Giving thanks - without the turkey

My parents happened to be in town a fortnight ago and for the first time in 10 years their visit to the State's capital coincided with the annual thanksgiving service for organ donors. The event has been going for 20 years, and my parents usually attend a service in regional Queensland, travelling for over an hour each way to get there. A bit of a hassle for those who dislike travel, but they would never dream of not going.


I’ve mentioned before that my father was very fortunate to have received a heart transplant almost exactly 10 ½ years ago.  Physically, he’s relatively well for a 72 year old man, but as a result of (well… whatever) he has vascular dementia, which is fast becoming his biggest health issue and the most challenging for my mother (his carer).


Our whole family, but especially my parents are eternally grateful for the generosity of the stranger and his/her family which has allowed my father many many years he would not have otherwise have had.  Which is why, each year, they attend the thanksgiving service, coordinated by Donate Life, to recognise the selfless acts of organ and tissue donors and their families.


Because my parents were here in Brisbane my brother and I were able to attend the service at the University of Queensland with them. It was the first time I’d attended and I was (more than) confronted by the fact that I hadn’t ever been before. After all, I too benefited from the anonymous gift, by having my father in my life over 10 years longer (to date) than I would have otherwise.


Of course I should admit at this point that I basically cried through the entire thing. It was beautiful but it was sad. Very bloody sad.


While my brother was parking I accompanied my parents into the venue. We shared a lift with another couple (most likely in their 60s). Given the tenor of the occasion, we also shared circumspect but comforting smiles. Amazingly, despite a crowd of about 1000 I saw them twice inside. And by then they had donned their green ribbons.


Green ribbons were provided to donor families; maroon ribbons to organ recipients. On seeing their green ribbon I felt immense sadness. Perhaps it was a distant relative who had inadvertently given generously, but I could not help but think it was their child they had lost. I clung to some hope that they had other children elsewhere unable to attend, and that they hadn't lost their only child.


People packed into the huge hall. The stage was beautifully decorated with fairy lights, candles and roses. A choir sat to one the side. As I looked around the room I was overwhelmed with sadness. I watched two girls in their late teens come in alone wearing green ribbons and wondered who they were honouring. I saw people sitting alone, felt their grief and tried to imagine who they'd lost. I felt both gratitude and guilt to be with the recipient of a maroon ribbon, rather than a green one.


The event ran smoothly. I cried when a lone bag-piper played Amazing Grace and again when country singer Melinda Schneider sang Wish You Were Here and later What a Wonderful World, with the choir. I cried when 20^th anniversary footage was shown to Wendy Matthews’, The Day You Went Away; a song which has continued to play in my head ever since. Constantly and relentlessly.
The first speaker was a mother of a 5 year old girl who died tragically several years ago. Through her devastation she took solace in the fact that 5 people have been given a second chance as a result of her family’s heartbreak; one for each year of her precious daughter’s life.


There was a moving speech from a woman who was the recipient of a double lung transplant. She was hospitalised and had given up all hope when the lungs became available. Her impassioned plea for us to make the most of our lives and appreciate each breath we take was heart wrenching. And yet, she was one of the lucky ones.


My mother leaned over to me at one point and asked if I thought that the family of my father’s heart donor was there. We looked at each other. The enormity of that the question was too overwhelming to contemplate.

• Australia also has one of the lowest donation rates in the developed world. In 2010, the Australian population had 13.8 donors per million people


• 40% of Australians do not know the donation wishes of their loved ones


• Around 1700 people are on Australian organ transplant waiting lists at any one time


• On average, people on the transplant list must wait between 6 months and 4 years


• In 2010, 309 organ donors gave 931 Australians a new chance in life, the highest in any year in the past decade


• When my father received his donor heart in in December 2000, fewer than 200 heart transplants had taken place in Queensland


• Although I joke that I'd like to be cryogenically frozen, I've registered as an organ donor and my family (more than any other) knows what that could mean to others.

I’m extremely grateful that I got the opportunity to go to the thanksgiving service with my family. I like to think I’d go in future.


Before the service started the Emcee told us not to worry about our tears or try to stifle our sobs. “We are all in this together,” he said, “no one here will judge you.” As I shed endless tears, I could see shoulders shaking and people comforting one another. He was right. We were one large family sharing each other’s grief and gratitude.


As we were leaving I again saw the couple from the elevator. My red-rimmed eyes would have been obvious, along with my father’s maroon ribbon. We smiled understandingly at each other as we went our separate ways.

WWAMT: What would Aunty Myra think?

It’s an embarrassing thing to admit, but a few years ago I bought a t-shirt (online of course) that said ‘What would Buffy do?’  Don’t get me wrong; I am not embarrassed by my love of the TV series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  In fact, the show’s writing in the early years (in my impressionable mind) is only rivaled by my other faves: West Wing; Deadwood; and Big Bang Theory.  But with the benefit of hindsight, buying a black shirt with orange print dripping across it wasn’t one of my finest moments.  I mean, it’s not up there with ‘dressing like a Trekkie’ but almost as scary.

I’ve always assumed the "What would Buffy do?” quote came from one of the episodes and can almost imagine her Scooby gang colleagues, Willow and Xander wondering exactly that.  But my extensive research (Google again) reveals it to be the name of some spin-off book about the series.

A similar quote appears in The Jane Austen Book Club (What would Jane do?), so it possibly didn’t derive from Buffy and may have originated elsewhere.

My ignorance aside I find myself often struck by a variation on the quote: What would Aunty Myra think?  WWAMT? Meaningless to everyone but me, the words sometimes offer me the jolt I need.

I was stuck twice by these thoughts last weekend and both times it was in response to songs playing on the radio. The first song was Dirty Talk by Wynter Gordon.  I actually downloaded the song from iTunes a little while ago so listen to it regularly.  And although I mentally sing the lyrics on my commute each day, it wasn’t until I was sitting in my car at 6.20am on a Saturday morning that they hit home:

Blindfold, feather bed,

tickle me, slippery,

G spot,nasty pose,

in a video,

love machine, by myself,

climax,hot wax

S&M on the floor, I like it hardcore…

I might have forgotten my shock at the radio station’s choice of programming, until I was again in my car to travel to the grocery store and Kanye West’s Runaway came on:

Let’s have a toast for the douchebags

Let’s have a toast for the assholes

Let’s have a toast for the scumbags

Every one of them that I know

By then it was about 9am. On Saturday morning when parents are usually driving their 10 year old kids to cricket.  Or ballet or football or similar.

Now, I’m no ingénue: in fact I swear like a trooper and am pretty hard to shock.  But occasionally I am jolted to do a bit of a stocktake.  My barometer used to be my 14 year old niece and I would ask myself if what was before me was something that I would want her watching or listening to or reading. But more often than not now, my yardstick is my Aunty Myra.

She was actually my great Aunty Myra, and she died in 1991 aged 91 years old.  That means she was actually almost 70 years old when I was born.  My mother used to tell me that Aunty Myra and her husband were already retired when she met them.  They were always ‘old’ to her.  Which means they were always ‘ancient’ to me.

Aunty Myra was old school.  Not a fuddy duddy and not really prissy.  She grew up on a farm, so was hardly a pretentious girly girl.  But she was most certainly a different generation.  She was older than my grandparents and (unlike them) lived in my hometown.  As a result – I was subjected to (at least) weekly visits until I was old enough for my non-attendance excuses to sound even vaguely convincing.  Her children lived elsewhere and weren’t the most attentive of offspring, so my parents did everything for Myra and her husband. (I should mention that when I returned as a young adult, I willingly visited her in a nursing home before she died - so I'm not all bad - surely.)

I never saw Aunty Myra wear trousers as she considered them improper. She always wore unattractive nylon dresses with a petticoat or singlet and bra strap falling down her arm as her body shrunk before my eyes. She used to bake for my father and made him suet puddings, jam pastries and tripe. She hid money in handkerchiefs and biscuit tins. She liked bingo and used to buy a gold lotto ticket each week. I try to imagine her now, in a world where everything’s online and digital. I’m not sure how my parents will transition from a video recorder to a DVR, let alone someone a whole generation older!

So it is Aunty Myra I think of as I sit watching shows on television (like my faves, Deadwood, or Entourage etc) where the f-word and c-word are dropped liberally and indiscriminately. It is Aunty Myra I think of when I hear swear words thrown about on commercial radio stations; and Aunty Myra I think of when I see music videos with scantily clad gyrating women.

They don’t shock me, but they would sure as hell shock the bejesus out of my Aunty Myra. WWAMT? I wonder at these times.

I tend to assume that television and radio programmers make sensible choices about what they play and when. I’m sure that’s why we have rating classifications. Which is why I was surprised to see Weeds showing on Oz cable television at 3pm during a weekend some time ago, or the Robbie Williams' Come Undone music video showing the aftermath of a party and a woman on the bed with snakes screening as I'm eating my morning toast.

I’m all for free speech, not a big believer in censorship and don’t believe I’m judgmental, but it doesn’t stop me from sometimes wondering: What would Aunty Myra think?

Fizzy black goodness

Okay, can I just start by saying, "I WANT SOME BLOODY DIET COKE!"

OMFG. There I was smugly prancing about as if I could easily wean myself off the 1 - 1.5 litres of Vanilla Diet Coke that I have been consuming daily for a large number of years (before that Lemon Diet Coke and before that, just the basic Diet Coke), but I have come crashing down to earth.

Fortunately work is busy and I haven't had time to focus on the constant headache and sleepiness I am feeling without my usual injection of VDC (as its known amongst us addicts!). After giving up the fizzy black goodness on Sunday I posted my intention on Facebook and got a barrage of emails from old work colleagues in response, as my addiction to the stuff is famous. Or infamous.

It started a long time ago. While at University in the late 1980s my parents used to visit me in the residential halls, bringing a red cross parcel. There would be diet coke, chocolates and homemade biscuits. I recall at one stage, a medical student on my floor deciding that the fizzy black goodness was (in fact) evil and set about rationing my supplies. I think we didn't even last the day before I become obsessed with 'my next fix' and she handed over the carton of cans so I could refocus on my study rather than stalking about outside her dorm room.

I'm not sure that giving up VDC now, at a time when I am commencing (yet another) diet is the right move. But I figured that if I'm going to be cranky and feel deprived. I might as well feel really bloody cranky and really deprived.

I'm not saying I will give it up forever or that I won't drink other diet drinks. (Indeed, last night I savoured a diet lemon, lime and bitters while lolling in the bath reading a trashy magazine.) And I may (on occasions) partake in a diet coke or two, but I figured I might as well try to give my litre plus habit a day the big heave-ho.

The time seems right. I feel motivated. Which is strange. Better to rip that bandaid off quickly rather than edge it off slowly I guess. So, as day two (of a healthier me) progresses I can feel quite righteous because - not only did I go to pilates before work (for the first time in 2 months); and am sticking to my calorie allowance; but I am also kicking my unhealthy addiction to the scary preservatives and chemicals that taste so good in the form of a fizzy black drink.

Sorry, this post is completely irrelevant to this blog and actually comes from another that I write. It was posted on Tuesday and I am much-improved since then (as I did think I may well kill someone!). It's now day 5 and I am feeling much much better.  Quite virtuous for a start (no booze or diet coke will do that for you!) In fact, I feel quite human, almost.

5 reasons The West Wing is worth another visit

Okay, so here I am tempted to just say: 1. Josh; 2. Josh; 3. Josh; 4. Josh; and 5. Sam, but that would be wrong.  And just a little pathetic; a label which has (however) thus far has prevented me from shaming myself publicly.

However, having decided (on a break from revisits to Deadwood and Sunnydale - home of Buffy) to dust off my West Wing DVDs I was instantly reminded of how bloody much I loved that show.  I bought the DVDs as each series became available, impatiently waiting for each of the 7 seasons to be released.  As a result I have mismatched cases and the early ones require about 4 cases per series, all of which adds a bit of flavour and proves my devotion to the show.  I think.

From the moment In inserted the DVD and the Pilot episode commenced it was like I was experiencing a visit from an old friend. I suspect I watched, rewatched (and rewatched) the DVDs when I first bought them, so early seasons of the show are ridiculously familiar.  I can't quite recite the lines (which I can do for the BBC's version of Pride and Prejudice) but I know exactly what's happening and it doesn't matter one iota cos with The West Wing, it’s all about the journey.  

I agree with many others, that the show did falter during Seasons 5 and 6 (when creator Aaron Sorkin left), but ended strongly with Season 7. However, even at its weakest, the show offered up quality drama, which didn't involve police, law firms, doctors or forensic scientists. Other than a few parodies of politics and government, shows about politicians and their administrations are few and far between. As a result, when it premiered in late 1999, The West Wing brought something new and fresh to our screens. And it didn't treat us like idiots.

I'd be surprised if there are viewers out there who haven't seen the show, but in the event there are, here are some reasons to play catch-up. For those who are already fans, here's a reminder of why we watched it - despite (here in Australia) being seriously messed about by television programmers moving it about week after week.

1. Aaron Sorkin is obviously a genius. The show's writing is brilliant. In some ways the storylines or plots of the show are irrelevant and the clever and witty banter is what separates it from the crowd. I suspect it's harder than it looks to create the rhythmic dialogue that the show became famous for. I read that the show also became known for its 'walk and talk' camera takes: where the camera follows characters down a hallway or into a room while they are talking. Frankly, the show was all about the dialogue. Their words and language gave us a sense of who the characters were.

2. Which brings me to the ensemble cast and their performances. Week after week. Year after year. Even when the show's plots and writing wavered, the acting continued to be strong. The central cast of characters were so ridiculously brilliant - and sometimes so arrogant - that they could have been unlikable, but for their flaws. Not only did I admire them, but I wanted to be them. I wanted CJ's almost perfect recall in press briefings; I wanted Sam's nerdy intelligence; Toby's sarcastic dry wit; or Leo or Josh's savvy. The fact that their personal lives were fucked up didn't worry me. I wanted to be them if I could be that smart and funny. Oh… and if I could work in the White House.

3. The President you're proud to have. Apparently Martin Sheen's President Bartlet was supposed to be a minor character, but the critical and public reaction to him and his performance meant that he became as pivotal player as one would expect the leader of the free world to be. A trivia-mad former Economics professor, the President was sometimes grouchy but always humane. His leadership (under the guiding hand of his BFF and Chief of Staff, Leo) developed in fits and starts, but he pulled no punches. From the Phoenix-like "Let Bartlet be Bartlet" and ensuing episodes; the debate in "Game On" that won him his second term in office; and his demolition of conservative and controversial talk-show host at an event in "The Midterms" (S2 Ep 3) (below).

 

Bartlet: I like your show. I like how you call homosexuality an abomination.

Dr. Jenna Jacobs: I don't say homosexuality is an abomination, Mr President. The Bible does.

President Josiah Bartlet: Yes it does. Leviticus.

Dr. Jenna Jacobs: 18:22.

President Josiah Bartlet: Chapter and verse. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions while I have you here. I'm interested in selling my youngest daughter into slavery as sanctioned in Exodus 21:7. She's a Georgetown sophomore, speaks fluent Italian, always cleared the table when it was her turn. What would a good price for her be? While thinking about that, can I ask another? My Chief of Staff Leo McGarry insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly says he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself or is it okay to call the police? Here's one that's really important because we've got a lot of sports fans in this town: touching the skin of a dead pig makes one unclean. Leviticus 11:7. If they promise to wear gloves, can the Washington Redskins still play football? Can Notre Dame? Can West Point? Does the whole town really have to be together to stone my brother John for planting different crops side by side? Can I burn my mother in a small family gathering for wearing garments made from two different threads? Think about those questions, would you? One last thing: while you may be mistaking this for your monthly meeting of the Ignorant Tight-Ass Club, in this building, when the President stands, nobody sits.

4. They are always the good guys (even when they’re not). Dubbed 'The Left Wing' by one columnist, the show was perceived by many to portray the ideal liberal administration. Although the political lobbying and trade-offs resulted in the administration's policies shifting to the centre, our favourite characters were passionate about the sensitive stuff.  The show tackled issues like homosexuality and gays in the military, hate crimes, terrorism, sex education in schools and drug use.  Even the President's own Catholicism didn't stand in the way of his support for many of these issues.

5. And we arrive back at Josh. Like a gazillion other women (and some men, I suspect) around the world, I wanted a Josh. A smart, funny self-deprecating man with a sense of right and wrong and who was just a little fucked up about stuff. Of course I realised I was entranced by a fictional character, and although Bradley Whitford was attractive enough, I didn't run out to see him in his other works (which I did, for example upon discovering Richard Armitage). No, what I loved about Josh, was Josh… who I read was given increasing airtime as a result of his popularity. And what made him more popular than Rob Lowe's Sam Seaborn (Lowe being more attractive in real life) I just don't know. His diffidence perhaps; but whatever it was... that character worked.

“When I get back you’re gonna argue with me and we’re gonna argue about the things that I want to argue about; and you’re gonna do your best not to annoy me too much.”

Josh to Joey Lucas in Mandatory Minimums (S1 Ep.20)

I suspect it's too late now but a spin-off featuring Josh as President Santos' Chief of Staff would have been a nice idea.

There are, of course, many other things I love about the show. I think of Emily Procter's Ainsley Hayes and John Larroquette's Lionel Tribbey in the White House Counsel's office. The changing of the guard in Season 7 and introduction of Jimmy Smits' Matt Santos and his presidential campaign. The beautifully handled issues handled poignantly like the death of Mrs Landingham in the "Two Cathedrals" episode.

My list could continue. But I'd be interested in hearing from any other fans: What are your favourite things about The West Wing?

Under the influence

Absolutely Fabulous is on our screens here in Oz at the moment and as soon as I hear the theme song I am cast back to the early - mid 1990s and reminded of how scandalous and ground-breaking it was when first released.  I am also reminded of how much I admired Jennifer Saunders’ Edina, who I believed (had she been a real person) was never as vacuous, vague or unattractive, as Saunders tried to make her.

In fact, I aspired to be her.  I envied her frivolity and loved her look, and as I was in my 20s at the time, I suspect her fashions would have been more forgivable on me.  Had my (then-dyed brown) hair been long enough I would have been sporting a brown spiral perm myself.

Like so many others, I have to admit to a tendency to being easily swayed when it comes to fashion or fads.

My first memory of this affliction is tied to Young Talent Time, a childhood favourite.  In my defence, in the 1970s TV viewing options were limited in regional Australia, so frankly any show catering for kids was a bonus.  At the time my parents wouldn’t let me have long boots, but it wasn’t long before I realised that my YTT faves, Sally Boyden and Karen Knowles, were in fact wearing white sandshoes and long white socks – to look like boots (or perhaps just for comfort).  I realised I could do that.  And often did.

As I was finishing primary school, Grease hit our shores and screens.  After a brief flirtation as ‘nice Sandy’ (blonde bob a la Sandra Dee), I somehow convinced my mother to let me have a perm and suddenly – at 12 or 13 years of age – I was bad Sandy, sans the black lycra ‘You’re The One That I Want’ outfit.  Of course.

[caption id="attachment_463" align="alignright" width="210" caption="Me back in the day - a Princess Di wannabe (had the curling wand working overtime!)"][/caption]

Princess Di was probably my next fashion idol and like many others throughout the world I cloned her hairdo.  For a while anyway.

Olivia Newton John’s Physical debuted the same year and I diligently added a headband to my Diana cut and wore leggings and layers of ill-fitting sweatshirts.

By the time I finished high school in the mid 1980s I was channelling a favourite Dolly magazine model and had a spiral perm to match.  WHAM had asked us to CHOOSE LIFE and although I didn’t have the t-shirt, I had my fair share of fluorescent clothing.

By the 1990s, I’d dyed my hair dark and put on more weight than I’d liked.  I bought my first pair of Doc Marten boots and flounced about in my Docs/baby doll dress combo.  Just like the girls in the original Beverly Hills 90210. (ie. The normal-sized Brenda, Kelly and Donna, not the skeletal lollipop-like ones in the remake!)

[caption id="attachment_464" align="alignleft" width="210" caption="Louise Lombard as Evie in The House of Eliott"][/caption]

Then it was Ab Fab and Edina, as well as BBC’s House of Eliott.  Although desperate to emulate Edina (and in all honesty, who wouldn’t be?) I was entranced by Louise Lombard’s Evie – and frankly in the early 1990s my hair was more suited to an Evie do rather than an Edina do.  So I attempted the clean sleek lines of the 1920s flapper.

Something happened after that and I found myself spurning the likes of Melrose Place and Friends and stoically avoided the Rachel ‘do’.  Or maybe I just grew up. In reality, I went to live in Africa and Asia and came home less inclined to follow the crowd.

Although… I must admit, while I’m now unlikely to be as committed to mimicking the style of others, I am – on occasions – still prone to falling prey to the influence of others.  I have a hair appointment tomorrow, and although I know my hairdresser doesn’t ‘do’ perms I am thinking of taking a picture of Scarlett Johansson’s tousled OSCARS bob to see what they can do – and hope I don’t get laughed out of the salon!

(Don't) call me

I was catching up on my Twitter news today when I came across this link and it reminded me of a conversation I had with my mother at Christmas.

As regular readers of this blog (yes, all 3 of you) will know, my parents were staying here over Christmas while my father underwent radiotherapy.  Throughout that time there was a similar stream of concerned calls.  Most came when I was at work so my mother dealt with them, but quite early on we established the fact that – if the phone rang, even in the evening – it was almost certainly for them as absolutely nobody ever calls me.

And I’m not saying that like it’s a bad thing.

I am on the DO NOT CALL register so don’t receive the pesky telemarketing calls; on the rare occasion my brother or sister-in-law call, it is usually expected or about some upcoming event; and the only calls I do get are from my parents.  As they were with me at the time it was unlikely to be them. Obviously.

The lack of calls is not a one-way thing.  I don’t encourage anyone to call me and I certainly don’t indulge in the practice much myself nowadays (other than to my parents).

I do everything by email. In fact my hatred of telephoning people is such that I had some medical referrals which were almost out of date because I delayed making the call to the specialist to book an appointment (the referrals were only valid for 1 year!).  In fact I find myself increasingly excited that appointments can be made online or via email.

At work I email requests to people ostensibly so I have a record of response and so forth, but really the written word is more in my comfort zone. I enjoy pounding out a sentence or two on the keyboard; much more so than picking up the phone to ask the same question or give the same direction.  In all honestly I’m not sure when this aversion to telephone calls started.  I mean I can, by all accounts, talk the hind legs off a donkey, so it isn’t entirely about a lack of sociability.  I’m not sure why, I just don’t like the immediacy and hassle of telephone calls unless I have no other choice.

I keep in contact with my closest friends by email.  I send epic tomes of my day-to-day happenings and they send similar updates.  And then (of course) there’s Facebook and Twitter for the really important stuff.

Last weekend my late afternoon DVD-viewing of ‘Easy A’ was rudely interrupted by a person of some religious persuasion ringing my doorbell to sell me eternal life.  I said thanks very much but I didn’t have any money on me at the moment.  More shocking than his casual attire and self-effacing manner was the fact he appeared at all.

I am in an apartment complex and rarely receive those kind of visitors.  In fact when my doorbell rang I considered ignoring it completely as I don’t (like EVER ever) get unannounced visitors.  Of course I felt compelled to share the visit (and my shock over his visit) with my FB friends.  A number of others also commented that they don’t open the door if they aren’t expecting anyone. I was relieved that my hermit-like behavior hadn’t completely taken over my life.  To myself then and to many of my friends, ignoring unexpected visitors or calls is the norm, but I can’t help comparing it with my parents who have people ‘popping’ in all of the time.  My mother has cakes and slices at the ready to feed any unexpected guests.  Is it a small-town thing I wonder, or a generational thing?

I think of myself as being quite ‘difficult’ by not wanting to speak to people by phone or receive unexpected visitors, but it seems – from the NY Times article and friends’ comments – that I may not be as abnormal as I think.  Perhaps it isn’t that we live in impersonal times where human connections are fading; perhaps it is because we now have a choice.  We have less intrusive options at our fingertips. We email to confirm dinner arrangements; we receive SMS appointment reminders. Contact can be made when it suits both parties and no dinners get cold because of an ill-timed phone call. Frankly I’m relieved that it’s not just me.  For a change.

The lost art of the gumshoe (Part 2)

Once I discovered Robert B Parker I devoured everything he’d written.

Fortunately for me, Parker was a prolific writer and I had 35 years of novels to catch up on.  It’s hard to describe what I found - and continue to find - so addictive about his work. There are no tricks, no fireworks, just witty banter, quirky and complicated multi-dimensional characters and a simple, but full-of-twists plot.

Spenser and his world were so vivid and alluring to me that I couldn’t help but wonder how they would translate onto celluloid: I wanted to see my wise-cracking PI on the screen.  But of course, as is usually the case, someone else had this brain-wave before me.

The TV Series, Spenser for Hire, ran from 1985-88 and was, by all accounts a disappointment.  Especially for Parker fans.  Reviews quote Robert Urich as being woefully miscast as the enigmatic and witty Spenser.  The series came across as a stock standard TV detective show, with none of the wit and banter of Parker’s dialogue being translated onto the screen.  Apparently the only character to come away unscathed was Hawk, who featured in a brief TV spin-off.

Spenser apparently again featured in a series of TV movies in the late 90s and early 2000s, which I am loath to find for fear of the aforementioned disappointment.

In 1997 Parker introduced readers to Jesse Stone, a flawed, alcoholic Californian homicide detective who is reborn as a small town police chief.  Parker’s stable of characters grew again in 1999 through the introduction of a series featuring Sunny Randall, a Boston female PI.

While I am not as devoted to the new series, again, Parker provides us with seemingly simple characters who, beneath their flawed surface, have layers of angst and a strong commitment to justice.  Like Spenser, both bend the rules to ensure that good wins out over evil, or right over wrong in the end.  Interestingly also, a number of support characters feature in all three series and I have to admit to some sense of satisfaction (or closure) when Randall and Stone actually end up meeting…. as if I had a hand in their match-making.

Prior to his rebirth in television’s Blue Bloods, Tom Selleck appeared in a number of “Jesse Stone” TV movies which really didn’t break any new ground, though were sufficiently entertaining for 10pm on a Saturday night.  We are yet to see Sunny Randall on screen, although on his website Parker noted (at the time) that he created the character following a request from actress Helen Hunt for a strong female crime fighter role.  Perhaps the fate of Spenser and Stone in their transition to ‘talkies’ gave Hunt pause for thought.

In 2005 Parker diversified into westerns, launching a new series starting with Appaloosa. Again it appears that someone thought his work would translate onto the screen and a feature film starring Viggo Mortenson, Ed Harris and Renee Zellweger was released in 2008.

If I have one criticism of Parker’s novels, it is his non-lead female characters, namely Spenser’s love-of-his-life, the psychologist with the (much talked-about) Harvard PhD; and the cheating, sleeping-her-way-to-the-top, ex-wife of Jesse Stone. They come across as smug, manipulative and self-satisfied, making the leading men in their lives, too yielding and doting – attributes which don’t gel with their characters.  These women irk me enough to make me wonder about Parker’s perception of the fairer sex, which is interesting because (to the best of my knowledge) the author dedicated most, if not all, of his books to his wife Joan.

Although Parker won a Pulitzer Prize in 1976 for his work, Edith Wharton: A Biography, it is not surprising that his more recent work has not been shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize.  He does however, fair better than the likes of James Patterson in balancing quality with quantity.  And even Parker’s weakest novels are appealing and very readable.  Although some reviewers believe his Spenser novels aren’t as compelling as they once were, I find his voice unchanged as Spenser remains a loveable smart arse and Parker’s continues to deliver his tongue-in-cheek and occasionally self-deprecating prose.

Her desk was beside a door that led to the office of the department chairperson. I knew that at once, because I am a trained investigator and the sign of the pebbled-glass door said Office of the Department Chairperson”

Painted Ladies (p. 43) 2010 GP Putnam’s & Sons (Penguin Group)

The best thing about becoming a Robert B Parker convert 35 years after he’d released his first book was the dearth of novels available through libraries and second hand bookshops.  I also found myself stalking his website for some time, waiting for my next installment of Spenser (or Jesse or Sunny). Although in existence for 40 human years, Spenser barely aged in literary years.  One could almost be forgiven for thinking he may just go on forever.  Almost.

Perhaps that was why I was so stricken when I logged onto his website early last year only to discover that Robert B Parker had in fact passed away some months earlier. When he died on 18 January 2010 he was 77 years of age and had written over 60 books.