperately trying to find that one aspect of lifestyle that would finally prove once and for all, which is the greatest city in Australia. Amusing not just for the simple fact that as a lifelong resident of country NSW, I wouldn't ever want to live in either city, but in the sheer arrogance in assuming that it was a race in two.

The people of Brisbane have never entered the argument. I now know it was never a case that they didn't believe their city was the equal of Australia's larger capitals. Perhaps the people of Brisbane have always been content to leave Sydney and Melbourne to their delusions because they knew what the rest of us are starting to understand. That it's not the size of the stadium that matters. What's important is how many XXXX drinking, twang talking, Lockyer worshipping, redneck yokel Queenslanders you can fill it with. Sorry, old habits die hard.

Until next time.