STEP

This is gonna hurt.

            You feel that? The hollowness, spreading from beneath your stomach, like cool air coursing between your muscles and bones; that delicious, bitter-sweet tide climbing the back of your throat, building to explode in your brain; nerve-endings firing from follicles to sweaty fingertips. That’s the fear.

            No, don’t try to choke it down. Don’t try to ignore it. Taste it. Savour it. Close your eyes and let it wash, over and through you. Feed on it. Take a few deep breaths and grow, yourself, around it. Feel it make you bigger. Open your eyes.

            Take the step.

BODY IMAGE - Get Real

The Government runs something called The Positive Body Image Awards – fairly self-explanatory. All you have to do to be nominated is hire one plus-size model for one promotion during the year (Or, for fashion houses or department stores, carry plus-sized clothing).

            It’s been moderately successful. Some high-end designers and major clothing chains have been nominated. Even the women’s magazines are coming on-board – led, admittedly, by the staid old Women’s Weekly. And the only hold-out? (Sharp intake of breath): The advertising industry. Is any more proof needed that advertising is evil?

            I’m being facetious. Advertising is only the devil on our shoulder, whispering in our ear. No salesman can trick us into paying for something we don’t want. No commercial can sell us something we don’t desire. They can, however, lie about just what it is we’re buying. And what, in the end, do we always believe we’ll get when we swipe that plastic? Why, happiness of course. The bill comes later.

            The advertising executives know us. They spend a lot of time and money studying our ways. If they’re selling us the body image lie it’s because they know we think we’ll be happy buying it.

            Body dysmorphia: the scientific name for when you can’t relate the figure in the mirror to the one you see in your head. It’s why anorexics and bulimics keep wasting when they’re already skeletal; they genuinely see themselves as fat. It works the other way too. Since the advent in the media of positive body image campaigns, people who, for health reasons, could afford to lose a few kilos now delude themselves they’re “curvy” or “husky”. There’s a big difference between “curvy” and obese.

            It’s unclear whether dysmorphia leads to anxiety and depression or vice-versa. It’s a complex issue, and it wasn’t invented by the advertising industry ­– they just nurture it for financial gain.

            This inability to see reality isn’t limited to weight. I know a beautiful woman. No, I mean true, spectacular, exotic beauty; the kind that turns heads everywhere she goes – to the extent that it sometimes makes her paranoid. For as long as I’ve known her this lady has expressed insecurity about the size of her breasts, and a desire to have them augmented.

            Now, there’s nothing wrong with her breasts; they’re perfect. I know, I’ve seen them. In fact, recently someone asked me why he hadn’t seen us together in a while and, unable to remember her name, described her as “the stacked one”. I could tell her this story, but it wouldn’t stop her racing-off to have dangerous, unnecessary surgery. No amount of objective reality can alter the insane ideal she carries in her head.

            More and more, men also are affected by this stuff. You can’t buy a carton of milk anymore without seeing some pituitary-freak grinning at you over a headline proclaiming that, in six weeks, you too can look like a stocking full of footballs.

            My sister’s boyfriend has a teenage son. He spends all his free time at the gym, hanging out with the type of goon who introduced the phrase, “You ‘mirin’, brah?” to the language. The boy is huge. Not long ago he was rushed to hospital in the middle of the night, screaming and clutching his abdomen; his growing body couldn’t support the strain he was putting on it. Soon after being released he was back in the gym.

            If we keep buying it, they’ll keep selling it. We need to get real. Once we do that, the media will respond. To keep making money, they’ll have to. Have a look in the mirror – or, better yet, get some objective evidence; a tape-measure, some scales and a BMI chart. If what you find is unhealthily skinny, stop exercising for a while and eat some more; if you’re too big, admit it to yourself and do something about it. But get real.

            More than that, accept yourself – your true, best self. Don’t buy into a fantastic ideal. Fake tits or the world’s biggest pecs won’t make you happy, but they may just do you lasting damage. Even if they don’t, you’ll soon be looking for something else to fill that hole.

            Me, when I train – the little I can these days if I don’t wish to vanish completely from sight – I don’t think of becoming Arnold Schwarzenegger. I think in terms of proportion, efficiency and functionality. By proportion, I mean in a human sense; a Greco-Roman statue, not something out of a video-game or graphic novel; a healthy body functioning efficiently within its own limitations. The kind of physique you used to see on fighters before fighters had to look like underwear models, and underwear models had to look like body-builders.

            Nature seems to have decreed – for the moment, at least – that I can have either a six-pack or an ass, but not both. That being the case, in the interest of health and getting real, I can live with the four-pack above the quarter-inch of belly-fat. No, really, I can ...

A LABOR LEGEND

“The allied powers having proclaimed that the Emperor Napoléon is the sole obstacle to the restoration of peace in Europe, the Emperor Napoléon (...) declares that he renounces (...) the thrones of France and Italy, and that there is no sacrifice (...) that he is not prepared to make in the interest of France.”

 – Napoléon Bonaparte, 1814

Listen – you can almost hear them, can’t you? Chisels on stone, tap, tap, tap. They’re busy already carving the Prime Minister’s monument.

Julia Gillard, they’ll say, is a Labor legend: first female PM; bold and feisty; a brave reformer, accomplished and visionary legislator and champion of women’s rights. Gutsy to the last, she went down swinging against a vast misogynist conspiracy from the opposition and media, and egomaniacal treachery from her own ranks. Give her a statue next to Paul, Hawkie and Gough.

            It’s a compelling story; romantic, even. Its only flaw lies in the fact that it’s utter nonsense – really, the worst kind of steaming bullshit. Feisty she may well be, but if Julia Gillard really was a Labor legend she wouldn’t be three months from leading the government to annihilation.

            You see, Labor legends not only have guts – Ms Gillard certainly meets that requirement – but also principles. They are often ruthless – again, the PM has that base covered – but always in pursuit of an ideal, not simply to grab or hold on to power. And power is sought in order to carry out a vision for the nation, not for its own sake. A Labor legend, a true Labor legend, is willing to take a position based, not on political expediency or populism but, on true belief – and is prepared to live or die for it at the ballot-box.

            Julia Gillard marched into Parliament House one dark night and deposed a sitting Prime Minister. She did it by factional deals and bullying, and simply because she could. It’s not clear to the electorate that she’s given a moment’s thought in the three years since to anything besides staying in power. She certainly hasn’t articulated anything resembling a vision for the nation.

            Still, the public might have forgiven her for that – if it wasn’t for the “brave legislator” bit. You don’t get to claim bold reformer status for policies forced upon you in a deal to retain government; not after going to an election promising you’d never implement them; and especially not if your first move against your predecessor was pressuring him to dump those same policies.

            In politics, once you’re perceived to be a liar or a hypocrite you’re finished. The PM’s reputation has never recovered. Even the “Misogyny Speech”, a great and timely oration, didn’t do the trick. People couldn’t help but notice that, the very same day, the “women’s champion” arbitrarily shifted eighty-seven thousand single-mothers onto the dole – cutting their incomes by around a third. They also noticed when she preferred a  male factional ally over an able woman for the Batman pre-selection.

            There’s no doubt Ms Gillard has faced a fair degree of sexism. She’s been the subject of some truly awful chatter a man would never have to wear. But the misogyny point had only to be made the once; by repeatedly trying to make the election about gender rather than policy, she plays into some of the worst misogynist stereotypes. She begins to seem desperate. She also allows Tony Abbot to look prime-ministerial in response.

            Like it or not, our Westminster parliamentary system has mutated into a quasi-presidential one. A government that has, on balance, a reasonably good record in difficult times will fall because Ms Gillard leads it. When he made the pronouncement quoted above, Napoléon had a couple of hundred-thousand men in the field – thirty thousand of them outside his window – and a fair chance of fighting at least to a draw. For Labor the choice is between a loss and a wipe-out.

            He has become a byword for selfish ambition yet, when the choice was between his own interests and those of his country, Napoléon abdicated – twice. If she believes an Abbot Coalition Government will be as bad for the nation as she says, Julia Gillard should do the same. She’ll still get the pension, the office and driver and all the perks of a retired Prime Minister; the Tories won’t win an enormous majority and spend the next three years selling-off the country without a fight; and a great party won’t suffer its worst ever defeat.

            The Emperor had more to lose.

Related Posts:   http://tyrannyofglib.blogspot.com.au/2012/11/vale-alp-we-loved-you-while-you-lived.html

http://tyrannyofglib.blogspot.com.au/2012/11/character-is-density.html

SYDNEY TEEN'S SYNTHETIC-HALLUCINOGEN RELATED DEATH

 “The reality is you don’t know what you’re putting in your mouth”, says St Vincent’s Hospital’s celebrity Emergency Department Director, Prof Gordian Fulde. It makes as much sense as anything else that’s been said in the cacophonous blathering over a Sydney teen’s tragic, synthetic hallucinogen-related death.

            The inherent absurdity of the prohibitionist approach is encapsulated in today’s standard media line: “Calls to ban synthetic drugs as a teenager falls to his death after taking what he thought was LSD”. According to this logic, Henry Kwan would’ve been better off if only he’d gotten the real stuff.

            So, brothers and sisters, strap yourselves-in for another round of hysteria; of ill thought-out pronouncements and tabloid terror. Prepare to see the grief of another bereaved parent exploited to further a pointless, destructive moral crusade.

            Forgotten amid the breast-beating will be the fact that, if billions of dollars and thousands of lives hadn’t been wasted in a forty-year War on Drugs, these synthetic substitutes ­ – far from being enticing – wouldn’t even exist.

            One of the voices always heard when this discussion heats up is the father of Anna Wood. Twenty-odd years ago now, Anna’s death was the spark for an anti-ecstasy campaign that caused current-affairs viewers everywhere to wet themselves in well-meaning horror. I feel sorry for Mr Wood’s loss, but his contribution to public debate on drugs policy has been a fount of emotive misinformation; he has helped perpetuate the kind of suffering his own family endured.

            You see, Anna died after taking not ecstasy, but a horse tranquiliser she purchased thinking it was ecstasy. Sound familiar? Henry Kwan “believed he could fly” after taking something he wrongly believed was LSD. The point isn’t that drugs are good, but that drug-dealers are innovative mercenaries – and that prohibition only creates new markets and more suffering. If an unscrupulous factory-owner tried to profit by selling jars of shit labelled “Peanut-Butter”, there would be no call to ban peanut-butter. But hey, at least the public gets to feel morally superior about fighting the good fight.

            Meanwhile, a new study out of Canada shows that, not only do registered heroin trials save lives, but they also cost the public purse much less than the alternatives; and a higher proportion of participants take advantage of rehab services than those in methadone or twelve-step programs – more people get clean; fewer people die.

            That’s worth thinking about, surely? No, you’re right; probably not. Better to keep tilting at windmills ...

IN MEMORIAM

You were always there; my first contact each morning, and my last every night. You never let me down, no matter the hour. In the coldest nights of winter you never failed to warm me.

            I knew you were declining. Still, you hung on long after your body was worn-out, because your going would cause me distress. Even as your joints atrophied, you continued to answer my demands.

            Now, you’re gone. Your fractured ass could no longer bear the heat, and I have to learn to make it without you – my coffee, that is.

            I’ll miss you. I love you, Old Black Kettle.

REAL MEN III - Living in the City Makes You Soft

“Living in the city makes you soft”, Daniel Auteuil’s old school friend tells him in the French film, Conversations with My Gardener. I hear that a lot – most recently from my dad and an old friend down from the bush. It’s funny but it nearly always accompanies the phrase, “Living in the city will kill you”; seems mildly contradictory to me.

            Now, let’s see. After twenty years living in the city I can still walk for more than twenty minutes without complaining. Only two country friends, and none of my country cousins, can say the same.

            On the subject of perambulation, when walking up the street my soft city stomach isn’t turned by the sight of two men holding hands – or, god forbid, kissing. I can also behold a group of Asians or Arabs and not suffer a paroxysm of fear and rage because our country’s fucked. Being served by a woman in a bank, post-office or railway station causes me no anxiety about the future of mankind.

            But that’s all negative. What else? In the city I was homeless for a couple of years before I really noticed – Soft city winters are cold when you’ve got just one thin blanket and the clothes on your back. Living in the city I’ve been clinically dead twice. More than twice in the city I’ve had to batter somebody unconscious to preserve safety, liberty ... or virtue. And this is just the stuff I’m willing to talk about.

            None of this is boasting. I know plenty of guys – and more than one woman – who’ve spent their whole lives in the city compared to whom I’m Tinkerbelle.

            City life is so soft and easy that no country pals or kin are ever here more than a week before they start bitching about wanting to escape it.

            I’ve lived in both city and the bush. Each has its attractions and drawbacks. I’ve met hard bastards and soft-cocks in both places. And I’ve never fallen for the age-old myth that, in a country where the bulk of the population has always been urban, somehow the bush is the real Australia.

            So, I break out in a rash if I use the wrong shaving soap. So, when I’m done I use an after-shave moisturiser instead of slapping raw alcohol into my face till it looks like an old saddle. So, I avoid the sun if at all possible. I’ll still nail my soft-spoken city balls to the table next to any blowhard’s – country or city.

Related Posts:

http://tyrannyofglib.blogspot.com.au/2012/10/beer-football-cars.html

http://tyrannyofglib.blogspot.com.au/2012/12/real-men-ii-treat-em-mean.html

WHO SAYS SPANISH FOOTBALL'S BENT?

Saturday evening; on television Madrid’s stadium-quarter, lit by burning cars; police in riot gear charge and charge again; somebody didn’t like the result.

            I’m not a fan of Real Madrid. They’re one of those teams it’s fun to hate – because they’re just so fucking good. But you don’t have to be a fan to acknowledge they’re currently – since most Champions League sides figured out that if you shut down Iniesta and Xavi Hernandez you’ve shut down Messi, and thus the whole Barca attack – the best in the world. Acknowledging it doesn’t mean you have to like it.

            Real were beaten this morning by Atlético Madrid in the final of the Copa del Rey. They really shouldn’t have been. You hear about corruption in sport, about officials or players being paid-off, but you don’t like to believe it; what happened in Madrid today made our own bent horse-racing/book-making dynasty look positively saintly by comparison.

            Forget the antics of Atlético’s supporters (Instead of enjoying the sight of the world’s ... second ... best player, they shone laser-pointers in Ronaldo’s eyes the first half-dozen times he touched the ball), it was the antics of the match-officials which were truly outrageous. Some of the decisions seemed to belong to another game.

            Now, in any local derby – let alone a cup-final – you expect tension and aggression. This one was no different. Both sides maintained a frenetic pace and made tackles and challenges that were borderline-malicious. The thing is, though, that for most of the game only Real’s players were being carded – and not always for the stuff that really deserved it. Heading into extra time they had more than twice the yellows. And that’s just the most obvious aspect of some very dodgy refereeing.

            I may be cynical, but it’s hard not to think the idea was: if Real were ahead at the seventy-fifth minute, then it would be easy to quickly send-off two or three key players. As it was both Ronaldo and manager Jose Mourinho were sent to the shed during extra time – which was strange, given that Mourinho was sent the first time he ventured from his seat and opened his mouth, while Atletico’s manager spent the whole game running up and down the sideline, screaming like a mad thing. Maybe Jose sauntered over and asked the ref how much he’d been paid?

            I had an enforced break from sport for a few years while I was married. I don’t remember it being so soul-destroying. Something that’s supposed to celebrate the best in us is being surrendered to the worst in us. I’m not certain it’s all worth our attention. One thing I know – if I were a Real supporter, I’d probably have burned a few cars too.