Grandma

It’s been a tough nine months for grandmothers in my family. After having lost my Nanna (paternal grandmother) on the 17^th November last year, yesterday afternoon my maternal grandmother passed away after a short illness. She was my last surviving grandparent, and last of her generation- so her passing resonates through the family.

At 96, it’s difficult to say she hadn’t lived a full, meaningful life- she absolutely did. She was born in Tanunda, South Australia on the 25^th June 1918. 1918. Let that sink in. I can’t help but think how long ago that was. To put it into some kind of perspective: she was 38 years old before the first television set came to Australia. For much of her early life cars seemed like an invention only the wealthy upper class of Europe could afford. By the time Internet access became available in Australia, she was nearing her eightieth birthday.

But it wasn’t just science and technology that changed the world, Grandma was changing with it. Her mother died as an infant, and her father (a German Lutheran minister) travelled back to Germany to remarry and bring her new mother back to Australia. Grandma’s stepmother (affectionately called ‘Mutti’) was her aunt- her father had married her mother’s sister, as was quite common at the time.

Her teenage years were spent in an Adelaide boarding school, away from her five brothers and sisters who were now located at various points around the globe. Upon completion of her schooling, Grandma became a personal secretary to one of the Barossa wine maker- a job that would eventually lead her to travel with him to Melbourne.

In Melbourne, Grandma was ‘clipped’ by a tram, and taken to hospital with a concussion. During her stay in hospital, her attending physician was one Dr. Theophil Frank- the son of a Lutheran minister, who had an upbringing much like her.  The two fell in love, married and had two children- Ted and Elisabeth (my mother). You can read about Dr. Frank on the RACP College Roll here, and more about the family history here (start about half-way down with Rev. Johannes Frederick Theodore ‘Theo’ Frank & Descendants).

I never knew my grandfather, having died in 1980, a year before I was born. Grandma and Grandpa lived in the same house in Ripponlea from their marriage right up until 2008. When I think of Grandma, images of the house are ever present. The large magnolia tree we used to climb in the front garden. Green carpet. The distinctive ring of the doorbell. The extension to the back of the house that was used as a billiard room, dining room, and general ‘entertainment’ area. But mostly I remember the people. There was always someone at Grandma’s house. Friends and relatives from interstate and overseas were always welcome to stay as long as they needed. I myself spent many afternoons and nights in the house, usually getting help with my German homework.

I owe so much to Grandma. She gave so much to her family and asked for little in return. When she stopped driving, she gave me her car (a fawn coloured 1980 Mitsubishi Sigma with no power steering, heating/air conditioning, and an AM radio). The only ‘catch’ was that I was to use the car to take her shopping once a week. Which of course, I did. Grandma also taught me the art of cooking- she passed on to me her pavlova (a staple at family gatherings) and honigküchen (German Christmas biscuits) recipes. From learning these two recipes, my love of cooking grew. 

But it wasn’t just physical things she gave me. We both shared a love of art and creativity. I remember as a youngster, sitting on her couch looking through all her art books- mostly biographies of famous artists, or exhibition guides she’d picked up over the years. Grandma was a gifted artist, having painted many portraits and landscapes over the years- many of which are hanging proudly in the houses of relatives. And will hang for many years ahead.

Grandma’s passing was quick and painless, surrounded by her loved ones (with me were my mum, her cousin, and my sister) at 12:47 on Wednesday afternoon. The romantic in me hopes she waited until we were in the room before leaving us, and that she has now been reunited with Grandpa and her family.

Much like a book, this isn’t the end of the story, but rather the end of a chapter. We can go back and re-read any time- through memories, photographs, paintings and the writings she left behind. The keeping of the family history now belongs in the hands of the next generation, and I keep wondering what pieces are going to be left undiscovered. However, at the same time, we’ve been left with so many precious and treasured memories of a fantastic person who loved unconditionally and always saw the good in everyone.

Rest in Peace, Grandma. You’ll be much missed but never, ever forgotten.

Gertraut Elisabeth Frank (nee Held). 25.06.1918 – 30.07.2014

Nanna

On Sunday morning at about 6:30 I got a call from my dad. My Nanna (his mother) had passed away during the night. It was not totally unexpected: she was 90 years old, and had been battling dementia for the better part of the last decade. For the last few years she was a shell of her former self: unable to leave her bed, feed herself, or communicate in any way. It was terrible to see, but in a strange melancholy way her illness gave the family time to prepare for life without her. In the past fortnight she had developed a virus, and for the last week she had stopped eating. I visited her on Friday afternoon for the last time. My cousins and two aunties were in the room. We talked about our work, our families, shared a few memories and a bottle of scotch, all while Nanna lay in a state of struggled breathing before us. Every now and again one of us would move over to her, sit on the bed, and talk to her. We told her who was in the room, shared some ‘remember the time…’ stories with her, and then went back to our conversation.

After my grandpa died, the whole family – mum, dad, the three kids, my aunty and uncle and their three kids – would drive over to Nanna’s place in Springvale for a Saturday night lamb roast. Nanna always made (frozen) mint peas. She had a crate of Slade’s* soft drinks for the kids. And there was always a loaf of bread on the table (how very Greek). And we’d sit around, and talk, and just have a great time. Our parents would help with the dishes, as the kids would sit in front of the TV (usually watching Hey, Hey It’s Saturday, The Golden Girls, or a wholesome Saturday night movie). Our parents would then kiss us goodbye, and leave us under the care of Nanna. There was only one condition: we had to be at church in the morning. No exceptions.

As soon as mum and dad left, the party started. Nanna would break out the ice cream, chocolate topping, and lollies. As is the way with grandparents, you weren’t really full until you were writhing on the ground in pain, clenching your stomach. And even then, you could probably fit in another bite. After a speedy recovery fuelled by a hot chocolate, we’d set up some mattresses right in front of the TV, get into our PJs and settle in for the night. We’d watch the rest of the movie, or maybe play some board games, or sometimes get Nanna to tell us some stories of what our parents were like as kids.

Nanna and Grandpa raised my dad and two aunties on a farm on the Eyre Peninsular in South Australia. My favourite stories obviously involved my dad – how, when he was 14, he and grandpa would drive trucks loaded with livestock from the farm all the way the Perth. Or, after they sold the farm and moved to Adelaide, about the restaurant they owned, ‘Comleys’. Or even later, after everyone moved to Melbourne, Nanna would tell us about her time working at the zoo. I remember one story involved a very cruel zookeeper getting killed by an elephant he had been provoking for a while. I’m not sure if it’s true, but as Nanna knew, you should never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

After a good night’s sleep, we’d wake up super early, ready to make good on our promise to be at church in the morning. We’d fold up the mattresses, put the sheets and pillows away, have a shower, get dressed, and be ready for breakfast right on time. Coco-pops. Orange juice. Toast with that fake Kraft plastic cheese. It was truly the breakfast of champions. We would always be way ahead of time.

And then Nanna would need to clean the house. The whole house. “What would happen if there was an accident, and people saw the state the house was in?” she would say. At the time, we didn’t comprehend the morbidity of the statement, and as an adult had said it, it must’ve been true. So she would clean the house. Top to bottom. Not one surface was left un-vacuumed, unpolished, or unscrubbed.

We would then jam ourselves into her car, and make the drive from Springvale to Moorabbin. In record time. Nanna was a lead-foot. I’ve never seen a grandma drive like that. She expertly swung through roundabouts. Orange lights? Might as well be green. Red lights? That one was orange. (OK, that’s not entirely true). And of course after all that, we’d only be ten minutes late.

After church on Sunday afternoon, if we were lucky, would be spent again with Nanna. She’d take us to Southland and shout us to a movie (movie tickets were $5 in those days). While we were at the movies, she’d window-shop, drink Donut King coffee, and buy us more food. Upon our return home, we’d be wrecked and worn out. It was a perfect weekend for any kid.

But then we all grew older. Spending the weekends at Nanna’s place wasn’t so cool in high school. I had homework, and a social life of sorts. Nanna was getting older too. She’d visit us, and we’d see her about once a week, but the visits were becoming more formal. More often than not, she’d be the one to visit us. Gladly doing some ironing, or helping with some dishes. Anything to spend some time with the family.

Before long it became apparent that her health was declining. I can imagine few things worse than being diagnosed with dementia, and knowing exactly what’s coming, and knowing there’s nothing you can do to stop it. That, plus the knowledge that one day soon, everyone around you will be a stranger.

On her birthday last year, the family gathered around her. There were some moments when her eyes would light up, like she knew what was happening. But just as quickly, she would descend back into her chair and have that blank look on her face, with nonsensical words or sounds expelling from her mouth. When I think back to that, she seemed so much more alive back then than when I last saw her on Friday. I remember I came late to the party, and as I walked into the room she burst into tears. I don’t know if it was my presence (I have that affect on ladies), or some long-forgotten memory, or just her condition, but as I sat beside her she held my hand tightly and wouldn’t let go.

Before I left on Friday afternoon, I sat on the bed next to her, brushed her hair with my hand, and gave her a kiss on her forehead. “It’s Tim, Nanna” I said, trying to make eye contact and giving a big wave. “I love you.” I stopped myself from saying, “I’ll see you later.” because I knew I wouldn’t.

Last night was spent at my aunt and uncle’s house. Most of the cousins were there too. We played with the kids, had pizza, and a champagne toast to Nanna. There weren’t many tears, but lots of good memories. At one point in the night, my dad raised his glass, looked up to the sky and said, “Well, dad. We kept her here as long as possible, I hope you’ve enjoyed the silence.”  We all laughed- Nanna’s mouth was almost as fast as her driving.

I know it’s a funeral cliché, but seeing the family together is exactly what Nanna would’ve wanted. She loved any excuse to get us all together, and was quite often the life of the party. In the twenty-four hours she’s been gone, I’ve smiled on more than one occasion as a random memory has flashed into my mind of my time spent with Nanna. Those short flashes of happy memories are what it’s all about. Try to make as many as possible.

 Thanks, Nanna.

* For those who don't know what Slades Soft Drinks are: http://www.slades.com.au/

Holy shit it's been ages. Here's something from 2010 I wrote for a literature class. Enjoy!

The Game Room

In the early hours of July 2^nd 1961, after a long battle with depression, Ernest Hemingway positioned his favourite double barrel shotgun to his mouth and pulled the trigger. His aim was flawless. Now he finds himself having a conversation with William Shakespeare about women, death and African game hunting.

“It’s not really so painful.” He said.

“No?”

He looked around. The barrel of the shotgun was still smoking. A splatter of blood covered the wall of his basement storeroom. A piece of what looked like his skull had landed almost too perfectly on a stuffed and mounted squirrel he had kept from his first hunting trip as a young boy.

William sat down on a wicker chair that had been put down there by Ernest three months ago. “I propose you clean up before Mary returns home.”

“Why? Because between the death of her husband and a God-awful stain she’s more likely to fuss over the stain?”

William stared right through Ernest.

Ernest understood. “It still didn’t hurt.”

“When will she get home?”

“What the hell does it matter?” Ernest snapped back, “It’s not like it can be undone.” He’d moved over to the bloody wall, looking at the thick red splatter. It was not unlike a Rorschach Test he’d been shown only months earlier.

William lent back in the chair, his fingers stroking through the little beard on his chin. “What do you expect her to do now? How can she possibly go on living without her husband to provide for her?”

“She survived before she met me. She’ll survive after.”

“Is it enough to just survive?” William quizzed, “How about to live?”

“It’s funny that you’re here right now.” Ernest broke his staring match with the blood.

“Were you expecting someone else?”

“Maybe,” Ernest replied, “Maybe someone from my past.”

“A girl?”

Ernest smiled nostalgically.

“Who are you thinking of?” William continued.

“Mary. And the rest.”

“There was only ever Anne for me.”

“What? In your entire life?”

William nodded. “It’s the way it was back then.”

Ernest lumbered over to William and took a seat opposite. “You talk differently than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Lots of fancy words. Like your plays, you know?”

“Sorry to disappoint you, my friend. This is how I talk.”

Ernest shrugged. “It’s ok. No big deal.”

The silence of the conversation echoed through the basement as both men sat opposite each other, trying to avoid each other’s gaze. This was the first time Ernest had actually taken any time to just sit back and relax in his basement. He never came down here anymore, not even to look at his old collection of game he had mounted on the walls. A glassy eyed zebra looked forever into space. That was easy game; big, brooding, there we so many of them on the plain. The warthog was much more difficult; it disappeared into shrubs and long grass, it was a real hunt.

“You ever go hunting?” Ernest asked.

William looked up, as if he had been in a dream. “No. I was never much of an outdoorsman.”

Ernest grunted, “Figures. No women, no hunting. What did you do?”

“I spent most of my time writing; acting when I needed to. A lot was spent away from my family.”

“Are you telling me you spent time away from your wife, and you never went astray? Not once? Not ever?”

 “I can honestly say I never cheated on her with another woman.”

“You crazy son of a bitch. How’d you do it?”

“When you love someone enough, you do anything not to hurt them.”

“But women,” Ernest said, “Jesus, they’re so God-damned intoxicating. They change you, shape you. You’re going with one, and some time down the track you think: what the hell has happened to me? I was never like this. And so you take a stand, you find another woman to change you back. And so it goes on.”

“Don’t you see though? That’s what’s great about it all. Both of you grow together, creating a new life form. That’s intoxicating.”

“Why would I want to change? I like me.”

William looked over at the wall, “Really?”

Ernest slowly turned around to look at the wall. The blood had slowly made its way towards the floor. It no longer resembled a familiar Rorschach Test, but a violent evolving stain. “Why are you here?”

“I don’t know. I’m not in control.”

“Well I’m sure as hell not either!”

“But you want to be, don’t you? That’s why you put the gun in your mouth.”

“Does that sound like the action of a man in control?”

“Entirely. How much more control do you want than that over your very life?”

“It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about?” William looked over at the game trophies. There they were. The mounted heads of animals Ernest had hunted and killed, all in the name of control and power. Now reduced to collecting dust in an old man’s basement, reminders of ancient conquests of the past. Each one had a story behind it, a chase, a hunt. And it always ended the same way: he was the winner.

“Looks like I finally found a beast worth hunting.”

William let out a little smile, enjoying the moment of irony.

“But you never shoot the head from such close range.” Ernest continued, “Ruins the head mount. The grand trophy. What have you got left without the head? Just a bag of useless blood and guts.”

“Is that how you see yourself now?”

“I don’t know how I see myself now. Hell, I don’t even know what’s going on. One minute I’ve got a loaded shotgun in my mouth, the next I’m here talking to you. I think one of us owes the other an explanation.”

The two men locked eyes again. Neither of them willing to give up an inch.

Ernest broke the battle. “What do you know about what’s going on?”

“What makes you think I’ve any idea about this whole mess?”

“I just supposed you’d done this before.”                 

“It’s new to me.” William sat back in his chair, fingers rhythmically tapping the arm rests. “Let’s talk about your writing.”

“Let’s not.”

“Why?”

“Because writing shouldn’t be talked about. That’s why they call it writing.”

“So what would you like to do?”

“I don’t know.” He thought for a moment. “You think this is it?”

William looked around the musty old basement. “This? No. Not even close.”

“Good. I’d be disappointed if it was; all that praying just to end up in your own damn basement.”

William stood up and walked over to the row of mounted animal heads on the wall. He walked past each one, intricately inspecting all the details of the long deceased trophies. There was something about them; something uncanny. They were real, but they had a sense of mockery about them. As if such noble creatures couldn’t possibly be destined to hang on wall, a shadow of their former selves, the pride and grace they once had gone with the pull of a trigger.

“Quite a collection, isn’t it?” Ernest said proudly.

“Indeed. All yours?”

“Of course. You keep what you hunt. It’s your trophy.”

“It looks like you’ve done quite well for yourself.”

Ernest chuckled, “These ones are my discards. Small fry. I keep the big ones on display, like any normal person would do of their prized trophies.”

“And what does Mary say to having a house full of dead animals?”

“It’s my house.”

“Of course. But she does stay here, doesn’t she?”

“It’s my house. If she doesn’t like it, there are plenty of others around she can have.”

“That’s hardly fair.” William shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “She contributes to the household; surely she should get some say.”

“She does. It’s totally up to her if she stays here or not. She has total freedom.”

“Do you love her?”

“What kind of bloody stupid question is that? Of course I do. I’ve loved her since the day we met. It’s this house I can’t stand. The walls. The roof. The lack of space. I was never happier than out on safari. Or on the water.  When there’s an infinite space of pure nature between you and your problems...that’s freedom...the breeding ground of creativity. It’s paradise.”

“Then why not go back?”

“It’s a bit late now.”

“I meant before. Before this.”

“I don’t know. I’m too old. Too tired. Why even bother with it anymore? You just end up at the same destination, doesn’t matter where you start. You can’t outrun him, you can’t outsmart him, you can’t even outthink him. This...hunter...will get you. He hunts you like nothing else. He knows your every move. He’s inside your mind, waiting for that moment of weakness...the rustling in the bushes...the snap of a twig under hoof. Once he has you in his sight, what can you do? He never misses. And he always aims for the head.”

Ernest slouched deep into his chair, hands feebly dangling by his side. His eyes moved to William, now a fuzzy dark shape occupying the space in the chair. He looked around the room; it wasn’t the same as before. It was dark and dirty. Not the way he remembered it. His stuffed game trophies were old and rotting, hair falling out, moth eaten and neglected. Stuffing was extruding from the neck of an old gazelle. Layers upon layers of dust covered an ancient squirrel. Then he saw the worst site of all. His own body. Lying, lifeless. He wanted to cry, but he felt nothing. ‘Was this it?’ he thought. Still he felt nothing. Even with his own dead body lying just feet from him he couldn’t conjure up one simple emotion. Before he hated the drowning effect of emotions, now he longed for just one. “William!” he shouted as he turned around. But there was nothing. He was alone.

Darkness clouded the room. The mounted trophies became veiled by this dense mist that vented in from every direction. Even as the darkness consumed him entirely, he felt nothing.

END 

So what do you think? I haven't edited it (I lost the original copy with the teacher's notes scrawled across it). But I know I got a Distinction for it.

How (and Why) I Nearly Quit Teaching

As many of you know, I was voluntarily made redundant a couple of months back. As part of the ABC's policy, I was offered two very nice options: the first was to take the very nice sum of money they offered me, on the condition that I could not be employed by the ABC (Shop or elsewhere) for twelve months. The second was to be redeployed to either another shop or somewhere else within the ABC, but I wouldn't be eligible to receive the payout. Either way, the ABC gave me eight paid weeks to think about it, during which HR would regularly meet with me to discuss my options and try and find me work within the ABC. For that alone, I have an unending love for 'Aunty'. 

This eight week period coincided with my mid-year teaching placement, and so for that period of time I actually felt like teaching was my job. During the school holidays, I met with my HR guru from the ABC, and told her about a little show I was involved in called Omega Team. She seemed to like the idea, and put me in touch with one of the lead drama producers within the ABC. I was explicitly told not to expect anything major to come out of it, but it was cool to finally 'break through' and meet someone important.

So, one day during the school holidays, I met with this lady producer for coffee in Elsternwick. I told her about the idea, and the dilemma we (the team behind Omega Team) were facing: we've got this show, and it's great, but Film Victoria don't want to talk to us because we're 'new writers', and we just need someone to back us. Anyone. She told me outright that the chances of anyone talking to us were slim, and that we needed an Australian 'celebrity' on board for anyone to take us seriously. She suggested Peter Helliar, John Clarke, or Laura Waters (as a producer), and told me all three were very approachable and willing to listen to new ideas (most of the time).  "I can do that." I thought. Then she dropped a bombshell.

She offered me something I did not expect. "Do you know Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries?" she asked. 

I nodded eagerly, "Of course. It's all we sold for the last few weeks at the ABC." 

"Well, I could possibly set you up with a job in the writers' room."

I was flabbergasted. "Yes." I think I replied, or some version of it.

"The only problem is..."

"Uni." 

She nodded and took a sip. "They need someone five days a week, and you'd just be photocopying scripts, making coffee, running around for the writers and producers."

"I'd do it. But I'm at uni. Is there any way I can do it part time?"

"No." she bluntly replied. "They really need someone full time for the next few months."

"I'll think about it."

So, obviously I didn't take the offer. And here's why:

1. Uni. I love teaching, it's something that I'm sure you've heard me say before. If I was in 1st year, there is no question about deferring or quitting for this opportunity. But I'm in 3rd year, and know that if I deferred uni, there is no way I'd go back.

2. I would miss out on the nice payout. As a teacher I'm unlikely to see that amount of money at once ever again.

3. It would only be for a couple of months. After which I wouldn't be guaranteed another job. At least I know (at least almost certain) that in a little over a year I'll be fully qualified teacher with a stable job. 

4. I love teaching and I love writing. But at this point in time, teaching comes first. 

I actually came damn close to calling it quits at uni, and possibly turning my back on teaching for ever. In fact, I hazard to say that if I wasn't in the middle of some fantastic teaching rounds at the time, I would most likely have quit. 

So, where does that leave me now?  Well....I'm still writing (both essays and creatively), and having a good time doing both. Time management isn't a strength of mine, but the dream of doing both successfully is something I'm willing to work hard for. 

What do you think?

My Life as a Sitcom

It’s been a while since my last blog. So, at home alone on a Friday night, I thought I’d order some Thai, crack open some beers, and let my fingers to the typing. That last bit didn’t make sense, and I blame my fingers. They’ll be punished later tonight.

So what’s on the blog menu for tonight? Well the inspiration actually came to me last night as I was trying to sleep. I had a restless night. My nose was cold. My blankets were twisting. And my mind was racing at a million miles an hour (if it were possible to measure mind speed and distance). Here’s the topic for tonight: If I could surround myself with TV Sitcom characters, who would they be?

Firstly, a disclaimer: I know I’ve left out some pretty famous and inspirational characters, trust me, I know what I’m doing.  I love a traditional sitcom, the larger than life characters, the ‘never learn anything’ rule, and the fact that after every 22-minutes, the characters revert back to who they were at the start of the episode. It’s my kind of heaven. Predictable? Of course. Entertaining? Fanatically. So let’s dive straight into it!

Well first there’s going to be me. Tim. Think of me, and then just up my personality flaws/traits by about a thousand. Got a clear picture in your head? Great!

Now I’m going to need to live somewhere. I’m thinking an apartment. In the city. A couch and TV are the centrepiece. It’s obviously out of my price range, but that doesn’t matter, I don’t have a job anyway.

I’m going to need a roommate. This is where I start stealing characters, and my originality takes a nosedive into “Fifty Shades of Grey” territory (sorry, had to put a “Fifty Shades” joke in here somewhere). Back to my roommates. My choice is: Hawkeye from M*A*S*H*. I was actually leaning towards one of his bunkmates in Trapper or BJ (haha…. BJ), but I think Hawkeye would be better. He just seems like a really cool dude, and imagine the tail (girls) he would attract! Of course, if you were writing a character like Hawkeye today, you would probably have to make him a little less drunk and ‘rapey’. Watch some of the old episodes and you’ll know what I mean.

So it’s Hawkeye and me. We’re having fun. But we need an antagonist. Someone to ruin our fun. I’m actually tempted to go with Frank Burns from M*A*S*H* again, just because he was such a great character to play off Hawkeye. In the end it came down to Burns and Newman from Seinfeld…and I just think that you can’t go past old Ferret Face.

I’m going to need a family: mum, dad, and some siblings. I’ve got a whole bunch of TV dads to choose from, and my short-list runners up included: Frank Barone from ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’, Tim Taylor from ‘Home Improvement’, Dr. Jason Seaver (Alan Thicke) from ‘Growing Pains’, and Steven Keaton (Michael Gross) from ‘Family Ties’. But ultimately my choice for the perfect TV dad was Martin Crane (John Mahoney) from ‘Frasier’. He had it all: an ex-cop, a limp, a talented side-kick (Eddie the dog), a quick wit, and most important of all- a gold mine of knowledge and fantastic advice.

Now, on to the rest of the family. Martin Crane was actually a widower, but I’m going to give him Elyse Keaton (Meredith Baxter) from ‘Family Ties’ for a wife and my mum. She was caring, funny, and didn’t take shit from anyone. The rest of the family is going to be filled by Joanie Cunningham (Erin Moran from ‘Happy Days’), Balki (Bronson Pinchot from ‘Perfect Strangers’), and Michael Bluth (Jason Bateman from ‘Arrested Development’).

Now, what about people in my community? Well, my doctor of choice would be Dr. Cliff Huxtable (Bill Cosby) from ‘The Cosby Show’; my local would have to be Cheers (fully staffed of course!); a school headed by Gabe Kotter (Gabe Kaplan, ‘Welcome Back, Kotter’), and Charlie Moore (Howard Hessman, ‘Head of the Class’); and of course a police force led by Carl Winslow (Reginald VelJohnson, ‘Family Matters’).

Selecting my crazy neighbour proved to be quite difficult. I could have taken the easy way out and gone with Kramer from ‘Seinfeld’, or Steve Urkel from ‘Family Matters’, but in the end I just couldn’t go past Wilson Wilson from ‘Home Improvement’.

Finally I need a love interest. But I’m choosing to go the Seinfeld/Frasier route and basically have a new love interest every week. Maybe there’ll be some recurring characters, but we’ll see.

So here’s my cast of characters:

Me!

Hawkeye

Frank Burns

Martin Crane

Elyse Keaton

Joanie Cunningham

Balki Bartokomous

Michael Bluth

Dr. Cliff Huxtable

Gabe Kotter

Charlie More

Carl Winslow

Wilson Wilson

Note: I purposely left out cartoon characters (The Simpsons, Family Guy, etc…) because, let’s face it, who wouldn’t love to live inside a cartoon?

Sorry I didn’t have anything too deep and meaningful tonight. I’m sure there’ll be something better next time.

Take care, and [insert witty closing statement here].

Tim

My favourite all-time non-animated Sitcom, M*A*S*H* 

I'm Back, Baby! 

 So it's been a solid five months since our last adventure together. I won't apologise- we can argue about who forgot to write whose blog until the cows come home. And really, where does that saying come from? Why were cows straying so far from home? It saddens me that the human race used to live in a world where they had to await the arrival of their bovine companions.

So what's this blog going to be about? I have no idea. I got extremely drunk on the weekend (celebrated by my very first alcohol-related vomit on Punt Road. I still say it was warranted, given the state of traffic on that God-awful road). And, true to my style which is mine, the days following my alcohol fueled adventure, I have become very reflective and deep. This is a good place, writing-wise, to be. But a terrible place to be everywhere else. Don't worry, I'm not going to go all emo on you. I'm happy. I'm content. Just reflective and deep.

I've also been listening to Queen- it amazes me how fantastic they are, and saddens me that people like the music of today. Yes, I'm over 30 now, I have the RIGHT- NO, THE PRIVILEGE- to say that. There isn't a Queen song I don't like, but one in particular sticks with me: "Friends Will Be Friends". I love that song, not just for the music and vocals, but for the lyrics. It's up there with Mufasa's death in terms of spine chilling raw emotion. Get onto it if you haven't already.

Without going into too much detail (I'm actually not allowed to), in the last couple of weeks I've been given a life-changing choice: basically it comes down to taking the money, or the job. Money is great. I love money. And it's a solid amount, probably more than I'll ever see in one lump some again. But the job could potentially be good, life-changing good. Maybe not life-changing now, but some day down the track. I'm bothered by this decision a great deal. It's one of those adult type decisions I don't feel I'm qualified to make, but obviously I need an answer. I'll keep you posted on details and such as I'm allowed to. Ask me (in private) for more details!

I like Spiderman Memes. Go do a Google Image Search for 'Spiderman Meme'. This has kept me (and my uni pals) entertained all semester. You will also be entertained too! I've included one at the bottom of the blog free of charge!

Still looking for a girlfriend- submit your applications directly to me. Thought I'd just slip that in (that's what he said!).

Next order of business? Conclusion? I don't know. How are you? Sorry, I should've asked you earlier, but this is MY FUCKING BLOG. Again, sorry, I didn't mean to swear. Have a seat and a nice cuppa. Let's talk like we used to. In fact, that can be the moral of today's blog: LET'S TALK. Seriously, call me, and we can just talk. No one talks anymore. Well, maybe they do, but listening skills have really dropped off in recent times. Talking is a two-way process: sometimes the best thing you can do is just sit there, listen, and nod your head. That's the best kind of talking you can do.

Until next time, happy stuff and things!

 Tim

Turning Points and Retro Stuff

I'm going to be honest: all my best ideas come to me in bed or in the shower. So it's no surprise that the following blog started out as a seed of an idea late one night as I was lying in bed, and blossomed whilst I was in the shower this morning. This is the result. As usual, very little editing has been done of this to keep it 'real'. (As opposed to those pesky fake blog articles).

2012. We're well into the 2010s. And so I thought, since 1999, what's changed? With me, specifically. And I got to writing a list of stuff. Mainly because I like lists and writing them is the best thing to do when confronted with one. I handpicked a few 'turning points' of my life, and then started wondering what would've happened if things were different. So I guess this is kind of a 'What if...' episode that while it's fun and 'cooky', doesn't actually build on character development or relationships. Enjoy!

1999

Pros: I'm in year 12! I'm surrounded by the best friends I'll ever have! I enjoy school (for the most part). I live a relatively sheltered life from outside influences. The whole 'terrorist' thing has yet to grip the world.

Cons: School's a bit of a shit. The right combination of bullies and a general feeling of not knowing what to do haunts me. VCE has me confused: why do my teachers keep saying that my whole future depends on how well I perform at school this year??? In fact, I see school as a bit of a waste of time.

The actual results: An remarkably average TER score (somewhere in the low-70s). I manage to scrape into an TAFE IT degree, even though I'm not really that 'into' it. During Summer holidays, my school rings me up and tells me they want me back as part of their 'IT Traineeship' program. I accept. I realise that even those kids you got 99.97 won't have a full time job for probably another 7 years while they finish their medical/law degrees. Most important lesson learned: VCE results don't mean shit.

What if...: I actually stand up to the bullies. I had a red-belt in Taekwon-do at that stage. I can easily break boards with my fists, elbows, and feet. Maybe I should break a few noses. This leads me to be suspended/expelled, and I fall into a life of crime and a seedy underworld of drugs, booze, and loose women. I become the new influence for the Unberbelly series nearly one decade later...

2000

Pros: New millenium! New job! Don't have to study. I have money for the first time ever. It appears that the apocalypse was put on hold until 2012.

Cons: The Y2K bug was a massive flop. I'm working 5 days a week in the same place I completed my VCE only months ago.

Results: I can buy stuff and call it my own. I learn what it's like to have a full time job.

What if...: I don't accept the school's offer. I end up stuck in an IT degree that I don't really enjoy, but decide to complete anyway because "it's something to do...". End up working for some dodgy firm in a helpdesk role.


2004

Pros: Finished my IT Degree! The world is at my feet. Hey, I have a talent for writing...

Cons: What the hell do I do now? I hate IT. The last thing I want to do is work in it 5 days a week.

Results: I'm jobless and sitting at home most of the day. It's actually pretty cool. I begin doing some creative writing to get my mind working. It's actually pretty fun. Hey, maybe I should enrol in a shortcourse to see what happens. What's that? You want me for the RMIT Professional Screenwriting course? Of course I'll accept! I'M GOING TO BE A SCREENWRITER!

What if...: I don't do that screenwriting shortcourse. I put my love of screenwriting on the shelf next to my rollerblades, electric keyboard, and POG collection. I get a mindless job, and get stuck there until I'm 40, after which I'm fired.

2005-2007

Pros: I'm at TAFE again, but this time studying screenwriting! New friends. I'm nurturing my creative talent, and having fun! I feel I've found my calling.

Cons: Still mostly jobless. I realise fully what the saying "All girls are bitches" truly means.

Results: Loving life. Visions/delusions of grandeur infiltrate my mind. Get a job working in the ABC Shop. Excellent news!

What if...: I honestly can't think of any 'what if' scenarios here. I did pretty much everything the way I would've. Good work.

2009

Pros: I go to Germany for 6 weeks! Working full time. Apply and get accepted into university.

Cons: Still living at home. Starting to feel like my time to change stuff is running out.

Results: Fantastic year. Travelled, worked, got accepted into university. Things are looking up!

What if...: I decide not to travel, and 'settle' into a comfortable but mindless retail job. Yuck. I don't even want to think about it.

2010

Pros: Finally at university! Awesome new friends. Finally move out and living with my best mate.

Cons: I realise how expensive living out of home is, and take a vow of poverty.

Results: Quite possibly the craziest and best year of my life. Uni peeps are amazing. Loving university life, and life outside home. Again, have the feeling that this is what I'm meant to be doing.

What if...: I don't go to uni. I miss out on meeting fantastic new friends, most of which I can't imagine my life without now. I remain working full time in retail, eventually dying alone surrounded by cats who eventually feast on my rotting corpse.


Hmm. That's a good place to end it.

I'm not going to write a conclusion. You can work that bit out for yourself.

Peace.