Once more, with squealing

My transformation is almost complete.

I guess it started when that front tooth fell out...
Then a few years ago I moved to a place called Horseshoe Bend, where men are known only by nickname – Fozz, Horse, Snow – and women are, by and large, kinda scary.
I dress exclusively in don't-look-at-me casuals (lots of old T-shirts and flannel; it's so much easier that way).
And now, I'm enjoying a steady diet of OxyContin.

Yessiree, I'm on hillbilly heroin.
I think it's time for a little song to celebrate:

The Bumbag Chronicles: Chemo interruptus

Mick drove me to the Mater this morning for my second round of chemo.
I walked out sans bumbag; my blood test this morning showed my platelet count was low, too low for chemo. I have to wait another week and see how I go.

I'm relieved and little concerned, but I've learned to switch off the anxiety when there's nothing I can do about it.

Unfortunately, it gives me more time to ponder the litany of horrors, aka list of possible side-effects.
Hair loss was something that I feared last time but never came to fruition. I have a feeling this time it's a different story.
Of course, the lovely people at the Mater are mindful of cosmetic concerns, bless them, and I noticed today for the first time the cabinet of wigs they have on offer.

There's about a dozen or so, only one of which is for men:

It looks like something out of Get Smart.
I think I'd go for the one on the right.

Kicky!

Sounds familiar

Channel 7 just screened a thought-provoking documentary about the effects of globalisation on the gay community, focusing on the strange phenomenon that, no matter which gay bar you visit, no matter which country it's in, someone at some point will put on a Britney Spears song (with varying levels of irony):

Heh. Just another typo (7 is going for gold).

It was actually Déjà Vu (2006), a piece of crap with a lot of explosions and Denzel Washington glowering like you've never seen before.
Unless you've watched any of his other movies...

I love Mick, too

Just had a look back at recent posts and I realised Mick has been given short shrift.

He's still the best boyfriend ever and I still love him more than anything. I thought I should clarify that.

Here he is in the throes of handiness:

Note Suzi in the corner feigning assistance.

Strange visions

Another late night in front of the TV, another hallucinatory guest appearance, even more incongruous than Joan on Roseanne.

Soul legend Ray Charles:

... on Who's the Boss? Mm hmm:

It's like Aretha Franklin popping up on Two and a Half Men.

Mind you, I'm not totally averse to Who's the Boss?, mainly because of Tony Danza's particular ... I don't know.
I wish I could put a finger on it:

He's still holding up well, by the way:

I also think Katherine Helmond is fab and I must admit that around this time in the series, a few seasons in, it was becoming excruciatingly obvious that young Jonathan (Dany Pintauro) was Dorothy's biggest little friend.
I gave proceedings a certain squirmy delight every time he delivered a line.
He always seemed that close to snapping his fingers and calling Mona "girlfriend".

Random aside: Having watched a few episodes recently, for the first time since they originally aired, I declare Who's the Boss? to be neck-and-neck with The Cosby Show in the ugly-jumper stakes.

Ugly, ugly jumpers. I swear the '80s didn't look that bad.

I love Suzi

I still feel like crap, but let's not bother with that.
Beyond tedious.

Suzi, on the other hand, is an endless supply of happy thoughts.

This is her striving for attention this afternoon:

This is her then wondering what the hell I'm doing in the backyard (I seriously don't get out much), plus said backyard (the pumpkin reigns supreme once more):

And this is her, exhausted after all that effort, angling for a Schmacko:

The look.

Silly me

I got my schedule wrong.
I have two weeks off chemo, then a week on, and so forth.

What a relief, huh?
Lofty thinks so:

The fact I still feel like shit seems to have eluded her though...

But I can't stay bitter, especially when I have Suzi, who unfailingly comes to my emotional rescue.

For instance, by walking around the house, not realising she has Schmackos on her back:

It's not cruel if she gets to eat them...

Son of Kong 1, Temazepam 0

No matter how many painkillers or calmatives I take, I still find myself in front of the TV at ridiculous times of night.
I've found it's better not to fight it.

Besides, it's not like I have any important breakfast meetings to attend.

Anyway, here's a visual tour of the past couple of weeks – in Insomniascope:

P.S. Son of Kong (1933) was bad. Really bad. Almost so bad it was too bad to be good-bad.
You know what I mean.

Unpleasantville

The first week of chemo is over, most of which I spent feeling more sickened than I can recall.

Fortunately, I have a week off/week on, and after only one day off that wretched pump my head no longer feels like a giant water balloon filled with poison.
On the downside, I'm scheduled to put up with this through May and who knows how much longer.

I guess things could always be worse:

No, I have no idea how I acquired an Iraqi banknote.

In case you were wondering...

Yes, I'm afraid it's true:

Musical interlude

Haven't had one in a while.

I've been trying to silently sing myself to sleep – you know what I mean – quite unsuccessfully. For whatever reason, this song keeps coming up in my head.
We used to listen to Malcolm McLaren's Waltz Darling album all the time at Peter and Leona's studio.
Happy memories I guess:



Nighty night.

Learning to love your bumbag

I just read my previous post and I thought, no!

I will not be defeated by unflattering accoutrements.

Instead, I shall embrace my new companion, much as it has embraced me, and we will tackle life's obstacles together with stoicism (and extra pockets, always handy).

To be honest, I have already become accustomed to – nay, rather fond of – its little whirr-click every few minutes as it pumps more chemicals (yummy, nutritious chemicals) into my bloodstream.
It almost sounds like my stomach is taking photos.

A photo-blog!

I'll call it Gut Feeling: Something's not quite right.

Anyway, for no particular reason, apart from the fact I have no photo directly related to this post, here's a recent shot of Wiz and Lofty on the Horseshoe Bend breadline:

No-one said anything about a bumbag

I started chemo yesterday. We arrived at the Mater at 8.30am and I walked out eight hours later with a new PICC.

What's that, you ask?
Well! It's a Peripherally Inserted Central Catheter, a kind of teeny, bendy straw that they inserted into a vein in my left arm (don't ask how; I had my eyes closed).
This is attached to a tube, which is attached to a pump about the size of an early Walkman, which is housed in – a bumbag:

This is stuck to me for the foreseeable future.
If only I'd known...

Can you hear it?

It's the sound of dignity shattering into a million irreparable pieces, courtesy of the model here wearing Kenji Kawasumi, one of the Central St Martins fashion students who showed at London for Fall 2012:

Oh honey.
The same parade showcased the joint top students, Luke Brooks and Craig Green, who proceeded in a similar fashion, so to speak.
At the very least, they exemplified the ridiculous lengths to which fashion students are forced to go by their teachers in order to "find their muse". Or go viral on the internet.
Neither is necessarily a good thing.

Brooks, for instance, melded Mugatu's 'Derelicte' collection from Zoolander and David Cronenberg:

Don't you just want to give her a hug?

On the other hand, Craig Green's models looked liked they'd wandered off a Julie Taymor production and lost their puppets in the process:

Soaking in it

Swathes of New South Wales are currently underwater or subject to flood warnings and/or evacuation orders (to Kelly in Wagga Wagga – keep those shoes dry!).

We're okay up here for now (more rain is forecast), but a little traipse up the grassy knoll at the end of our street revealed an unnerving sight:

The Hunter River's been higher before, but still...
Never ceases to unease.

The circle of life, backyard edition

Absolutely beautiful:

And presumably delicious.

Not my type (heh)

So the Fall 2012 collections are almost over. As always, I've been checking Style.com for regular updates; part of me still misses working in the biz. (Handy hint: Trying to work out how to pattern-make a frock in bed is ten times more effective than counting bloody sheep.)

Anyway, I've been watching the emergence of digital printing with interest, specifically engineered placement prints. It can be very impressive, in a what-the-hell kind of way, but the capacity to render anything in hyper-reality can lead to dubious aesthetic decisions.

This season, two designers chose to include a bizarre subject, one I associate not with high style, but rather fatigue, anxiety and creative block:
The typewriter/computer keyboard.
Is it Social Network sartorial backwash? I don't (won't) buy it.

From Mary Katrantzou, pioneer of this new breed of printers:

And two interpretations by Jeremy Scott, mad queen:

Now if they made a T-shirt with just one big 'delete' button...

The upside of insomnia

Perhaps 'insomnia' is an exaggeration, but my body-clock is totally out of whack.

In any case, when struggling to get to sleep, there's nothing like a bit of Lou Ferrigno unleashing his pectorals.

At the rodeo:

I imagine most boys fantasised about being Superman, Spider-man, etc.
I preferred to imagine myself alone with Dr Bruce Banner. I'd get him drunk, naked and in bed, then piss him off with a narky comment and presto!
Angry Hulk sex!

While we're on the subject of guilty pleasures, namely Lou, I'm very excited to see that he's on the new season of Celebrity Apprentice. I love that show.

Surely they'll get him to strip down at some point...

Of course they will:

He's 60, by the way. Hubba hubba.
I kinda wish he'd grow his beard back though:

Either way, no complaints here.

Lorn, well-manicured

Lorn is a tidy, leafy little suburb right on the other side of the river from us; you can see rooftops from our kitchen if you leap a little (and are utterly starved for activity.)
It's noticeably fancier than Horseshoe Bend, I must admit; Lorn is fairly riddled with "Federation gems", in real-estate parlance:

It's remarkably intact, architecturally, and some streets could be mistaken for Mosman or Woollahra in Sydney – without too much squinting and at a fraction of the price.

Inevitable downside: If the area does flood again – unlikely as that is – Lorn goes first.

Insert schadenfreude here.

Today Mick and I embarked upon an unsuccessful trip to Lorn's butcher (too late), which Mick insisted start in East Maitland:

Sounds like a multinational arms dealer-cum-cosmetics giant, doesn't it? Or perhaps a dietary supplement concern...

In fact, it's a lighting store in East Maitland (Mick needed little radio bulbs).
I bet you any money the name Cetnaj actually has something to do with the wife's name being Jan and the kids' names starting with T, E and C.
Or something.
Terrible business name.

Never mind, we took advantage of a beautiful day – with Suzi in the backseat – and went the long way to our destination. As such, we did pass some noteworthy sights.

First, the work-in-progress boat that's been there as long as we can remember (three years or so):

Every time I see it, it looks more forlorn.
I like to think of it as an art installation, perhaps with its formerly high-flying owner trapped inside, suspended in formaldehyde.

And then we saw some brand-new arrivals – candy-coloured livestock:

The purpose of which is up for grabs. (A Mardi Gras tie-in is possible but unlikely.)

After the butcher disappointment, the sight of the business practically next door to it was a genuine surprise and greatly appreciated.

Presenting the Lorn franchise of Vile & Vile Solicitors:

They should really go national.

Six degrees of Charlie Ruggles

Okay, so I'm up late again, watching Bringing Up Baby (1938), starring Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant:

...when the cast credits come on.

It's Charlie. Again:

He really got around.

By the way, this movie famously has Cary Grant, wearing a fur-trimmed chiffon bedgown for reasons too screwball to repeat, announce to a bewildered matron when asked why he was dressed like that:

"I just went gay all of a sudden!"

He wore it well.