I know next-to-nothing about Australian-rules football.  I had hoped that by now I would have met some burly (single) man who was eager to take me to a few games and explain the plays, but that hasn’t happened.  Here is, quite literally, everything I know about AFL – it might not even be correct:

1. Footy players look more lithe than both gridiron and rugby players.  I made the mistake of saying that it must be a less physical game, and I got thumped for it.
2. Footy players don’t wear (much) protective gear.  No helmets, no shoulder or thigh pads.  I assume they wear cups.
3. They run a lot, and they carry and kick the ball.  Sometimes they punch the ball.
4. There are three goal zones.  I assume you get more points for the central zone, since those posts are taller.
5. Sometimes the scores have decimal points.
6. The Perth team are called the West Coast Eagles.  Their colours are blue and yellow.
7. The Fremantle team are called the Dockers. Their colours are purple and green.  Game days are funny because people wear hideous Joker-themed clothing.
8. There is a teenager who lives on the other side of my park, and it seems like every time I walk through on my way to the shops, he kicks a ball over his fence, hops over after it, then spends about an hour kicking to himself.  He is always wearing his Dockers vest.
9. The Dockers’ practice oval is in Fremantle, but they play in a proper stadium in Subiaco (just west of Perth).  I think the Eagles play/practice there as well.  I’ve parked at the Freo oval plenty of times, because it’s right next to downtown and usually empty because most Australians are too cheap to pay a buck for parking.

Anyway, last Saturday was the 2010 AFL Grand Final, the SuperBowl of Footy, between the St. Kilda Saints and the Collingwood Magpies.  Both teams hail from Melbourne neighbourhoods.  I couldn’t tell you anything about St. Kilda, but the ‘Pies are like the Oakland Raiders of AFL.  The team seems to be reknowned for playing dirty, they don’t win much, and their fans are thuggish.  Also, their colours are black and white.  And since I like magpies, underdogs, and am sentimental about the Five-One-Oh (and pirates), I reckon that if I’m going to root for anyone, it’s Collingwood.  Plus it seems to bug people around here if I say as much.  It’s kind of funny.

But there is this flaw in the game – there are no measures for overtime in the case of a draw.  So last week, the game ended 68-68 in the 4^th quarter, and rather than engage in a kickoff or extra innings, the game ended, players adjourned to their lockers, and people went home unsatisfied.  A total do-over was rescheduled for the following Saturday (today).  The country was in an uproar.

I suppose it’s fortunate that the players and (presumably) the majority of the fans were close to home, but video clips of disappointed visiting out-of-town fans have been shown nightly on the news.  People were forced to stay in Melbourne for an extra week, buy a second ticket, change their flight plans, use up sick leave/vacation, etc.  Tough life. Apparently it never occurred to them to, you know, just go home and watch it on TV.

The Magpies thumped the Saints 16.12 (108) to 7.10 (52).  Lionel Ritchie was there.

A few months ago, the Labor Party (ALP) kicked out Prime Minister Kevin Rudd. He wasn’t pleasing all the party factions. Plus most people found him stiff, slick and boring. They replaced him with their second in command, Julia Gillard. This happens a lot ‘round these parts.

Anyways, Gillard is many things:

1. A woman
2. An atheist
3. A redhead
4. Welsh
5. Has a hilarious accent
6. Unmarried
7. Co-habbing with her partner, a (male) hairdresser, and
8. Childless

Take that, America! It amazes me how little discussion there was over points 2, 6 and 8; if anything, citizens were mostly disturbed by number 5. They are also obsessed with her (fabulous) hair.

In another quirk of the Australian political system, the leading party may name a date of their choosing for the next election.  There is no official voting day down under…  So would Julie call an early election, in order to catch the Liberal (ie., conservatives, “republican”*) party, and their jumbo-eared leader Tony Abbott off guard, or would she schedule it later in the year, in order to give Tony ample time to stumble? It wouldn’t be difficult, he’s not got mad debatin’ skillz. But he does look pretty good in a speedo, sooo…

Early election! Key phrase? Moving forward. Hey, that’s more syllables than “change”.

They (you know, them) rescheduled the one-and-only televised debate between Abbott and Gillard from its original airtime, because it conflicted with the season finale of MasterChef.  Australians don’t go to church, they have MasterChef.  And Celebrity Masterchef.  And Junior Masterchef.

To attempt a win, the Liberal party formed a coalition with the National Party of Australia (a semi-minor conservative farmers’/rural party). Labor won an equal number of votes to the conservative coalition, resulting in a hung parliament. Six crossbenchers (independents/minor party Members of Parliament) would break the tie.

It took over seven weeks to resolve the election. One of the major issues used as currency by the crossbenchers to decide where their allegiances lay was whether or not to upgrade the Australian intertubes to a high-speed national broadband system. OK, it was a bit deeper than that, but SEVEN FREAKING WEEKS of nail-biting cost-benefit analysis of Lolcats and Antoine Dodson… Furthermore, one of the conditions required by the crossbenchers siding with the ALP involved a promise from Labor to NOT fire and replace Gillard anytime soon – which I think really speaks to the frailty of a PM’s position, especially given the numerous spills in recent Australian state and federal history. It was scuttlebutt and backstabbing that put both Gillard and Abbott on their current thrones, and the independents clearly wanted no more of it.

Ultimately, Labor won a surplus of two votes to take the minority rule (four are required for an honest-to-goodness house majority). Which means that both parties are in power, although Gillard is, for lack of a better term, on top. It also means that it won’t take much for the majority to swing either way. A change in just two parliamentary seats (out of 150) could bring the whole country back into chaos again.

*by the by, I was recently informed that there IS indeed a Republican party in Australia; the biggest difference between it and the Liberal set is that the Libs still recognize the Queen as sovereign; the monarchy is not recognized by the Reps. But I couldn’t get Wikipedia to confirm this. However, I did find listed the “Democratic Liberal Party”, whose origins lie in Catholic, conservative, anti-Communist policy. Wonder how they feel about godless, childless, sinful gingers?

Wake in Fright, based on the 1961 novel by Kenneth Cook, was made in 1971 and was hailed at Cannes as a masterpiece of Australian film, the first of its kind.  Originally the film was released outside of Australia under the title Outback, and was long thought lost as no video copy was known to exist until recently; a remastered version was just released last year.  It follows a young school teacher on Christmas leave after his first year in Tiboonda (the middle of nowhere); he takes the train to Bundanyabba (still the middle of nowhere) where he’ll spend one night before catching a flight to Sydney.  The local policeman buys the man a drink, and from there things spiral out of control.  After a night of drinking and gambling he loses all his money, realizes he can’t leave, and instead must rely on the kindness of townfolk, who happily offer him shelter, food and… drink.  And more drink.  And more.  And more than that.

The entire film is a dark (though searingly sun-baked), dusty rampage of debauchery and indignity.  It’s hypnotic and disturbing, and is in a way the Australian version of Easy Rider or Deliverance (although technically, since the novel was written before either of those films, one could argue that they are the derivatives…)  The stark cinematography and understated score pair well for a nightmare of a bender.  You can watch the entire movie on youtube; below is the first 8 minute clip, although I’d recommend the DVD version to give the scenery its due respect.

Oh, and by the way, there’s a kangaroo hunting scene.  It’s pretty graphic. It also features a surprisingly hirsute Donald Pleasence*, so that’s freaky too.

Last Ride, starring Hugo Weaving, was released in 2009.  As the film opens, ex-con Kev (Weaving) is taking his young son Chook (slang for chicken) on a road trip – I’m not sure where it’s supposed to be but I’ll guess upstate Victoria.  As they travel it becomes clear that Kev is on the run; he cuts his long hair at a gas station, steals food and beer, and dumps his car for another.  Chook can tell something is up, and is clearly terrified of his father, but Kev assures him he’s just teaching him how to live in the family tradition. As they pass through small towns, hiding out on public land and racing over dirt roads (and sometimes over places where no roads go), we learn why Kev is running from the law, and what part Chook has played in his crime.

The film explores a very tender and tenuous father-and-son bond, and it’s hard to watch Chook suffer under his father’s meanness (likely ingrained from his father’s meanness).  Despite astounding performances by Weaving and young Tom Russel, the silent star of the movie is the Australian landscape.  Something about the cinematography tells me that it might not have been filmed in summer (well, for the places they go, that would have been insane).  The light seems cold and polarized; there are lots of shadows and burrows in this movie.  While Wake in Fright makes you sweat, Last Ride really makes you shiver.

*Leonard Maltin gave Wake in Fright 3 out of 4 stars.  That will mean something to somebody.

Samson and Delilah (2009) is probably the most powerful and upsetting movie I’ve seen in Australia.  With very little dialogue and achingly slow movement, this film follows two aboriginal teenagers who have grown up in a small, isolated indigenous town in central Australia.  The movie begins with Samson’s growing awareness of the girl-next-door.  Actually, the movie begins with Samson waking up and reaching for his bedside can of petrol, for his first huff of the day.  But through his fumey fog we can see Samson’s boy-brain shift and stutter into gear as he watches, follows and pesters good-girl Delilah.  When Delilah’s grandmother dies from illness, the community blames her, and force her to leave.  Samson and his only possession, his petrol jug, follow.

The rest of the movie follows the pair’s journey into the city of Alice Springs, and their sad dealings with the wider world, both white and black.  Don’t be fooled by the trailer, this is not a sweeping love story.  Rather, this is the story of how two people stumble into one another and stay together for lack of knowing what else to do.  There is something so natural and unaffected about the young actors that one forgets he is watching a movie.  The director’s treatment seems so un-sentimental that he might have just wandered under a bridge and followed two homeless teens for a few days (with an amazing soundtrack and gifted cinematographer in tow).

As a (white) (non-Australian) person who has never dealt with Aboriginals, I don’t know what to say.  I’m extremely uncomfortable passing any judgement on the issue.  What I like about this film is that the story personalizes some of the problems of Indigenous/White culture clash, without making heroes or heroines of its principal characters.  Watch it – what do you think?

Thankfully, on the far, far, faaaar side of the silly-serious spectrum, we have Bran Nue Dae (2009) – a feel-good rom-com razzle-dazzle musical road movie about growing up black in Western Australia.  Set in the late sixties, Willie, a young boy from Broome, has been called to the priesthood but dreams of his sweetheart Rosie back home.  After getting caught stealing cokes and Cherry Ripes from Father Benedictus’ personal stash, Willie ditches his boys’ school in Perth.  With the help of his “Uncle” Tadpole, an elderly tramp who’ll do anything for grog, Willie hits the road for home.  He meets strange and interesting people along the way.

It’s campy and cheeky, but not in the Baz Luhrman way, thank God.  Like Samson and Delilah, Bran Nue Dae deals with Aboriginal youth issues and stereotypes, and maybe not in the most sensitive way, but if you put all that aside, it’s funny as.  Geoffrey Rush hams it up as a German priest, and sweet Rosie is played by a real Australian Idol (4^th season).  Ernie Dingo, an aboriginal actor and raconteur plays Uncle Tadpole, and two other principle women (Willy’s mother, and Roxanne, the lusty, bawdy wench of the movie (my favourite character, of course)) in the film are well-lauded actresses.

Two bona-fide musicians lend their talents to the films.  Dan Sultan, an up-and-coming singer/songwriter whom I’ve been paying some attention to lately, plays the dashing, rockin’ rake who might steal Rosie’s heart (or something else precious).  Little bit of a crush there. Missy Higgins, an Australian pop/R&B/soul singer (for lack of a better classification) (whom I also love) plays a dippy hippie chick on the path to enlighten… something…

And lastly, we have a near-perfect cameo by Magda “Hot… Chicko…Roll…?” Szubanski, a comedienne and TV actress most famous for her role as ever-unlucky Sharon on Kath and Kim (an Aussie TV classic).  She is awesome.

What I love also about this movie is its unpolished cheer.  Originally staged as a musical, Bran Nue Dae feels like a pretty-good high school effort.  The elder, established, proper actors seem all too happy to lose their diginity for the sake of the show; the younger kids, despite awkward dance moves and slightly-off timing, shine with exuberance.  It’s a fun movie, hands down, and we don’t get a lot of those lately.

Another fun fact – this movie was set and filmed in WA, in and around Perth, and on the road to the north.  There are scenes relatively early in the movie where Willie, having just run away from school, convinces his Uncle to take him to Broome.  These scenes were filmed in Fremantle, around Notre Dame University; I hang out there.  You can see a High Street street sign.  It’s weird to see my town – if you can call it that – on the big screen.

When it comes to Aussie films, there’s sort of only two extremes: movies are either freakishly dramatic, tense, and painfully inspiring/depressing/heartbreaking, OR goofy, campy, zany, impossible romps. Think of Shine and The Piano… Remember Strictly Ballroom? The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert? Yeah.

Anyway, I’ve seen several really good movies by now; I thought I might share the lesser-known goodies as I come across them. And so, dear readers, I bring you “Beyond Thunderdome”.  My Australian film reviews. My reviews of Australian films. Reviews of my Australian films… anyway, get yerself a nice cuppa (tea), crack a bag of Malteasers or Fantales, and settle in.  Movie’s on!

we don't need another hero.

I’ve been seeing that battle flag everywhere lately.  There was a piece on the news about a gang fight between motorocycle clubs, which here are called “Bikies”; with a name like that I don’t know how anyone takes them seriously, but that’s Australia for you.  The biggest, baddest MC gang in Australia are the Rebels, and guess what their insignia looks like? So maybe the flagger at the Murdoch Student Village is also a chopper enthusiast.  Sorry to presume, dude.  Anyway, this estimable website lists the Rebels as the #9 most notorious biker gang in the world.  Seven of those positions belong to the US, and of course #1 is owned by the Hell’s Angels.

Furthermore, there’s a gloriously cringe-worthy commercial on TV for Bundaberg “Red” Rum.  “Bundies” are an Australian product, made from Queensland sugarcane, and to my knowledge, Bundaberg is the largest producer of spirits in Australia. This particular label of rum is filtered, or aged, or whatever, over red gum (which might be Eucalyptus calmaldulensis) wood, so hopefully it has nothing to do with death, or creepy kids, or over-wintering hotels.  Most of their commercials include their mascot, a polar bear named “Bundy R. Bear”.

In this particular advert, three Aussie Blokes and Bundy walk into an American Bourbon Bar, located in the southern U.S. (you can tell because they hang a Confederate Battle Flag on the wall, and the proprieter’s name is “BillyBob”; he uses words like “ain’t” and “damn!”).  They convince whiskey-diehard BillyBob that their bottled rum-and-cola is more smooth than Bourbon.  Then they modify (or vandalize, whatever) the neon bar sign to read BYO, which in Australia is a term used by restaurants to advertise that they allow you to bring in your own alcohol.  It doesn’t usually apply to venues which are already fully licensed for liquor.   Anyway, BillyBob doesn’t seem to mind a’tall.

If you can’t quite understand, at the end, the polar bear tells the stuffed grizzly (which of course you would find in a southern whiskey bar) to “loosen up, mate”.  I say, get stuffed.

So after a wonderful day-and-a-half in Melbourne (really, it’s a cool city), we drove east to Yarra Valley, passed through pretty vineyards and crossed over the “Black Spur Drive”, a windy road crossing the mountain between Healesville and Marysville (and if you like drives, this is definitely one to do), to land at our B&B where we would stay for two nights.  I never really noticed all the burnt tree-trunks along the Spur.  When we met the proprietor of Wombat Cottage, he showed us the grounds and started talking about all the trees that had burned, and showed us a recently-build shed.  “This replaced the shed that burned down in February.”

And I instantly felt stupid.  It hadn’t occurred to me that when the horrible, terrible “Black Saturday” Victorian Bushfires of February 2009 occurred, the majority of the fires were centered in this area.  Over the course of three days – I don’t know, I don’t really want to get into the statistics – probably thousands, or hundreds of thousands of acres of forest and farmland burned.  OK, fine, I’ll delve into Wikipedia: over a million acres burned, 173 people died, 414 were injured, it took five weeks to put out.  It is the eighth deadliest bushfire event in international history, the third in the last twenty-odd years, and the worst in Australia. It has prompted a ‘Royal Commission’ (a federal investigation) to look at issues on bushfire policy and management.  Fun ecology fact: scientists found ash at record heights over Antarctica, and kangaroos would suffer burned feet in order to return to home territory.

At the time of the fires, my grasp of Australian geography was pretty poor (well, it still is), so all I could say was that these fires were somewhere in the state of Victoria, which is in the central-southern part of the country, two states away.  It is the smallest mainland state (Tasmania is geographically smaller) but has the second highest population.  It turns out we were galavanting around the “ground zero” of Black Saturday.

I asked the B&B owner – thank God I have an American accent, it affords me a little ignorance – if there were fires here on Black Saturday.  “Oh yes,” said he with the knack for Aussie understatement.  “They were here.”  And then he pointed out the field that had burned, the ring of trees at the far side of the paddock that had burned, the mountains beyond that had burned.  “The cottage you’re in was saved, but that shed over there, that had to be completely rebuilt.”  It was… what, twenty feet away?  Thirty?

burnt/dead trees on the left, rebuilt shed in the center, and the parked car is at the front door of our cottage

We got a few hours of sleep that night and met our balloonist and fellow travelers in the pre-dawn cold at Chateau Yering, an historic house and hotel next door to Yering Station Winery.  We were then transported to a paddock in Glenburn, 22mi/37km north of the valley.  Ours was a large balloon, with perhaps twenty people compartmented in the basket.  Just before dawn, the balloon was fully inflated and we all climbed aboard.

Because of the wind direction that morning, we weren’t so much as going over vineyards as approaching them.  We floated south back toward Yering Station (the Mondavi of Yarra Valley), rising to a maximum elevation of 3400ft/1,200m just over Kinglake National Park. As we crossed over Kinglake, our surly, taciturn pilot pointed out the burnt areas of the mountains. The ridges in this area form a series of petal-like concentric semi-circles, with developed areas nestled in the valleys. The mountains burned so aggressively that those in the valleys were stuck with few options to evacuate.  “You can see how escape was impossible,” the pilot said.

Having said that, the balloon ride was AMAZING.  To be able to see the landscape, even one I wasn’t familiar with, from above was extraordinary.  And when the gas-burner wasn’t afire, it was so quiet, so peaceful, way up there.  The pilot said we peaked at 3400 feet. If I were to do it again, I’d go for a smaller balloon which might not be able to fly so high, but would carry fewer passengers.  We were stuck in a compartment of the basket, so most of the time I was facing east – which is why so many of these photos are overexposed; yet, with the haze of the morning fog, the long shadows and the reflection in the lakes, I’m pleased with the pictures.  Hope you are too.

After we touched down, Britta and I had a nice breakfast at Chateau Yering, and spent the rest of the day wine tasting around Yarra Valley.  It’s a beautiful region, and reminds me very much of Sonoma County where I grew up.  It was nice to see mountains and hills and vines again… Aside from charred tree trunks and bare mountain sides, the landscape looked remarkably green and lush.  I asked several of the pourers how the grapegrowers and winemakers were coping with the aftermath of the bushfires – were they getting tourists’ attention?

Most wineries were doing very well for visitors, they told me, but the crop was so badly damaged in the fire (it occurred just before harvest time) that no one even bothered to pick the grapes.  Apparently the smoke can be absorbed into the fruit (and even the stems and soil) so that it ruins the flavour of the juice, not only for that season but for the next as well.  Yarra vintners won’t be putting out a decent bottle until 2012, they say.  Some cellars were pouring and selling bottles from ‘sister’ wineries from other wine regions in WA and South Australia, who offered to share or entirely relinquish the profits.  Other cellars had enough in their stocks from past vintages to keep up sales, but it must have been heartbreaking to watch their libraries go down the gullets of non-buying tourists.

I stopped long enough to take a few photos, and walked on. It took me only another five minutes to reach the café where I get my morning coffee, and by the time I was in line for a cappuccino (fair trade, of course) I was hopping mad.

I mean, really, what the hell? There’s always that one guy in an American dorm who hangs a rebel flag in his window, and he always does it in the name of southern heritage, or free speech, which is fair enough, but I think by now we all accept that Dixie has lost that battle. And usually that guy is not very well liked by his dorm-mates. So he… goes to Perth? Australia already sports a flag fielding the emblems of a hollow, meaningless empire; it does not need another one. So, where did this one come from? Some American student who thinks he’s ‘celebrating’ his culture, by hanging it in some forgotten corner under a tree? Does he think it’s funny? Does he feel clever? Jesus, why not actually hang it from the official flagpole in Bush Court. Why not pull down the Australian Commonwealth flag, or the Western Australian flag, or if he really wanted to make a statement, take down the Aboriginal flag and replace it with good ol’ Dixie! Freeeebiiird!!

Maybe I’m not giving this guy the benefit of doubt. Maybe it’s not a guy. Maybe he or she is trying to make a statement about freedom of speech after all (which, technically, Australia does not protect). Maybe he or she is trying to display some pride on a campus that prides itself on diversity. Maybe he or she is trying to instigate dialogue. Or maybe he (or she) is just a big fan of The Dukes of Hazzard.

I’m not sure where to go from here. A fellow student pushed me, if I was that disturbed, to complain to the Student Guild. “Murdoch supports tolerance and should be upset to host symbols of hate on campus.” She said. “And, sorry, but America doesn’t need any more bad press.” I could write a letter to the school paper; but no one reads it (ok, maybe some do; I don’t). I could leave a note on the flagpole asking who put it there and please tell me why. Or, I could take the bait and set it afire…

Or I could just chill out and opt for some redneck satire with Jackie and Dunlap.  Ahh, that feels better.

Not long after I was discharged, I received a bill from the hospital for the room charges for the four nights I was hospitalised, for 5,496 dollars. I re-informed the hospital that they should direct the bill to OSHC. Then in January, I received a notice from a debt collector that the bill was still unpaid… and then I started getting phone calls.

Thankfully, the collector was not the type to suggest cement shoes; in fact he was tremendously polite. Once I explained my situation to him, he simply asked that I be sure to communicate the bill to the insurance group. I turned that over to the OSHC rep who visits campus and figured that was that. While on holiday three months later, I got another phone call from the debt collector, who wanted me to know that the bill was still unpaid, and would I be so kind as to try to poke the OSHC to take care of it?

When I called the OSHC, however, they had no record of that bill being submitted. I told them that I had personally handed it over to my rep. They asked me to get the hospital to resubmit the bill.
Rather than wanting to deal with the hospital’s billing department, I went back to the OSHC rep and gave her a copy of a copy I had made (because I’m smart like that) of the debt collector’s request. She spent a half an hour searching her files for my original submission, and was super-perplexed that she couldn’t find it. “Are you sure you gave it to me?” she asked, “and not to the other rep that comes on Fridays? Do you remember giving it to me??”

And of course I was sure because this particular rep has a very heavy Asian accent. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was certain it was she, because I remembered her voice. It’s like Minh’s on King of the Hill. Anyway, after watching her shuffle papers and search computer files for what seemed like forever, she sighed and said, “We have to go into resubmit. Get the hospital to print you another bill, and come back to me with it.”

So, when next in at the hospital for a physio visit, I stopped off at the Ortho clinic to ask them about how to begin.  I tried to keep it simple. “I need a copy of a bill.” I said. “I’m sure you’re not the person to do that, but where should I go to get one – is there a billing department?”

She stared at me for a second. “We don’t really do bills.” She said. “I know” I replied. “I’m just wondering who I should talk to. Do you know where the billing department is?” She stared at me again, got up from her chair and walked through an office door. She returned a moment later with – someone, her supervisor, I suppose. I asked again.

“We don’t really do bills,” said the Supervisor. So I explained the whole situation, the OSHC, the debt collector, the lost submission, the need to request a new bill. The supervisor twitched her nose. “There isn’t really a billing department for the hospital.” She said ponderously. Like hell there isn’t. “Maybe you should talk to Legal.”

I went to Legal. “We… don’t really do bills.” Legal said. “Do you need a medical certificate, like a note from the Doctor?” I spewed the whole story again. “AH!” said Legal. “I think I understand. Maybe you should speak to Finance.” And where, may I ask, would I find Finance? “I’ll call them for you.”

She got Finance on the phone. I told Finance the story. “We can’t really print a bill for just anyone,” said Finance. “I’m going to put you through to our Special Cases Department.”

Special Cases asked for the story again. “And so,” I concluded to Special Cases, “I just need a printed bill. For the room charges. For five thousand, four hundred and ninety-six dollars.”

“A bill…” mused Special Cases. “Wait, do you need an invoice?”

“…Yes… That would work also.”

Special cases told me he could mail me an invoice that day. He verified my address and told me to expect it within fourteen days. I thanked him, thanked Legal, and exited the office. I stifled a lunatic giggle as I crossed the carpark.

The bill – oh, pardon me, invoice – arrived a week later. There were extra charges listed on this one: in addition to the thirteen-hundred-dollar-per-night motel bill, there was a five-point charge for what looked like… parts.

That’s right, PARTS. Excluding labor, I can now put a dollar price on my bionic elbow. As follows:

Cortex screws, self-tapping. 4@93.00 = 372.00
Locking head screw. 4@180.00 = 720.00
Humerus Plates. 2@1308.00 = 2616.00
Headless Compression Screw 1@196.00 = 196.00
KWire 1@54.00 = 54.00
TOTAL 3,958.00

And you know what’s kind of neat, if you look at the x-rays, there are clearly two K-wire pins. Got two for the price of one. On special. Surgeon’s dozen!

So, adding the nearly 4,000$ “parts” bill to the nearly 6,000$ “shop” charges, plus the 170$ for labs and antibiotics while recuperating in the hospital’s ortho ward, I have officially passed the 10,000$ mark. I’m hoping with the surgeon’s and anaesthetist’s fees (you know, the “labor” part of the bill) I’ll cap 20k.  Thirty if I’m lucky.  C’mon, big money, big money!

And remember, folks:  please, spay and neuter your pets.