Do-over

I spend a lot of time in front of a computer.  After 8-10 hours a day at my desk in the office, I generally spend some quality one-on-one time with my new iMac in the evening.  It isn’t uncommon then that I find myself in bed at night mentally typing my thoughts, or visualizing myself cutting and pasting information into teensy excel cells while fighting insomnia.

Another side effect of too-much computer time is the disappointment that real life is not quite so easily manipulated as the electronic world.  I recall lying in bed one night recently realising that I was trying to actually mentally hit the UNDO key.  You know, the one with anticlockwise arrow (or, <EDIT> <UNDO> in long hand).  I can’t remember now exactly what I had been thinking about or mentally writing, but I found myself kinda disappointed that we don’t have an UNDO button in real life.

I have written before about the fact that (like most people) I have some regrets.  As well as recently contemplating the idea of a ‘me’ living (a more contented and fulfilling life) in a parallel universe I also find myself pondering on the concept of a DO-OVER.

I for one would like to hit that UNDO key and ‘do’ things differently.

Sadly a DO-OVER is not a feasible aspiration.  But never one to let reality get in the way of a daydream, I find myself pondering on what past mistakes or decisions I might change in my own life if I was given the chance.

Earlier this year I came across a Canadian show, Being Erica.  At the time it was part-way through its second season, but ABC2 has just started replaying Season 1 here in Australia.

The show’s premise is not even vaguely believable but I have to admit that doesn’t seem to matter at all.

The show introduces us to 32 year old Erica Strange whose life hasn’t turned out how she imagined it would be (and who CAN’T relate to that!).

Erica, however, puts this down to a series of bad decisions at pivotal points in her life and is able to identify each and every one of them.

At a particularly stressful time in her life she meets therapist ‘Dr Tom’ who promises that he can bring her happiness by allowing her to relive her regrets, giving her the opportunity to change the outcome.

In each episode, with the help of Dr Tom, Erica is catapulted back to the time in question.  Back to High School, to University or more recent times. Where she gets the opportunity to UNDO her actions and (ideally) make it all better.  The quintessential DO-OVER.

In my post about a parallel universe, I was horrified that – at least in TV and movie land – our twin selves living in these worlds aren’t happier and more talented versions of ourselves, rather they are ‘us’ in a different environment.

In Being Erica, the charismatic lead character (played by Erin Karpluk) believes that if she changes past (bad) decisions, her life will be perfect.  So, of course the question posed to viewers is whether changing past decisions, or making a different choice at a crossroads, actually changes the outcome of our lives in any significant way.

Indeed Erica’s experiences don’t always work out as she had expected.  She also finds herself wondering: If you could go back and do it all differently, would you still be you?

We haven’t yet seen the third season as yet here in Oz but I am sure we can expect that Erica will continue to work her way through her regrets.   Her life has improved dramatically since we met her in Season 1 – unemployed and unhappy.  Of course it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that the navel-gazing (over past decisions and why they were taken) itself is what is changing her, rather than the choices themselves.  And, as it happens, so many of those ‘wrong’ decisions, may not have been wrong after all.

I’m starting to sense a theme in my TV viewing of late, but I’d like to think that I am not so very obsessed with lost opportunities and roads not taken, that it consumes me. But, I would like to stumble across a Dr Tom myself to help reshape my life.  Well… either that or a life coach!

'The Rain'

My mother recently sent me one of those ‘please pass on’ emails.  You know the kind…. imparting preachy life lessons, promoting breast cancer awareness and the like.  Although I read these when they pop into my inbox I rarely pass them on.  And I have to admit, even though some hit home, I forget about them as soon as I click on the little X in the top left or right hand corner to close the message.

Until recently.  Because the email forwarded by my mother was probably a bit more significant than most.

A year ago I wrote a post to celebrate the fact that it had been 9 years since my father had a heart transplant.  I pondered on the fact that we had him with us for so much longer than we might have; and how much more life he had experienced as someone else’s gift pumped blood throughout his veins.

But there’s no such thing as a free lunch.  And the gift of life, like everything else, comes with trade-offs.  Drugs that suppress dad’s immune system mean that, although he goes nowhere near the sun, he continually has skin cancers developing.  He is, in fact, currently undergoing radiotherapy for a deadly melanoma known for its attack on those with suppressed immune systems.

But the most challenging of side effects is not visible.

My father has vascular dementia.  Caused, I understand, either by an earlier heart attack or during his life-saving heart surgery ten years ago.

So far only his short term memory has been effected, or more specifically, his ability to transfer something from his short term into his long term memory.  I am sure there is a term for this but that doesn’t really matter… to us anyway.

It started slowly, as if he was just a bit absent-minded; where once he had been quick-witted.  But it is now at the point where he isn’t really able to retain any information.  Unlike Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates, he doesn’t remember the day’s events, only to awake the next morning in some sort of Groundhog Day fog.  He remembers nothing recent.

A typical 10 minute conversation with him (for me, for example) will comprise him asking the day two or three times – at least.  Each response will be followed by ‘When did we arrive here at your place?’ and ‘When do we go back home?’  In fact I sometimes entertain myself by pre-empting the next question before he can ask it.  He will also enquire why he is here (rather than in his hometown).  This visit I am having to explain that although he had a merkel cell carcinoma removed from his face, it is so fast-spreading he is here for radiotherapy.  Just in case.  Obviously then he queries how long the treatment lasts (5 days a week for 5 weeks) at which point he becomes despondent (at being away from home for so long) and usually comments that perhaps he isn’t worth all of this trouble.

But he is.  Obviously.  I feel for my mother who has the patience of a saint though admits to occasional sarcastic responses to his never-ending questions. But her dedication is amazing.  My father recently spent a week in hospital and my mother camped out beside him for 12hrs a day in the event a doctor visited.  Dad needed my mother to answer the questions.  ‘Yes his bowels moved.’ ‘No, he hasn’t eaten lunch yet.’  A doctor giving instructions or advice to my father was also not an option.  It is at those times that I am overcome with guilt at being so far away and not able to provide more hands-on support.

Hard as it is for my mother, I cannot imagine what it is like for my father, who marvels at his long term memory but who cannot tell you what he did 5 minutes ago, or 5 hours ago.

It makes telephone conversations difficult.  We are limited to me questioning him about the weather, or about whatever he is doing at that exact moment.

A couple of months ago I picked up the phone to call my parents. I then realized it was Wednesday and my mother would be out (as she is every Wednesday night for an hour or so). Although I talk to my dad most evenings when I call home, it is usually just for a minute or two and he asks the same questions (about work etc) again and again.  This night I started to put the phone back on the hook before I thought about what I was doing.   I checked myself and realized I was being incredibly selfish.  Just because I would find the call harder work, and because he wouldn’t remember the conversation was no reason not to reach out and make contact.  He is thrilled by calls.  If mum isn’t home, he dutifully writes down who has called, though not recollecting anything from the conversation.

So I called.  I think there was football on TV, so I asked him about that.  We talked about the weather, my work, my brother and his family.  The usual.   I talked to my mother later that night as she called back when she saw dad’s note.

The little tale in the email my mother forwarded me was called ‘The Rain’.  It was (supposedly!) relayed by a nurse who encountered an elderly man who came into her hospital to have stitches removed.  It was early in the morning and he was impatiently looking at his watch.  She asked if he had another appointment.  He said he did and she enquired what it was, expecting another medical appointment.  He told her that his wife was in a nursing home and he went to give her breakfast every day at 9am.  He also said that she had Alzheimer’s and hadn’t recognized him for years.  The nurse asked why – if his wife didn’t know who he was, or indeed, when or if he visited – did he go everyday.  His reply was, ‘She may not know who I am, but I still know who she is.’

I saw a distant relative a little while ago.  We were talking about my father.  They commented that they were worried that his long-term memory would be next and how horrible it would be when / if he forgot who we were.  I knew they hadn’t seen my father for 6 months or more but innocently queried if they had ‘run into him’ recently.  No, they said, they actually preferred to remember him more as he was and didn’t really want to see him like they believe he is now.

Another friend recently commented on an elderly relative who had Alzheimer’s.  The relative was dying, but my friend said it wasn’t really upsetting as (the relative) had really died to them years ago.  I didn’t say anything but was horrified.  Would she, I wonder, want her family to stop visiting her if she forgot who they were, or would she hope that they still held her in enough esteem that they actually wanted to see her even if she was oblivious.

The old man in the email wasn’t expecting anything in return from his wife.  He didn’t expect her gratitude or adulation.  Perhaps he felt it was his duty or his obligation.  Perhaps he felt he signed on ‘for better or worse’.  It did, however, remind me that particularly in my father’s case – although I hate to admit it - it isn’t all about me.  Even if my father doesn’t remember the moments, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

Escaping...

I have a fabulous idea for a TV show.  If I do say so myself.  The idea struck me as I was contemplating what it is that has me so infatuated with the BBC Show Escape to the Country.

Here in Oz it is being shown on one of the new free-to-air digital stations (7TWO).  Obviously not popular enough to make it to its flagship Channel 7, the network is showing it on one of its offshoots (currently on Friday and Sunday at 8.30pm). 

 I came across the show a couple of months ago.  Pitiful though it may sound, I never do anything on a Friday night.  In fact, Friday is the one day of the week that I am likely to be least interested in staying up late or over-imbibing in champagnes or red wines.  I am always mentally exhausted and loll in front of the television for a couple of hours before having an early night.  So for me anyway, the fact that Friday night television is pretty crappy has never been an issue.  The lack of alternatives is, in fact, what allowed me to stumble across the BBC gem.

Not one for lifestyle / makeover type shows I suspect I had flicked past it on a number of occasions before watching enough to get me hooked.

What entices me though, is unclear.  From my extensive research (Google yet again!) I note that the show has (had) a number of presenters and (in the UK) is in its 9^th season.  But here in Oz we are seeing episodes from a few years ago fronted by host Catherine Gee.

I suspect part of my fascination with the show is Catherine.  Or more honestly her voice.  As an Aussie, her well-rounded (but not quite plummy) vowels are surprisingly endearing.

And then of course there is the subject matter: homeowners in suburbia wanting to move to the country.  For some peace and quiet; or to grow a vegetable patch; or (as per last night’s episode) raise some alpacas. 

The format of the show is straight forward*.  We meet the country living wannabes and get a look at their current property (what it is worth and how they currently live); then Catherine sits down with them to get their ‘wish list’; both in terms of property inclusions and location.  Most of those featured are still working so need to live close enough to transport to get back to civilization, but still want a balance of rural living with some access to nearby amenities.

Catherine then searches out four properties and looks them over while the wannabes watch via laptop.  They then choose their favourite two to visit.  They then (of course) have the option of pursuing one that they like by putting in an offer etc.  Disappointingly this rarely happens.

For an Aussie, the quintessential English village is enticing.  And romantic.  I was disappointed that last night’s retired couple was after a ‘modern’ home… which translated into some quite unattractive 1970s ‘brick and tile’ house - a common sight in Australian suburbia, but something I wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole.

I was travelling home from the city this week and as the bus stalled in traffic I read the sign in front of an old Catholic Church.  It decreed that the church was the oldest in my State of Queensland.  It was 160 years old.

On Escape, most of the properties are actually built in the 1800s or even 1700s.  They ooze character, though their upkeep may also ooze digits from one’s bank account.  Here in Oz we have heritage style houses known as Queenslanders.  These timber houses are built for our climate with covered verandahs providing outdoor living space.  The countryside houses in the British show make these houses look positively futuristic. 

So, I am glued to the television screen as Catherine explores the houses with their original fireplaces and stone walls in villages featuring quaint pubs and few shops.  Having always dreamed of living in some tiny English village with an oddly-named pub, I am probably as enthusiastically naive as many of the show’s couples wanting to make the lifestyle change.

But, back to my idea…. For some time popular culture (here and around the world, I suspect) has raised the notion of families, couples and individuals ‘downsizing’.  Here in Oz we talk about a ‘seachange’ or a ‘treechange’ depending on whether it is beachside living or rural Australia that you are craving.  So my idea is for a similar show here, with a Catherine-equivalent scampering about small beachside towns or picturesque hinterlands to locate new lives for harried city-dwellers.  I reckon the show would also sell overseas.  While I live in a 3-level modern apartment gleaming with glass and stainless steel craving the ‘old’, I am sure there are Brits living in rustic England fantasizing about our beaches and clean lines.  So, voila – there it is.  My brainwave.  Perhaps I can sell it to a network and make enough money to go and Escape to the Country myself!

* The aforementioned extensive research also led me to discover that the format changes from series 6.

Parallel lives

Season 3 of Fringe started on television here in Oz last week and I must admit to gleefully anticipating its return.

Although I missed Season 1 when it first screened, I discovered the show via DVD just before Season 2 commenced and have been a convert ever since.

In fact, I wrote about the show here, contemplating the concept of an alternate universe and the ‘sliding doors’ theory of a twin ‘me’ living a parallel life in a parallel universe out there… somewhere.

I for one, wonder about paths not taken as I get older and (unsurprisingly) suffer regrets – as I am sure most of us do.

But as a new Season dawns and Fringe starts to unravel, I find myself perplexed with the shift in storyline.

As I indicated in my earlier blog, the premise of the show is that there is (in fact) a parallel world; an alternate reality populated by our identical selves going about their business.

Tantalising isn’t it?  I mean, who would we be?  Or more importantly, who COULD we be?  Again, I have to admit that the idea is somewhat comforting as I can only hope that the other me is living a very fulfilling life; taking more risks; following her heart; being happy (etc etc).

So, with so many possibilities I find myself slightly disenfranchised now that we have finally come across the alternate universe in Fringe.  It turns out that our key protagonists are actually doing the same bloody thing they are doing in our world; AND with the same people.  WTF?  So far the only difference between the characters in the alternate world is that their values are slightly screwy.  Oh, and plus a couple of them are dead.

It is a risky move for the writers and producers.  I for one am struggling to ‘care’ about Anna Torv’s fake Olivia who has infiltrated our world while the real one remains stuck in the alternate world.  Although it may be a refreshing change for the actors, it’s a bit like Barbara Eden playing her twin sister in I Dream of Jeannie and Elizabeth Montgomery playing her scheming cousin in Bewitched.  You know they are the same actor, but you just don’t care. I guess that’s the point of the two quite-different personalities.  But I don’t even want to watch the alternate Olivia.  I just want her to die!

Meanwhile (rant over), back to my point…. In contemplating the turn of events in Fringe I am reminded of Sliding Doors, also referenced in my earlier blog.  In the movie, Gwyneth Paltrow’s Helen basically ends up in the same place in both versions of her life.  Only her experiences in getting there vary.  (Oh… and the haircut.)

While this concept of a parallel universe is not new to film, television or literature, it is quite frankly a bit beyond the realm of my expertise.  I could not get my head around the theories postulated in What The Bleep Do We Know, so I figure it’s best left to those into quantum mechanics, neurobiology and human consciousness - and stuff like that.  Instead I am finding myself more intrigued by this concept of fate. I mean, is our destiny pre-determined?  Perhaps the journey in each world varies, but our destinations are the same, no matter what decisions we make or roads we take.

Fate: I can’t work out if I am disappointed (that we have no control over our own destiny) or relieved (that it doesn’t matter if we make wrong choices) at the concept.  But while the notion of an alternate reality remains the stuff of imaginative authors and screenwriters, I must admit to taking some solace in the hypotheses of these works of fiction. As a natural worrier I like the idea of fate and of responsibility being taken out of my hands.  I mean, Phew.

Thomas and Jessica

I am home sick today.  A terrible headache and aching neck and shoulders kept me in bed for most of the morning.  When I woke at lunchtime I was pretty sure I could happily sleep away the afternoon, but decided I should get up lest I be completely unable to sleep tonight and am rendered inactive tomorrow as well.

After checking and dealing with work emails I settled myself in my comfortable armchair and flicked through television channels looking for something on daytime TV to keep me from my bed.  Staving off head-spins I caught the end of a Judy Garland movie I can't recall ever having seen before (I grew up in regional Queensland on a diet of Sunday afternoon Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, Fred Astaire and Doris Day movies.) 

Feeling too light-headed to do much else after the movie finished I channel-surfed again before coming across Magnum PI. I can't recall being a huge Thomas Magnum or Tom Selleck fan when the show actually aired back in the 1980s but, as I have always consumed large amounts of television and suffered through a deficiency of options in my home town, I have watched my share of the Hawaiian-based detective. 

Watching it a decade and a half later remains a treat.  Episodes were replayed on a Sunday morning (on and off) last year and I circled it in my TV Guide in an attempt to remember to watch (or tape) it.  Despite the occasionally-wooden acting and (now) very-dated stunts and special effects I was surprised to see a number of familiar faces - including a young Ted Danson, Sharon Stone, Ernest Borgnine and Carol Burnett. 

Today's episode (shown on one of our new free-to-air digital television stations, 7mate) featured a young Miguel Ferrer.  Again I was reminded how much I like and miss shows like this.  I must also confess to be a Murder She Wrote fan.  When the show was replayed on daytime television earlier this year, I set my video to tape it and watch at my leisure. 

I think people either love or hate Angela Lansbury's Jessica Fletcher.  I personally think she morphed into a less-patronising and annoying character over the show's life.  Although I cringed at the sets' and decor (I think I had blocked macrame hanging pot plant holders from my mind), I liked the lack of complexity in the storylines when comparing them to the murder/mysteries on our screens today.

I can think of few current shows which can offer the G-rated viewing of the likes of Murder She Wrote, Magnum PI (and their contemporaries, Hart to Hart, Moonlighting, Remington Steele, Jake and the Fatman etc...).  Although I enjoy shows like Dexter, Law & Order (et al), The Mentalist etc, they are all far more macabre and not exactly easy-viewing.  Hardly fun. 

It makes me wonder where we are heading though.  If in another 10 or 15 years the grisly corpses in Bones; serial killers of Criminal Minds; and mind-benders of Fringe will be passe?  Perhaps I will be giggling at the special effects in Caprica.  I guess only time will tell.   Until then I will work out how to record my digital television channels and - when time permits - settle down with Magnum and giggle at the short shorts.  And the hair.  Not to mention the moustaches!

Deadwood - d'oh

As my holidays draw to a close, so too does my obsessive viewing of TV shows on DVD.  So far, I have knocked off all three series of BBC's Robin Hood, two series of The Big Bang Theory, two series of Friday Night Lights and now I have just finished watching the third and final series of Deadwood.

I had to Google the latter today after watching the final episode in the wee hours of the morning.  I thought perhaps I missed something as I felt somewhat dissatisfied at the way the show wrapped up.  I didn't expect an out-of-place montage tying up loose ends a-la Pushing Daisies, but I thought there would be some sense of closure for us viewers. 

However, it wasn't until this morning’s googling that I discovered two things.  Firstly, a fourth season was initially expected, which I decided could account for the anti-climactic ending….  But more importantly I was confronted with my own ignorance (at least in terms of American folklore), upon learning that the entire show was significantly based on fact!!!  D’oh!

 While watching I had been surprised at some of the liberties taken, through the introduction of 'Calamity' Jane and 'Wild' Bill Hickok, not realising until today that most of the other characters and many of the events of the show were actually also based on - as quoted by Wikipedia - 'historical truths' with a few embellishments added for the purposes of entertainment.

This knowledge would have informed my viewing and – more importantly - my expectations considerably had it been conferred on me previously.  Had I realised that there was some need to adhere to factual accounts; it would have lessened the aforementioned disappointment that the storyline didn’t reflect the kind of TV-land ending that allows viewers to sleep contentedly at night.   

A friend had tried to convince me to watch Deadwood for years but I had refrained, having little interest in the 'western' as a genre.  However, as it happened I discovered it in the same way I discovered some recent passions, Big Bang Theory and Entourage - through re-runs on television. 

Although I sped through the three seasons of the show and often refused to delay gratification, watching episode after episode, I didn't LOVE love it, ie. It isn't something I would watch again and again - my definition of a show I love.

There is no doubting, however, that the show was made by clever people and that is something I appreciate (hence my love of West Wing, Pushing Daisies, Buffy etc).  The scripts and dialogue were amazing and it wasn't until the second or third season that I became conscious that each line from a character's mouth was akin to Shakespearean prose (albeit slightly more colourful!), with the quality of the vernacular and use of soliloquies and monologues growing each episode.

I have to admit to being a bit gobsmacked while watching the first episode.  No one had warned me about the language.  Don't get me wrong, I swear like a trooper, dropping the F-bomb far too much and I must admit that the c-word doesn't even worry me much nowadays.... but I wasn't prepared for it on my free-to-air-TV viewing.  Wikipedia quotes that 'fuck' was used 43 times during the first hour of the show, setting the tone for the rest of the seasons, with the word used 1.56 times every minute of footage.  I expect the word 'cocksucker' featured as a pronoun almost as much.  Of course once inured to the language you realise that being called a (language alert!!!) loopy fuckin' c_nt is in fact a term of endearment.  At least in the characters' eyes. 

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="190" caption="Ian McShane & Timothy Olyphant (Swearengen & Bullock)"][/caption]

However, watching all three seasons in such quick succession allowed me to ponder a bit on my perceptions and my own reactions to them.  The first episodes introduce us to the two main characters, Seth Bullock (former Montana Sheriff and wannabe Hardware store owner in the lawless Deadwood) and Al Swearengen, owner of the local pub and whorehouse.  As I had seen half a dozen episodes on TV before borrowing the DVDs, I felt I already had a sense of the two protagonists: Bullock was a controlled and 'just' man with a sense of right and wrong; while Swearengen ruthlessly murders (by this own hand and others) for his own gain, treating all of those around him (liked and disliked) with disdain. 

So... it didn't really occur to me sometime until late in the second season that - in some respects - their roles (on the TV show at least) had reversed.  Swearengen had become the smarter 'player' weighing up the politics of the situations before him and demonstrating acts of kindness; and Bullock, faced with personal problems and complications was prone to 'flying off the handle' and acting irrationally.  Bullock was now the wildcard, his rage simmering just beneath the surface.   Those (like me) prone to online trawling for information would know there are entire Forums devoted to the ‘evolution’ of Swearengen throughout the show.

Of course, I realise that my early viewing was coloured by a lack of character development and the more dimensions to which we are privy, the more the characters change.  But it was a useful lesson to me.  I made my mind up too quickly.  I jumped in and judged who the baddies and goodies were without much thought.  And then I found it hard to change my allegiances.  Bullock was the hero for God’s sake!  As the seasons progressed, I found myself becoming more and more disappointed in him; as if he was letting me (personally) down through his increasingly-uncontrolled actions.

I gather (again, via Wikipedia) that the real-life Swearengen didn't demonstrate the same human touches as his screen character, and similarly, Bullock seems to have done well for himself in politics and in business - his real-life perhaps not fraught with the same complications as his Deadwood character. 

When Season 4 didn’t progress, creator David Milch was to have wrapped the show up via a series of TV movies, but four years later these have not eventuated.  A shame really, because while I can learn what happened to their real-life namesakes... I would kinda like to have known what would have happened to the Deadwood characters I'd known on-screen.

The X Factor

A few weeks ago, I was about to pull the plug on my anti-climactic Saturday night TV viewing when I came across a TV documentary about East Timorese leader, and current Prime Minister, Xanana Gusmão.

Xanana Gusmao 

I was in East Timor between 1999 and 2001 and met Xanana a few times.  I saw him speak, often in Tetum the local language, but although my comprehension was minimal I didn’t need to understand the words to know that he could certainly command a room. 


At that time, he had the respect and admiration of a whole generation of East Timorese.  His oratory skills and impassioned performances were amazing and he had the ability to quell angry masses frustrated with everything from the world’s inaction to the United Nation’s plodding progress in his country. 


He had something that many others do not.  Charisma. Presence… a certain something. 


It got me thinking about the X Factor.  That ‘something’ which separates Australian Prime Minister Bob Hawke, from John Howard or Kevin Rudd; and US President Bill Clinton from others who came before and after.


I remember when I was at school watching a young Sigrid Thornton in the TV mini-series All the Rivers Run and movie Man from Snowy River.  In the late 1970s and early 1980s she was Australia’s sweetheart, eventually departing for the US where she scored the lead in a (fairly-ordinary) TV western which ran for a couple of years.  I recall reading a quote about her in a magazine at that time in which someone described her allure, saying that the camera loved her; that it ‘ate her up’.  And it did.  We saw it years later when she again graced Australian small screens in the late 1990s in Sea Change.  She had a ‘certain something’ that she continues to bring to our screens, even today. 


I was reminded of this notion of charisma as I breezed through BBC’s Robin Hood recently. I have already confessed my lust for Richard Armitage’s Sir Guy of Gisbourne, but what surprised me was how engaging I found Robin himself.  Slim and (I suspect) not-universally-attractive, Jonas Armstrong brought something to the screen which surprised me.  In trying to describe him (in the role) to someone, I said he ‘twinkled’.  An unlikely candidate for the X Factor, Armstrong gave us a cheeky loveable larrikin who drew us in and before long (for me, anyway) he embodied Robin Hood. 


I’m not always as enamoured with TV characters and wonder if it is all about the X Factor.  I watch the TV show Castle for example, because I am a Nathan Fillion fan (from way back).  But I cannot - I repeat - I CANNOT, stand Stana Katic’s smug Kate Beckett.  She is certainly pretty and Hollywood-skinny so I find it hard to articulate why I haven’t ‘taken’ to her character, other than (perhaps) a certain coldness or lack of depth?  I suspect it is an issue of charisma.  And when a character is uninspiring, unsurprisingly I can’t engage with them or the show.  It is the reason that I used to love Law & Order – Criminal Intent, but never watched the original Law & Order; and perhaps the same reason I skip Law & Order – SVU if Mariska Hargitay isn’t featuring. 

Aussie actress Claudia Karvan
(Source: The Age)

It isn’t just about the quality of the acting, although it does help.  I will watch almost anything with Aussie TV actor, Claudia Karvan in it because she just brings ‘something’ to the screen every time.  Similarly I am enjoying our new television offering, Offspring, starring Asher Keddie who is remarkably engaging as the self-deprecating Nina. 


It’s why we want the good guys to win.  Or the bad guys to prosper.  It’s why we forgive Bill Clinton’s indiscretions or ignore Bob Hawke’s oafishness. It’s why certain actors or shows appeal to us and others don’t.  It’s how some people can command a room or a show, and others can’t… the X Factor which has nothing to do with singing and dancing.

Bad boys, whatcha gonna do?

Let me start by prefacing this post with the statement that I do not, in real life, have a thing for ‘bad boys’.  As a natural cynic I have never aspired to find someone I can save, or change, or mould in any way.  This is because the man of my dreams will (of course) be a perfect specimen, not requiring any tweaking or shaping.  Hmmm… on further consideration this may well be why I am single! 

On screen however, it seems that my taste is far more seditious. 

I have just commenced a long holiday and after two laps of my local video store, I settled on the TV show Robin Hood (2006-2009).  I hadn’t ever watched it but recalled it being moderately popular and decided I was desperate enough to check it out for myself.  Given that there were only three Seasons made and all available, I also figured it would give me enough to do for a few days while not requiring me to wait (im)patiently for a new season to be released.

As I am not a fan of the ‘action’ genre, I expected that I might watch a few episodes before returning Season 1 mostly-unwatched.  However, to my surprise I literally inhaled two Seasons in less than three days and would have watched the final Season if some other pesky customer hadn’t kept it from me. 

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Richard Armitage as Sir Guy"][/caption]

Although Jonas Armstrong is surprisingly bewitching as Robin Hood, hero of the masses, it is the enigmatic and (frankly) bloody sexy Richard Armitage, who played Sir Guy of Gisborne who captured my heart.  Delivering on the Sheriff of Nottingham’s carnage does nothing to stymie my bad-boy adoration and (well, let’s face it)… lust.  Dark, brooding, sexy and sardonic, he is night to Robin’s day. He is my Mr Darcy, leaving Mr Bingham in his scathing wake.

It has made me wonder how much of the on-screen bad boy thing is expert casting rather than girl’s natural instinct to ‘turn-around’ a man who surely wants to be saved even though they may not actually know it.   In Robin Hood, Armstrong as its namesake is young and lanky and portrayed as a bit of a larrikin, whereas (be-still-my-beating-heart) Armitage is buff, stubbled and clad in black leather.  And in the first two Seasons (at least) we are privy to glimpses of humanity, leading us to believe he is not completely beyond redemption (and therefore worthy of our lust). 

Although it dates me, I recall similarly finding Luke Perry’s Dylan far more attractive than Jason Priestley’s Brandon on (the original) Beverly Hills 90210.  I preferred Chris Noth’s Big to John Corbett’s Aidan in Sex and the City.  And for a more timely pop culture reference I have to admit to a slight lustful interest in Glee’s Puck as opposed to, well…whatever the other guy’s name is… you know, the tall lanky blander-than-white-bread guy. 

Ever since James Dean graced the screens in the 1950s and studio bosses recognized our lust for the bad boy, casting directors have given us a choice.  Squeaky clean and cute, or sexy and broody. 

And in the parallel universe of film and television, I know which I am buying….

Far Eastern Odysseys and Emergency Sex

A few things have transpired in the last few weeks which have me thinking.  And pondering.

I have been quite unhappy at work for some time.  This isn’t necessarily a new thing as I get bored very easily and tend to change jobs with regularity.  At the moment however, although I contemplate alternatives, I find myself at a loss to identify what my options might be.  This had led me to reconsider a former career in aid and development - a previous life in which I worked and managed projects in developing countries.

Then, a couple of Tuesdays ago, I was channel surfing free-to-air TV and came across Rick Stein’s Far Eastern Odyssey.  It was the first show in the series and featured Cambodia.

I lived in Cambodia (aka Kampuchea; aka Cambodge) as a volunteer for about 7 months (until a coup d’etat) in 1997.  I returned for a month or so the following year as an election observer - part of a 20-person Australian / New Zealand contingent.

Generally I cannot watch shows or read about places I have lived or worked.  I’m not sure why.  Perhaps I feel the shows do not do the places and people justice, or that they objectify or patronise them.  Perhaps I have figuratively washed my hands of the places and people, moved on (literally) and don’t want to be reminded of them.  Or perhaps it is just the opposite and I find it painful to be reminded of previous lives and past regrets.  I don’t know.

But as it happened, I enjoyed watching Rick and his guides eating and cooking their way across Cambodia.  And, though over a decade since I was there, I felt a sense of familiarity and déjà vu.

Then….only a few days later I had a conversation with a fellow commuter, the way one does when they see the same strangers day after day.  Our smiles had become hellos and our hellos had become conversations.

This day – without knowing any of my history - she (for I still don’t know her name and keep meaning to ask!) told me how she would like to work in a developing country one day.  In the course of our conversation she talked about a book called, Emergency Sex and Other Desperate Measures: A True Story of Hell on Earth and offered to lend it to me.  And surprisingly she - my nameless fellow-commuter - appeared the following day with the book.

I, however, wasn’t sure I would want to read the book for the same reason I don’t watch stuff about places I have lived and worked.  So before receiving the book I was coming up with plausible platitudes which could fool her into thinking I had read the damned thing so as not to offend her generous gesture.

Surprisingly, although not particularly enamoured with two of the three authors (and protagonists), I demolished the book in two late-night reading sessions.

The book itself was written by three United Nations (UN) workers: Andrew, a NZ doctor, started out working for the Red Cross in Cambodia before the UN arrived en-masse to secure peace and democracy; Heidi, a disenfranchised recently divorced and broke social worker snared the UN gig to make some money; and Ken, a law graduate with an interest in human rights and no interest in actually practicing law.  The three cross paths in Cambodia in 1993 and continue to do so until the end of that decade and the book tracks them through the UN hotspots of Cambodia, Haiti, Somalia, Rwanda, Liberia and Bosnia.

I met some of these characters in my overseas exploits, particularly while living in Mozambique, Cambodia and East Timor.  Adrenaline junkies who move from emergency to emergency; UN Mission to UN Mission, many with little regard or thought for the people whose homeland they are inhabiting (albeit briefly).  Some good work is done but the motivations of many can be disheartening.

But even as I read this book and grimaced at some of the characters and happenings, I found myself feeling the familiar tinge of adrenaline and reminding myself of the good, rather than the bad.



[caption id="attachment_408" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="Me in Mozambique"][/caption]

Emergency Sex returned to its commuter-owner, I am left pondering.  After my last overseas gig a decade ago: two years in East Timor then some time in the private sector involving a lot of travel in the Pacific, I yearned for normalcy.  I left the industry for what-I-hoped-would-be a more settled existence.  Indeed I have had absolutely no interest in traveling (anywhere or at all) since my return.  So why now am I surfing the internet for development jobs?  Am I like Heidi in Emergency Sex (who I quite disliked) - disenfranchised and looking for something new?  Or is my current lack of fulfillment because I have no sense that what I am (currently) doing makes a difference.  To anyone.

I tried to explain my lack of fulfillment to a boss a few years ago.  While living in developing countries the conditions are difficult.  You may not have access to regular electricity or running water.   Security may be an issue and you may be quite socially isolated.  So everyday life is hard.  A challenge.  As a result it doesn’t matter if work is maniacally busy or less-than-fulfilling because you don’t have the luxury of considering self-actualisation or pausing to ponder the meaning of life.  But in a world (here) where life is (mostly) easy, I find myself expecting more from my work.  More from people around me.  Often neither measure up. And this isn’t always their fault.

So, if I am honest, my desire to return to my previous life is as much about my dissatisfaction with the rest of my life as it is about work even though I realise my previous escapades did little to stave off the disenfranchisement.  So, I wonder why I think this time would be any different….

The test of time

A couple of weeks ago I had the pleasure of spending some time with my niece, EMC.  She was working on an English assignment – a school play (Children of the Black Skirt) in which her character becomes lost in the woods, only to be found (presumably) dead, 5 days later.  Underlying themes aside, I found myself wondering what happened during those 5 days.  It reminded me, I told my niece, of the novel and (1975) film Picnic at Hanging Rock, which I saw before I read.  As I described the plot to her, I was reminded of how frustrated I was as the film and book ended; leaving us wondering what happened to the missing schoolgirls.  Even the release of an additional chapter after the author’s death did little to elucidate the mystery for me.

Somehow our conversation then drifted to another Australian movie of my youth, Gallipoli – coincidentally also directed by Peter Weir.  The story of two young men and featuring a young Mel Gibson (before Mad Max really took off and shot him to stardom; and before his life went awry).   A tragic tale on so many levels and I have to admit to teariness even as I relayed the story (and its ending) to EMC.

I recall seeing these movies on sale a few years ago and contemplated buying them for EMC, thinking they would go someway to educating her in the history of Australian film and popular culture.  But, I had learnt my lesson a few years before when, instead of buying Disney movies on her Christmas list, I took her Captain Jack Sparrow fetish one step further and bought Edward Scissorhands, What’s Eating Gilbert Grape and Benny and Joon.  All three remain in their plastic wrapping, though I suspect one day she will pull them out and watch them as – though only 13 – she is a smart little chickie and has sophisticated but quirky tastes.

The other thing that prevented me forking out my hard-earned cash was that I had discovered (the hard way) that some things do not stand the test of time.

One of my favourite bloggers is The Scrivener’s Fancy’s Avril Rolfe. We have surprisingly similar taste (she used to love Thirtysomething) and must be of a similar age as I find myself nodding at her pop culture references.  Her latest blog references the 1982 Australian film, Starstruck (http://www.thescrivenersfancy.com/imagined-slights/2010/04/21/struck-off.aspx). Like many other teenagers across the country I loved the film.  I also had the soundtrack (on cassette of course) which I came across about 10 years ago.  Surprisingly it still worked and listening to my old favourites (Body and Soul and Monkey in Me) motivated me to track down the movie, which I found at a nearby video rental store.  What I saw shocked and horrified me.  It was terrible.  Beyond terrible.  A cliché.  Surely even at 14 years of age I recognised that?  Surely I looked past the quirkiness and cringed at the unlikelihood of the plot and uncomfortable acting?  Obviously not.

Similarly, about 5 years ago, before we remembered its name and Fame became famous to a whole new generation, I was flipping through a catalogue and discovered that the TV series was being released on DVD.  I possibly squealed with excitement.  Possibly.  I loved that show.  Though the (original) movie shocked my 12yr old sensibilities, I was in my mid-teens by the time the TV series graced our Australian screens and I was mesmerised by the lives of the high school students which were far-removed from my own existence in a small regional Queensland town.

The sale-bins were bare by the time I reached the department store so my always-devoted mother (who still lives in that small regional town) tracked down the TV series for me and I wrenched it from her to insert into my DVD player.  I don’t think I got through one episode.  Actress Lori Singer - who I liked on the show, but hated cos she ‘got’ Kevin Bacon in Footloose - and her cohorts were unwatchable to my 40ish year old eyes.  I don’t think I made it to episode two, so perhaps it improved because after all, it did air for five years….

But, I learned my lesson.  Technology changes.  Tastes change.  Evolve.  Our expectations change.  Some movies and television shows can stand the test of time.  They may be ‘dated’ but the quality seeps through.  The Godfather movies, Grease, Taxi Driver, Platoon and even When Harry Met Sally, are examples.

So – I haven’t sent my niece in search of Gallipoli or Picnic at Hanging Rock and I haven’t revisited them myself.  Although… it is almost Anzac day here in Australia, so perhaps Gallipoli deserves another visit.

Easter eggs and rabbit ears

Easter is again upon us and it is supposed to mean more than chocolate bunnies and public holidays.  But rather than contemplate what was purported to have happened nearly 2000 years ago, I find myself relishing glimpses of life just 30 years ago.

For my family, Christmases were spent either in far-western Queensland or on Fraser Island.  Both of which presented my parents with logistical nightmares in the 1970s: long car trips on dusty dirt roads; or weeks without access to electricity or shops. 

Easters, on the other hand, were spent closer to home.  My Poppie and step-grandmother (Gwen) lived just 30kms away at the (then, and mostly now) sleepy seaside town of Hervey Bay.  Although we often visited on weekends, Easters provided my family with day after day of beachside living as Gwen and Poppie lived right on the Esplanade.  We only had to cross the road and we were on the beach.  Our beach.

In those days it was idyllic.  Waves crashed onto the shore and my brother and I would sit on the rocks or nearby cement steps letting the water crash over us.  On really high tides we could jump off the steps into the frothy surf.  Not fishermen ourselves, we would occasionally accompany Poppie or Gwen across the road to try their luck, or trudge after them through the low mudflats as they used something that looked like a bicycle pump to dredge up yabbies for bait.  Back then the Urangan pier was long and in desperate need of repair, but a landmark nevertheless.  The walk out along the rotting timber beams seemed endless and it was often deserted bar a few wrinkled and roasted fisherman camped out for the day.

We stayed under Gwen and Poppie’s house; an old 1960s timber two-storey home.  A more retro and less elegant version of a Queenslander.  Now in my middle-classed middle-age I would rather be prodded with a hot poker than sleep under there, but at the time it was part of the adventure. The cement floors were adorned by straw mats and linoleum cast-offs from renovating relatives. The uncovered walls and ceiling tastefully festooned by cobwebs and other unmentionables; and old dusty smelly (possibly never-washed) curtains separating the beds.  There were also two old lounge chairs and we would lug our old black and white television with us which required constant adjusting of the rabbit ears to get any reception at all.  A cooktop rested on a bench in the laundry alongside the big concrete tubs and washing machine.  I suspect my mother desperately missed her automatic and iconic whirlpool during those visits when she was forced to use the hand-operated wringer.  Or possibly she just made us wear the same clothes for four days and avoided the contraption completely.

Easter was my favourite of the ‘holidays’.  My birthday received little attention coming just three days after Christmas, and Christmas itself held little allure for me.  Though always happy to unwrap whatever gifts lay under our tree, I didn’t like turkey, Christmas pudding, Christmas cake or mince pies.  So for me, Christmas lunch was just another nice roast dinner.

But Easter was the culmination of my favourite things: chocolate; and the freedom to eat it all day, for any meal, without repercussion or chastisement.  And eat it all day I did.  Easter after Easter.  Year after year. 

My brother was always more temperate than I (and far less prone to obsessions and gluttony), so while I would have finished my goodies by the time we headed back home on Easter Monday, he would eke his out for another week or two.  Purely to torture me, I am sure.

 

My favourite Easter offering was the Red Tulip bunny.  Elegant Rabbits I think they are called today.  They remain my favourite.  In those days everything was Red Tulip.  No Lindt bunnies, or Mars Bar eggs or other hand-made goodies emerging out of a deli rather than Coles or Woolies. 

As a child in the 1970s my Easter haul always included the aforementioned RT bunny, a carton of medium sized (RT) eggs packaged in a clear plastic egg carton (which seemed inspired back then).  Then my mother would split a packet of RT caramello (my favourites) and solid eggs and give my brother and I half each, and finally we would always get the infamous RT Humpty Dumpty.  So ingenious we thought… the way those smarties got inside!  Actually more often than not we also got one of those candy eggs, with the little messages inside.  I hated them but my mother kept buying them year after year.  I don’t recall ever trying to trade mine for chocolate with my brother, though I suspect he would have refused just because… well just because that’s what older brothers do to torture their little sisters.

After I consumed each of my Easter eggs, the next of my beachside rituals would start.   Having carefully removed the foil from my eggs (my brother was – obviously – a far better and more patient paper-removerer than I!) I would put the wrapper through the hand-operated wringer of the washing machine.  Again and again until it was completely flat.

The result was a masterpiece.  The flattened former bunny or humpty dumpty face looked more like something Picasso would offer up than its previous incarnation.  I used to feel such a sense of accomplishment though I have no recollection of what I did with the wrappers after flattening them.  I suspect it was the ceremony of the whole thing that I loved.  Once they were done I probably just threw them away. 

Anyway… that’s what I remember about my Easters-past; back when Gwen and Poppie were still alive; back when waves still crashed on the foreshore and before the sand dunes started eroding. My flattened Easter egg wrappers.  Temperamental rabbit ears.  Our old linoleum lining cement floors.   And washing machine wringers. 

It’s funny the things you remember.

Yes I Can, Can, Can

When I ‘cleansed’ this Blog a few months ago I deleted a lot of old posts which didn’t fit into the Blog’s new theme (simultaneously getting rid of a lot of over-sharing).  I am writing a follow up to this particular post and need to reference it however, so need to stick it back in!

Originally posted 9 April 2009 

I signed on before I really knew what I was getting into. So, it could have been disastrous. In fact, it has actually been quite fun.

At an end-of-year gathering late last year, one of my friends told me about some classes she had been attending. Always one to ferret out the unusual and obscure but very-interesting, KK had just finished a Hula Hoop course. Her enthusiasm for the 10-week program was effusive.

I had been thinking about signing up for something to do during the week. Another of my new year’s resolutions (like this blog) was to do more fun things during the week – so the week is less about work and… well, work.

So, a very-informal dance class seemed the perfect option and I asked KK for the dance school details. The options were overwhelming: as well as hula hooping, the school offered several versions of Hip Hop and Funk; Bellydancing; Bollywood; Tahitian and Polynesian Hula; Tribal Bellydance Fusion; and Burlesque.

As someone who doesn’t much like their body, I decided I should do something to help me feel more sensual and 'in tune' with my body. I recalled doing a one-off belly dancing class years before and the buxom instructor did make us all feel like sexually attractive and desirable women (I must admit though, that this was at a health retreat and we were alcohol, sugar, caffeine deprived!).

I did however, want something a bit more energetic than bellydancing and when I described to KK what I wanted “something kinda like lap dancing, but without the laps,” she suggested that burlesque was the way to go.

The school’s website described burlesque as “Kylie's Showgirl tour fused some Moulin Rouge sassy!”

My mind started to boggle as I imagined it: fishnets and garters, can-canning across the stage, or perhaps Nicole Kidman Moulin Rouge style – a sequined me on a swing – floating above the masses. Or perhaps it would more akin to PCD (or, for those not in the know – or, you know, over 20 – the Pussy Cat Dolls) and we would be gyrating in leather!

Despite all of this, I sent off my money and enrolled in the 10-week course before sanity or apathy could prevail.

I arrived late and stressed to the first lesson, having left work late and gotten lost en-route, only to be confronted by a swarm of 20yr-old skinny, bizarrely dressed women.

I was clad for exercise – leggings and big Nike t-shirt (and with sturdy sports bra for the high impact exercise ahead) so I stood out amongst the leopard print skimpy tops, tulle skirts and ‘shorts-over-ripped-stockings’ look. I was also only one or two present unadorned with tattoos. I almost felt bare. I was already regretting my decision. Amidst this group of sex-kittens (a-la Dita Von Teese), I felt positively frumpy and middle-aged. Of the 15 others, there was one other ‘older’ woman. Needless to say, we were a strange group and I often wondered what others visiting the dance studio, thought of us when they saw us en-masse.

Our instructor, Rose* (a burlesque dancer herself and I suspect, not her real name…) had a seam tattooed down the back of her legs and a large wide tattoo just under her neck, across her shoulder bones. She also had a long black ponytail falling from high on her head, perfect for flicking about when the need dictated.

Rose started the first lesson with the good news – that we would be learning a routine to (…wait for it), perform at the end of term concert. (Be still my beating heart, I thought and decided that I will be ‘sick’ or indisposed in some way.)


Nevertheless, we eventually kicked off. The first lesson set the scene for those following. We began and finished with lengthy stretching sessions – though less for preventing injury and more for… well I am actually not sure, but increasing flexibility I guess. Many of the stretches were the kind that went out of fashion in the 80s, or maybe even the 70s – lots of helicopter arms swivelling to touch our toes and bouncing. We were also required to do the splits – or as close to them as possible. I should have been sensible like the older woman, who did her own alternative stretches rather than Rose's as I often found myself aching in the days following our class, from overstretching as much as anything. (It may, however, interest my myriad of dedicated followers – ahem, I mean, readers – to know that I can actually do the splits frontways but not sideways… just for future reference!)



We did however, manage to fit in about 15-20mins of our routine each week. At this point I should point out that Rose was, and is, actually more of a performer than a teacher. We students and burlesque-novices regularly found ourselves looking at each other in confusion over which foot to start stepping on, as the guileless Rose changed her mind each time.

Nonetheless, she was brimming with enthusiasm and poise (if not coordination) as she put us through our ‘burlesque paces’.

The movements of burlesque are fairly simple. Lots of hip flicks and circles, shimmies and body roles, with a few supposedly-sexy walks thrown in. (On that note and for future reference again - unlike one’s normal walk, a ‘stripper’ or ‘burlesque’ walk involves planting the toe first and crossing the legs as you walk.)

In no way however, was my sports bra tested throughout the 10 weeks. Our energy was focussed on swivells and shakes, not jumping around energetically. Even our can-can involved low, slow kicks.

Any self-consciousness I felt disappeared as we disparate souls giggled and strutted our way through the routine we learnt over the 10-week course.

Only 7 or 8 regulars attended most of the lessons and I would often find myself looking around, wondering what each was expecting to get out of the class. Not there for exercise I suspect, but more for something different, and perhaps because (I read that) burlesque is becoming the activity or exercise du jour!

Term 1 has now finished (and I - sadly - was unable to perform in the concert) and we ‘graduates’ can now move to level 2. I think I might give it a miss though and try something different.

I don’t think I have come away from the course feeling more sensual, but I certainly have the moves if ever the opportunity arrives.

* Name changed to protect the innocent

In Death...

I have many guilty pleasures.  Some just naughty – champagne, chocolate, red wine and so forth.  Some a little weird – an early years’ fetish for Dr Spock (the one with the pointy ears, not the child-rearing guru).  And some that are mostly embarrassing.  Like the ridiculous pleasure I get from the TV show, ‘Murder She Wrote’ and from a series of novels by romance writer, Nora Roberts, under the pseudonym JD Robb.

I am a prolific reader and constantly running out of reading fodder.  So nothing excites me more than finding a new author, whose work I find digestible, and who already has a realm of books under their belt.  I am as happy as the proverbial pig in mud. No painful searches of the rarely-changing library shelves of my local library; or being driven to fork out hard-earned cash for mediocre books.

I regularly admit to a fairly prosaic taste in literature. Though I find myself balking at some crime fiction (I cannot believe I used to read Patricia Cornwell for example), I don’t mind the likes of PD James, Martha Grimes and Robert B Parker.

So… admissions and self-flagellation completed, a few years ago I borrowed a book by JD Robb.  Though (obviously) by no means a literary snob, I might have bypassed the book had I realised it was written by an author better known for romance than murder and mayhem.  But realise I did not.  I don’t remember what that book actually was, but it was undoubtedly one from somewhere in the middle of the series, given the discovery took place in 2008 and Roberts kicked off her ‘In Death’ novels (as an experiment) in 1995.

I was entranced and literally ploughed through all existing ‘In Death’ novels over subsequent months.  I tried to do so in order – given that an underlying story unfolds as a backdrop to the murderous mysteries unraveling front-stage.

I have read them all now (bar a few short stories appearing in other collections).  And I have even re-read some.  The series has taken its place along with some other staples (TV series’ ‘Buffy’, ‘Pushing Daisies’, ‘Entourage’ and ‘West Wing’; and Robert B Parker’s Spenser or Sunny Randall novels) which I can watch or read again and again and are a source of great comfort.

So, I wonder, what is it about these novels that endear them to me? 

Though I am not a Sci Fi or fantasy genre fan, these novels are set in the future, the first kicking off in the late 2050s.  In a brave new world following the ‘Urban Wars’ of the 2020s.  In this world we meet New York Homicide cop, Lieutenant Eve Dallas.  A strong, independent woman, (stereotypically) scarred by childhood trauma.  In the first novel, ‘Naked in Death’ Eve crosses paths with the enigmatic (and if that word was coined with a character in mind, it was this one) Roarke, mega-rich and a law unto himself.

Their relationship makes the novels and (in my point of view) sometimes almost breaks them.  Roberts just avoids Eve falling into some caricature of a former-victim-now-turned-saviour still tortured by her dysfunctional childhood.  As a romantic (at heart) I love Roarke’s devotion to his cop/wife but there is sometimes a fine line between devotion and paternalism; and his compulsion to ‘take care’ of Eve often has me shuddering with discomfort.  I mean, what is it with these people (you read about) who ‘forget to eat’ and who work to exhaustion and have to be carried off to bed by concerned loved ones?   Finally, although not faint-hearted I do occasionally find the sex scenes a bit much to get through and have to skim-read the gory stuff.

But Roberts has a support cast guaranteed to complement the two leads and many of them are as familiar and dear to her readers as Eve and Roarke themselves.  In fact, in many ways Eve’s sidekick - the delightful smartarse, Peabody - keeps me turning the pages as much as the two mainstays. 

One of the things that sets the novels apart from the usual murder / mysteries is the futuristic themes.  Technology is more advanced, certainly, and e-cops, computers and virtual reality play a key role in many of the murders.  Guns have disappeared after the Urban Wars and (other than in Eve’s world) murders are few and far between.

I find myself intrigued about how Roberts interprets the future.  She names her technological advances simply.  Watches are ‘wrist units’.  Some form of escalators that take travelers significant distances are ‘glides’.  Telephones are nicknamed ‘links’ and they, along with mobile phones (‘communicators’) offer vision.  Cars (and other forms of transport – which can move vertically) are ‘transpos’.  All forms of makeup and beauty products are known as ‘enhancements’.   ‘Droids’ are prevalent – though mostly working as maids and doormen. In this world people live well into their 100s and plastic surgery is the norm.  And, in Roberts’ vision, we have settled on other planets by the middle of the 21^st century.

The futuristic world and its gadgets however, do not distract the readers from the plot itself and I find most of Roberts’ ‘In Death’ series less predictable than most other crime fiction or mystery novels I read.  The plots are always robust and the characters strong and multi-dimensional.  Roberts has recently released her 30^th ‘In Death’ novel but given how prolifically she has been churning them out over recent years, I suspect there will be many more to come.   And – for now anyway – that suits me fine.

http://www.jdrobb.com

Counting down

A dozen or so years ago my favourite times of the week were Saturday and Sunday mornings (and not just because they involved not-working).  I had stopped partying on Friday / Saturday nights so no longer spent the following morning in a darkened room moaning ‘never again’ and gagging on stomach-settling Stemetil.  Instead, up bright and early (well, ish) I would sprawl about on my lounge room floor…leftover reheated Chinese to my right; diet coke to my left; newspapers strewn about in front; and music videos playing on the television.

Though progressing way-too-rapidly through my early 30s at the time, I liked to watch the Top 20, or 10 (or something in between) countdowns.  I occasionally heard a song I wanted to hear again, and smugly liked the fact that I was ‘down’ with what the youngsters were listening to.  (Of course the fact that I was watching ‘Video Hits’ or [old] ‘Rage’, rather than listening to ‘Triple J’ said something about how un-hip I actually was, but still there I was – ‘gettin jiggy wit it’).

Sadly I find I can no longer partake in this frivolous pastime and not just because I have hard timber floors in my lounge room – making it difficult and uncomfortable to sprawl on my 40+year old bones…. The bigger problem is that it is all-but-impossible to find any music ‘countdowns’ on Australian free-to-air television stations anymore. 

I tend to gravitate to ABC’s ‘Rage’ which offers a mish-mash of popular, edgy and retro music, rather than Channel 10’s ‘Video Hits’ which seems to feature (generally non-charting obscure) artists from whatever music festival happens to be on at the time.  I know my lack of appreciation for these artists and the myriad of outdoor music festivals says something about my age and taste, but frankly I need more.  I mean, how on earth am I supposed to know what songs to like if I can’t find out what everyone else likes?

So, I wonder, why is there no interest in countdowns from free-to-air television stations?  Why no new-release video clips, no highlighting of new music?  Such shows exist on pay television (Foxtel etc) and even our radio stations still offer regular countdowns and feature new-releases.  In fact it seems that The Buggles were wrong in 1979 and ‘video did not kill the radio star’ after all.  But instead perhaps the video shows – as I knew them – are dead.  Killed by the World Wide Web. 

We no longer have to wait on tenterhooks for Molly (Meldrum) to unveil this week’s number one song on ‘Countdown’.  We can just log on to the internet and we have the world at our fingertips.  YouTube, iTunes and the like.  We don’t need to wait for Saturday morning to roll around to see what new songs are being released. A few flicks of the fingers across a keyboard or keypad and we can find almost any video clip we want to watch, buy and download. Just like that. 

It isn’t that I don’t appreciate technology - downloading something from iTunes sure beats holding the cassette player with in-built microphone in front of the TV screen and telling everyone to shush.  But, I still miss the anticipation of the countdown; the inane babble of the VJs imparting often-useless tidbits; and being exposed to songs that I wouldn’t normally listen to but, because they happen to fall between No.8 and No.6, enjoy.  But most of all I miss those comforting weekend hours spent sprawled in front of a noisy, flickering box!

So you think you wanna dance?

I am no aficionado of dance.  By a long stretch.  Or by any stretch.  I don’t really know what krumping is and though (I think) I know what a pirouette looks like, I have no idea what an arabesque is.

I possibly offended my sister-in-law and niece years ago when I finally admitted that I didn’t enjoy accompanying them to classical ballets.  For me the night was akin to a slow-moving book or movie – where I just wanted those on stage to get on with it.  I admit to a frustration with plodding (though beautiful) prose.  Ballet presented me with the same problem.  Though I could guess at the vague degree of difficulty, it seemed a monotonous and a long-winded way of getting to the point. 

Having said that, I suspect a night of endless hip hop or contemporary dance would be as tedious to me.  Though I accompany my niece to some of her eisteddfods (and I can happily watch my niece dance until the cows come home) where a myriad of styles are often show, my favourite shows are the end-of-year concerts where there is more variety. 

The art of dance itself has garnered more attention and support recently with the advent of TV shows, Dancing with the Stars (which I don’t watch) and So You Think You Can Dance (which I do watch).  Note here I refrained from adding Dance Your Ass Off, as I don’t think it lasted long enough on our screens to count as having any impact on its 17 nation-wide viewers! 

SYTYCD restarts on our TV screens tonight which I discovered yesterday as I watched an old MC Hammer film clip and marveled at the ability of the African-American chicks (in the video) to shake their booties.  This (of course) led to some sort of pondering on genetics and nurture versus nature (I obviously have WAY too much time on my hands!!). 

There is no question, for example, that some cultures include music and dance as part of their everyday lives, and not solely for the purpose of eventually ‘performing’ for an audience as many of we Aussies do. 

In the mid 1990s I went to work in Mozambique (in south-eastern Africa) as a volunteer with a women’s non-government organization.  I recall walking to the shops in my first or second week in the country and being enchanted as I was passed by a convoy of trucks carrying groups of men and women all singing and dancing.  They were in the throes of a wedding – always a huge (and loud) celebration in Mozambique.  I wanted to ring home and share my excitement at what I had been privy to.  

I worked in the head office in Maputo but about a week into my time there, my counterpart and I traveled to the outskirts of town to visit one of the groups we supported. We were greeted by the group at Boane with song and dance.  I was delighted.  It really was the stereotypical Africa that you saw on television.  And, of course I was also eventually dragged up to join the women (after being draped in a capulana – piece of fabric / sarong). 

 

As my time in Mozambique wore on I became more accustomed to the role that singing and dancing played in their culture and lives.  Some of the issues we promoted (family planning, safe sex etc) were translated into songs.  I sat in a church where a priest-of-sorts and his hen (or perhaps it was a rooster?  I couldn’t focus as I was worried it was to be a sacrifice* and wasn’t sure how NOT to react) preached to the masses before one of our Activistas (facilitators) presented a session on AIDs – complete with demonstrating how to put a condom on a fake penis – before we broke into song and dance. 

 

In a place called Xai Xai, I remember some young boys getting up to join the dancing women.  And it took me a while to realise that they weren’t taking the piss out of their elders for doing something that they found ‘uncool’.  They just wanted to join in.

Of course as time went on, I became more inured to what-once-thrilled me (or horrified-me in the case of many Mozambicans with missing limbs as a result of land mines and homeless children sleeping on the footpaths in rags).  I have to admit to occasionally getting frustrated on our visits across the countryside.  I wanted to see other aspects of our work in action.  Did, I wonder, the singing and dancing ensue when I wasn’t there, or was it all for my benefit?  Something in between I suspect.  But there was no question about the fact that music and dance brought such joy to these people facing difficulties once unimaginable to me.  Something I should remind myself of (as I settle down tonight to watch SYTYCD) now that 15 years have passed since I lived amidst such passion and was fortunate enough to share in it for a while.

*Note.  The hen / rooster made it safely through the service though it did run amok at one point.  We (the official party) were however served a meal of chicken and rice after the service, so unless there was something special about it, I was not really sure how long the hen/rooster would last in the overall scheme of things!

Borrowed time

I originally posted this on 10 December 2009, but deleted it when I changed the theme of this blog.  However, in retrospect, this entry means a lot to me, so I am reposting it. 

Nine years ago someone died. I don't know how or why. I don't even know who. But I do know that their death benefited my family in a way that we will never forget and in a way that we can never repay.

My father has had heart problems for as long as I can remember. I vaguely recall his hurried trips to Brisbane from regional Queensland when I was a youngster. Not to mention the regular check ups which, to my mind, always seemed tokenistic and the rotating array of interns, fairly disinterested.

He was an unlikely candidate for early-onset heart problems as a non-smoker and non-drinker. As a child and young man, he was an athlete - reportedly excelling at most sports he played, before settling into rugby league. And in those days he was as close to 'professional' as you could get.

So, he was a fit and healthy bugger. But, his heart wasn't. For most of my life I had known that - at some point - my dad would need surgery to make it all better. The doctors just needed to wait until it was bad enough to do something about it. I was overseas in 1996 when they finally discovered that the problem was worse than they initially thought. The wall of the pumping chamber of his heart was damaged. It seemed that the rheumatic fever he had as a child was more brutal than anyone realized and it meant that the valve replacement they had always planned wouldn't make any difference. Then came the news patients and their families dread… The only option available to him was a heart transplant.

Devastating as the news was for my family, we took solace in the fact that we still had time. He was only 57 years old and still quite healthy. The life or death wait for an organ donor and transplant surgery seemed a long way off.

His only grandchild was born later that same year. Always good with kids he was a devoted grandfather and 'Tinkers' seemed to revel in the attention. But as 60 approached his health worsened. I was overseas (again) and insulated from the stress when his pacemaker failed and he had a cardiac arrest. He was in hospital at the time and easily resuscitated, but my mother was jarred. But defibrillator installed he was again sent home. To wait. Not for a donor, but to be sick enough to even make it onto the waiting list.

Only months later, in December 2000, he was again admitted to intensive care. My mother's correspondence had become filled with increasing stories of his deterioration. A man, who had very recently played an excellent game of tennis now had difficulties walking around the yard. Worse still, there were comments from others. My once-upbeat mother sounded worried. I was wracked with guilt at being so far away - with my father so ill and my mother obviously needing support.

After being in hospital for a week and undergoing a barrage of tests there was little else the doctors could do to improve his condition. My father was officially added to the organ donor register. It was Saturday. The transplant team delivered a sad message for others, but a good one for us: that it was a time of year when more lives are lost and more donations (inadvertently) made.

I arrived home from overseas late the following day and was surprised to see my recently-active and healthy 61 year old father looking old. He had always looked so young for his age. That night, on Sunday the 10th of December, my father called from hospital to say he had been told they had a donor heart for him.

We raced up to the hospital. It was 9pm. The next 12 hours were surreal. Though the donor heart was a match, we would not know until about 3am if it was undamaged. My mother and I waited overnight with my father as he was prepared for surgery. It was an emotional night, but what I remember most now, was how resolute he was that he HAD to have the transplant. He didn’t seem to consider the alternative. His only fear was that the transfer wouldn’t take place. Never once did he speak of possible repercussions of having the surgery – death – either during the operation or shortly after. So then, it was only joy that greeted the witching-hour news that the heart was good and the operation would go ahead.

We walked him to the theatre at 5am before leaving him in the hands of green robe-clad surgeons. As the rest of the world awoke, we started making calls to tell friends and relatives. And then waited.

Four hours later dad was out of surgery. He woke later that day. There were a few early hiccups, but these related more to the enormity of what had happened and the emotional rollercoaster that accompanied it. The concoction of drugs he is on prevents his own body rejecting the interloping heart. As yet it hasn’t.

He was as good as new. Still is. Almost. My father used to be larger than life. He loved, played, worked, stressed and obsessed with passion. Whether it was battling illness for years before the surgery, the surgery itself, or the concept of living on borrowed time, he is changed. He isn’t the same. I suspect that there are some emotional scars that could only be understood whose heart was stopped, removed and replaced by a stranger’s. His confidence has diminished. He often talks about feeling unworthy. Undeserving. But I think, ‘If not him, then who?’ But despite this, there are still glimpses of the old dad and we treasure them.

Nine years have passed since the stranger’s death. My father has seen his only grandchild grow from a toddler to a beautiful teenager. He has (to date) had nine extra years to wander this earth, spending time with his family and friends. And those of us who love him (and there are many) have been blessed to have him for almost a decade more (so far) than we otherwise might…

The night before the operation, as we stalked the corridors of the hospital, another family was echoing our actions. A 21yr old man was to receive the lungs from the same donor. His wife and parents were there. At the hospital. My mother and father saw them often during regular transplant checkups. Never responding as well as dad, the young man died one year after the transplant. I often wondered if his parents resented the fact that my then 62 year old father was still going strong. But, they did get an extra year with their son and in a lifetime of 22 years, 12 months is a hell of a long time.

Coincidentally...

I finally saw the much-lauded Avatar last weekend.  I was blown-away by how far technology has come since I suffered through queasiness and blue and red tinted lens’ for Jaws 3D in 1983.

I have been entertained by the media reports comparing Avatar’s plot to that of Pocahontas as well as the web postings which do a ‘Find / Replace’ from an excerpt of Pocahontas - replacing John Smith with Jake Sully.  Though patting him on the back for his ingenuity, bloggers everywhere are describing Avatar as Pocahontas in Space and wondering if James Cameron merely ‘lifted’ the plot (based on real events anyway!) and added some colour and special effects. 

I recently touched on this idea of ‘everything old is new again’ in a blog I wrote about sampling or remixing old songs into new ones, which gave me a chance to revisit with old faves.

But this is different.  We see our share of remakes.  Some good – Ocean’s Eleven and The Ring come to mind.  And some not-so-good – think Psycho and Planet of the Apes.  But what I wonder, in a world of remakes and trashy reality television about the world’s worst car-crashes is, are we lazy and purposely stealing ideas or have we just run out of new ones? 

I am currently watching two separate television shows, both of which initially had me indignant about the fact that they had seemingly pilfered their storyline from feature films.  I couldn’t believe the audacity and wondered why I hadn’t read about copyright breaches.  But it appears that all is not as it seems….

My first exhibit is the TV show, The Sopranos, which I am watching half-a-dozen years after the rest of the world.  The show has never really appealed to me, but I was in need of something to keep me entertained during the summer off-season here – other than tennis or cricket – so figured 6 seasons of approximately 13 episodes a season would give me 70 hours (give or take) of TV viewing to stave off the boredom. 

I vaguely knew what the show was about (mobsters), but it wasn’t until I watched the first season that I realized how closely it resembled the movie, Analyze This.  Both centre around a mob boss seeking assistance from a psychiatrist and the consequences (good and bad) of this action.  (Of course latter seasons of The Sopranos focus less on this angle, but it plays a pivotal role in the first season.)

I was shocked at the blatant ‘rip-off’ unless of course the show was meant to be a spin off of the movie.  It wasn’t.  Meant to be a spin off that is. And, more interestingly, it was not a rip-off.  Though the series appeared on TV screens in 1999 – the same year the movie was realized - the TV show pilot was actually filmed in 1997.  So, just coincidence apparently.  Two separate individuals had the same idea.  At around the same time.

Then there is a current summer season offering on our TV screens, which I find myself watching though it is a tad trite and obvious.  Accidentally on Purpose sees an older career woman become (accidentally – as if that can happen in this day and age?!) pregnant to a 20-something guy who lives with his always-stoned buddy.  Sound familiar?  If you saw the movie Knocked Up in which Katherine Heigl found herself in a similar state thanks to a drunken one night stand with Seth Rogen, then the plot is WAY too familiar.  And yet, wait for it...  Apparently the TV show has not pilfered the idea from the movie.  Bizarrely the TV show is actually based on a memoir (of the same name).   

Thanks to Jenna Elfman and the dry accented wit of Ugly Betty’s Ashley Jensen the show is watchable. Even if full of clichés. 

And, speaking of Ugly Betty, though seemingly a product of the success of the feature film, The Devil Wears Prada, the concept was in fact developed in Colombia as Yo soy Betty, la fea (I am Betty, the ugly) in 1999.  Again – apparently just a similar idea manifesting itself in the written word and celluloid in different countries.  Perhaps that explains the spate of vampire movies, TV shows and novels raining down upon us?

So, it seems, we are not stealing ideas from others.  Nor are we lazy.  But, have we run out of new ideas? Are there, I wonder, a finite number of ideas floating about in the ether, and have we plucked them all out?

Hopefully not.  Occasionally, amid the sea of formulaic offerings about cops, lawyers and doctors, there are glimpses of creative brilliance.  Current fodder such as the serial-killing Dexter, raunchy 30 Rock and Entourage and polygamist world of Big Love offer a  glimmer of originality amidst the Battlestar Gallactica and Stargate remakes and lazy low-cost reality television shows.

I am (admittedly) a fan of the quirky, such as Joss Whedon and Bryan Fuller and their shows: Firefly, Buffy, Pushing Daisies and Dead Like  Me to name a few.  However, many of these shows which have piqued my interest did not garner sufficient interest to fend off axe-weilding TV Execs, which makes me all-the-more passionate about supporting new and unusual offerings. 

So, as I settle down to Season 4 of The Sopranos and await new seasons of Dexter and  Entourage I will continue to hold out some hope for what the year ahead may have to offer.