Not-So-Final Thoughts on the Passing of Michael Jackson

I know I’m about three or four days late, but I have something to say about the passing of pop music’s most infamous performer. 

I, like many, was stunned by the sudden revelation that the eccentric recluse was dead.  I, like many, didn’t know how truly physically ill he was.  I was immediately struck by the outpour of anguish and grief.  People flocked to his rented LA home and wept and prayed and sobbed like he was family.  Fans and fellow celebrities gushed to CNN and NBC about how the world had suffered a great and terrible loss, and about how they were shocked and horrified and in the throes of great sorrow.  Millions flocked to Facebook and Twitter and claimed that they would have twins in his honor and name them “Michael” and “Jackson” – even if they were girls. 

I understood the shock, for it’s almost always surprising when a celebrity – even a bizarre one with a tainted past – falls ill and dies mere hours afterwards.  What bothered me the most at the time was how, in a matter of minutes, the media and public seemed to forget that, for the past 15 or so years, they’d wanted nothing to do with Michael Jackson. 

Sure, mourners wanted to honor his enormous and immeasurable contribution to music.  It’s very true that without MJ, there would be no JT (or at least not the JT we know and love).  Still, it seemed slightly inappropriate that people would speak of a great loss when some of those same mourners had perhaps thought – maybe even just once – that the shattered, troubled soul that was Michael Jackson just wasn’t worth saving.  

People had good reason to dislike him. 

Once, he was a musical powerhouse, dancing and singing and producing hit after hit after hit.  A phenomenally talented child, he evolved into a legendary pop star as a young man, releasing some of the most popular albums ever made.  People forgave him his bejeweled jackets and outlandish possessions (he owned a monkey at one point).  They dressed as him for Halloween and learned the Thriller dance and the moonwalk.  Then, things started getting…weird.

He kissed his then-wife Lisa Marie Presley on stage and made people uncomfortable.  His hair caught fire during a Pepsi promo and he screamed like a woman (that was a little big funny).  He built the ostentatious and notorious Neverland Ranch.  This ranch was a wildly expensive fantasy-land filled with roller coasters and candy and Peter Pan paraphernalia.  It was just as much a present for himself as it was for the many children who came to visit.  Oh, and who could forget the shocking physical transformation that turned a young black man into a white, practically faceless wax statue?  It was stranger than any book or movie – and it was accompanied by allegations of child sexual abuse. 

Interestingly enough, the other reaction to the news of Jackson’s death was gleeful indifference.  Some people proclaimed that his death was a blessing, for he was nothing more than a child molester who managed to pay off his accusers.  Though Jackson’s reputation will always be coloured by the terrible accusations – and his admitted conduct with children will always be known as inappropriate – no one will ever truly know if Jackson molested the two boys whose families pressed charges.  While many can rightfully argue that Jackson had no right to sleep and bathe with children who were not his own, it cannot be said with certainly if his conduct was consciously criminal. 

That said, where were those nearest and dearest to Jackson when his life turned  - both literally and figuratively –  into a circus?  The media – who lamented his passing – was there through every step of Jackson’s bizarre journey into absolute madness, constantly documenting his unexplainable behavior.  He was a joke, a spectacle, and a town fool.  The world laughed at his public gaffes, and why wouldn’t it?  Everything he did was ridiculous. 

“Did you hear Michael Jackson came out to greet reporters wearing a surgical mask before dangling a baby over a balcony?”

“Yeah.  He’s fucked up.” 

The once wildly revered pop star blew his massive fortune on garish sculptures and paintings, and commissioned numerous wax statues of himself.  I suspect Jackson spent a lot of time worshipping the person he once was and would never be again. 

Now people are wondering who is to blame for his sudden death.  Was it the doctor who prescribed too many painkillers?  The media who made fun of him for amputating his own face?

No, perhaps the blame lies with those closest to him.  Maybe it belongs to his abusive father and stupid mother, who treated him like a commodity and not a child.  Maybe it belongs to the producers who treated a talented little boy like a full-grown adult and denied him genuine and necessary lessons in growth.  Jackson seemingly grew up believing he was special (and he was), and he never learned that one cannot live on fantasy alone.  People are fickle, and they can stop loving you.  Money doesn’t grow on Peter Pan fairy-trees, what goes out must come in.  Perhaps the media and public should turn an accusing eye on Jackson’s close friends and family who, throughout the years, never tried hard enough to get him the help he so desperately needed. 

It seems that when Jackson realized that the world wasn’t filled with talking trees and friendly chimps and an endless supply of money, he was hit hard.  He didn’t turn to drugs and sex and alcohol in the traditional rockstar way, he just went batshit crazy.   He lost his mind and befriended various children, sequestering himself in his own private Disney world where every day was filled with ice cream and dinosaurs and hot air balloons. 

Mourning fans have extended their condolences to Jackson’s family, but perhaps they don’t deserve the sympathy – his selfish and mercenary parents certainly don’t.  During his lifetime Jackson failed a lot of people, but a lot of people failed him too.   Fame hasn’t always been kind to children, and few emerge from the bright lights of Hollywood indulgence unscathed.  When Jackson went from being eccentric to blatantly mentally ill, those closest to him should, perhaps, have done more.  Maybe they did try, but really, we’ll never know.

It’s odd that some people are saying that his death is a tragedy. The last two decades of his life have been a tragedy, and this is merely a sad ending to what had already become a very sad story.

Some are calling for the blood of Jackson’s live-in physician, who many believe to have been responsible for his untimely death.  Maybe – and this will sound like a terrible thing to say – Jackson’s doctor was merely being merciful.  This world didn’t have much to offer Jackson anymore, and maybe he (Jackson) knew that.  Now, he’s free to enjoy the ice cream, dinosaurs and hot air balloons elsewhere.  No one will point and laugh at his weird nose ever again.

Obnoxious Opinions

I once made a rude and unfair remark about hating young people with opinions.  I made it after I heard two high school students talk about the “message” in a Hedley song (there was no message, the song was an annoying top 40 hit that no one will remember five years from now).  

I made it again after I offered to buy the friend of a friend’s younger brother a hot chocolate from Starbucks, and he said it was stupid to buy coffee that you “had to take out a second mortgage for.”  One should not criticize a kind offering from a near stranger.  It was a nice gesture on the part of a [relatively] mentally astute young woman, not a creepy enticement from a pantsless man in a 1989 Oldsmobile. 

After browsing a few pro-family (and pro-family always means anti-sex but pro-gun, go figure) websites, I hate at least 60 percent of people with opinions.  

To the “no kissing before marriage” crowd:  You must be joking.  Kissing – the mere touching of mouths – is now considered (by some, not all) to be an impure practice that compromises a couple’s Christian integrity before the bounds of holy matrimony make it okay to have vigorous, unprotected anal sex in the honeymoon suite at the Holiday Inn?  Tell me it’s not true (it is)!  

Kissing, some people on the Focus on the Family blog argue, is a prelude to sex.  A wet tongued temptress forcing you to tear off your pants and consummate your unholy union, leading to the inevitable disappointment of God, Jesus and your mother.  

Here’s the thing – an act becomes most tempting when it’s naughty.  No one feels a rebellious rush when studying for a test or volunteering at a food bank.  Why?  Because those are things you’re supposed to do, things that society encourages (and for good reason).  When people – particularly people in positions of authority, parents included – start condemning acts and warning of grave consequences, curiosity is peaked and overindulgence ensues.  This is why the cool kids drink too much and smoke too often and drive really, really fast.  It’s cliche behavior, but it’s still a little badass.  All girls still say they want a man who’s “a little bit of a bad boy,” don’t they?

All I know is this, if people have no intention of having sex at a certain point in time, a kiss won’t turn them into rabid nymphomaniacs, unless they’re overwhelmed and enticed by the dastardly immorality of their scandalous actions.  

As far as other young opinions go, I recall being encouraged to “think critically” in my elementary school days by having light ethical questions posed to me and other classmates.  The favourite question, other than “why was the Holocaust bad?”, was “is it right to keep animals in captivity?”  

That’s a stupid fucking question for several reasons.  One, all kids will say it’s bad because they’ll feel that’s the right answer. Second, it’s unfair because all children love zoos, and need not be guilted into relinquishing the joy that comes from an activity not involving sneaking their mom’s cigarettes.  Thirdly, animals in captivity (this includes domesticated pets, by the by) don’t know any different, so they don’t care.  If they’re well fed and cared for, they’re as content as they can be.  

Furthermore, anyone who watches the Discovery Channel knows that while zoo animals may not be free, they’re safe from predators and starvation and habitat destruction and poachers.  You can’t draw some unreasonable parallel between zoos and fascist governments who trade freedom for safety either, because that’s not an appropriate analogy.  Animals have only one “civil” right, and that’s the right to humane treatment from humans.  They don’t vote or protest or write strongly worded letters to politicians.  They sleep, eat, shit and play, and adequately run zoos allow them to do so in peace.  Also, zoos bring people joy, and there isn’t enough joy in the world as it is.  

Zoos, really, are the least of the animal kingdom’s problems.  If I was a tiger or polar bear or shark or lemur, I’d want to live in captivity.  I’d get used to the stares and shrieks and greasy fingerprints on the walls of my spacious enclosure, and I’d likely never yearn for a short and brutal life somewhere in Africa.  

So, the point of this post (I think), is to stop asking kids about the ethical nature of zoos.  It breeds obnoxious opinions that make me angry.

Cosmo and Stuff

I got my hair done last weekend, and with every haircut comes a new Cosmo magazine.  I buy one because my hair appointments are long and I need something to read.  I don’t bring books because I don’t want falling hair getting trapped between pages.  That’s, like, gross and stuff.  

Cosmo is a standard women’s magazine that contains articles about “new” sex techniques that aren’t really new and common sense relationship “wisdom” (i.e. don’t talk about your ideal wedding on a first date).  It’s also less about empowerment and more about fulfilling social obligations (having minimal to no body fat, buying fashionable clothes for the gym, being a key player in work “projects,” etc).  

The magazine assumes its readers are high-income, business-savvy hot chicks with big-dicked boyfriends and downtown condos.  No fat married ladies with kids or  20-somethings with shitty part-time jobs and sexless, martini-free weekends.  

Anyways, one article was about losing seven pounds in seven days without radically altering your diet.  

I’m not a doctor or nutritionist or personal trainer hired for my hot, muscular physique, but I know that you can’t lose seven pounds in a week without radically altering something.  Sure enough, the diet requires women to cut out carbs, sodium and sugar for one week and rely solely on small portions of grilled chicken and plain vegetables.  Also, the dieter must do 30 minutes of “hard” cardio each day and have a half hour of vigorous woman-on-top sex each night.  

Perhaps I’m ignorant or unlucky, but I don’t think 30 minutes of nightly sex is feasible.  Also, a half hour of uninterrupted bouncing is unrealistic.  

Well, it is for me, anyways.  I get tired easily, and I don’t like it when my leg muscles ache.  Also, constant thrusting can get tedious for both partners.  And really, how much calories does flexing your thighs really burn? 90? 100? 150, maybe? That’s less than a Weight Watchers whole-grain bagel.  It’s even less than one medium-sized oatmeal raison cookie.  

To be fair, I guess people on the quick-fix Cosmo diet shouldn’t be eating cookies anyways.  

The point I’m trying to make, I think, is that the article is telling readers how to shed water weight in preparation for a big event (wedding, birthday party, a night out at Boston Pizza with friends they haven’t seen in 6 to 8 months).  What the piece doesn’t take into account is that the minute the woman consumes a beer/pizza slice/fry/crouton, all of that water weight comes back and leads to bloating and vicious gas pains.  

I’ve done mild crash diets like that, and nothing ruins the feel-good vibe of super self-control like renegade air ricocheting around your large and small intestines.  It’s both awkward and painful, and forces you to make funny expressions that puzzle other partygoers.  

The next morning you’re 10 pounds heavier and 30 times more  depressed than you were when Cosmo first called you fat and told you to reward yourself for a hard day’s work as a partner in your prestigious law firm or PR agency by eating a low-fat, gluten-free cupcake with the icing scraped off.  

You want to lose a few? More vegetables and less treats.  Oh, and a few long walks and a run here and there.  Don’t hunt down a partner for 30 minutes of work-filled, unsatisfying nightly intercourse had solely to tone your ass.  An ass that, God willing, won’t be seen by fellow party guests anyways.  

I’d rather have random mid-morning sex that has nothing to do with shaping my gluts, and I don’t believe in fat-free cupcakes. Treats aren’t supposed to be healthy, that’s why they’re treats.  If you’re that concerned about losing weight, end your awesome day at your awesome downtown office with an awesome slice of cucumber.

Spoiled?

I had a discussion about upper-class cities today, and it got me thinking about wealth and opportunity.

Opportunity eludes some (perhaps many), and it’s often unfair.  For example, a surgeon who moves from India to Canada is forced to work at Tim Horton’s because his degree is not transferrable and he can’t afford to upgrade.  That’s difficult, because some people assume older people in the customer service industry are there because they can’t get a “real” job.  They just couldn’t earn some marketing degree because they were too busy, I don’t know, failing at life.

This phenomenon is, of course, unfair.  Anyone who’s ever worked a minimum-wage job during their high school/college/university years knows that it’s hard to be intermittently condescended to based on an apron.  Everyone who has to ask “do you want fries with that?” knows that there’s a lot of jokes about imbeciles who have to ask wealthy and accomplished lawyers that question everyday.

On the other end of the spectrum is the obvious disdain some people have for those with comfortable salaries and upper-middle class homes.

This – though perhaps less disagreeable because those on the receiving end may sleep easy with the knowledge that the surly complainer is probably jealous – is still irritating.  

When you’re born with a little more than you need (or a lot more), you must be aware that your circumstances are, financially speaking, sometimes enviable.  Money doesn’t make people happy, but it makes them less worried about survival, which must lead to some increase in overall well-being.

Last year, I held a cushy 9-5 office job and got paid reasonably well for doing nothing.  I usually arrived five to 10 minutes late, took a lot of tea breaks, and played around on Facebook.  When it came time to work, I keyed numbers into a program and sorted invoices.

I hated it.

It made me want to die.

I hated the white walls and the blue carpet and the constant hum of the air conditioner.  I hated the shitty soft-rock on the radio and the swivel chairs and the loud conversations about nothing (most of which I probably started).  

Every afternoon I contemplated a nervous breakdown or a sudden heart-attack, anything that would promise some time off.  

I knew that I should’ve been grateful that I wasn’t serving coffee or bagging groceries or scrubbing bathrooms (all of which I’ve done, and one of which I do now), and I knew that most people thought I was lucky to have a “family business” to go to.  In fact, every time I complained about the rotten cesspool that was my decomposing brain, I’d often hear, “but you’re so lucky, I’d love to get paid for doing nothing.”

I’m telling all of you naysayers and doubters that you’re wrong.  

A promised position in a family company made me feel more useless and lazy than a barista or a grocery store cashier.  When you’re working with your hands and doing something for others, the lowness of your occupation compared to, like, the prime minister, doesn’t matter.  You’re busy, you’re working, and you’re getting something done.  You may not want to do it forever, but maybe it’s good enough for the time being.

When you’re sitting in a chair staring at a monitor with a bright blue screen and big yellow letters wearing stupid dress pants and ugly leather shoes (Stacy and Clinton would have died), you feel like a fat-assed, sedentary drain on the system.  A big speckled fish that sucks algae off the bottom of an expensive fish tank.

I wasn’t “lucky.”  I didn’t ask for that opportunity, I didn’t demand that the company make room for me.  But, since it was there and I was fresh out of school, I took the job.  I took it because it was easy, and because I didn’t have to work for it.

I think that, occupationally speaking, that was the worst year of my life.  Other great things happened, but while I sat in that building for eight hours, I felt nothing but disgust for myself.

It doesn’t really matter what you’re given.  You’re not lucky if you’re not happy, and sometimes fortune isn’t fortune at all if you’re better off without it.  

If you think you’ll be happier working in a bakery than at your mom’s law firm, then fill out that application.  Don’t let anyone tell you to appreciate the opportunity to make money while someone else vacuums the men’s aisle at Wal-Mart.  Sometimes, believe it or not, vacuuming is better than slouching over an old PC creeping Facebook all day.

Don’t feel guilty about “not appreciating a great opportunity.”  Monotony just kills the soul.

I’mma’ Gunna’ Pull Yo’ Hair

I’ve changed a lot in recent years.  More specifically, my opinions have changed a lot.

Back when I was young and idealistic and inexperienced, I believed that freedom was achieved through hedonism – controlled hedonism, if you will.  I thought that happiness came to those who poo-poo’d social mores and embraced the more dangerous aspects of life.  The sex, the drugs, the rocks and the rolls, those kinds of things.

I was an aspiring free sprit with a modest collection of formerly banned books (as in books banned in the 1800s that are now available on the bargain shelves at Chapters), a penchant for literature about pornography (not to be confused with pornographic literature, although I do have some of that too), a taste for mild body modifications (all of which are covered by clothing) and a kind of bohemian life philosophy.  

I still have some left-of-center beliefs that I hold dear (i.e. gay marriage is cool, abortion is a personal choice, abstinence-only education is ridiculous, etc), but my belief that all fun is good fun has been tempered by personal experience.  Now I believe that some “fun” things are not fun at all.  For me, anyways, and possibly for you too.

Let me explain.

Sex.

So, on the far right end of the spectrum you have courtship.  Courtship is chaste and non-threatening.  It involves two individuals expressing emotional and intellectual interest in one another, and thus agreeing to spend time together to see if a romantic commitment is a possibility.  It’s about hand-holding and giggling and shy, flirtatious glances.  It’s old-school, basically, and thus dated – mostly because it excludes the possibility of developing a physical relationship prior to a wedding.

However, on the far (left?) side of the romance continuum you have the hook-up, which is, by definition, not romantic at all. The hook-up is a fast and furious self-serving act.  It’s meant to enhance one’s reputation more than his (or her, but mostly his) quality of life.  The term “hook up” is ugly.  It sounds like plugging in a cord or linking paperclips together over a boring lunch hour.  The analogy is fairly appropriate, as insertion seems to be a key component of any real hook-up.

It’s sort of like the Ying Yang twins song that’s alluded to in this blog’s title.  It’s rough and coarse and terse.  

Despite the fact that a hook-up is supposed to be frivolous and exciting, it has rules.  Big Rules.

Rule #1: Don’t get attached after a hook-up.  Getting attached is for bitches.

Rule #2: Don’t expect affection after the hook-up, that’s asking too much.  Affection is for bitches.

Rule #3: You can hook-up again, but if attachment ensues, expect mockery and a long-lasting adversarial relationship with your former “lover.”

I used to think hook-ups were dandy, a good way to relieve stress and learn more about the beauty of human sexuality.  Now, I think they’re a troublesome social trend that’s stunting natural emotional growth.  Sex need not be exclusively reserved for love or commitment, but it should be had for passion.  It should be about desire and, hopefully, a small shred of mutual respect.  It should be about fulfilling the wants and needs of yourself and another person.

When you’re told you shouldn’t – nay, can’t – expect basic respect from your one-time (or part-time) partner because “it’s just sex and clinginess is for bitches,” the fun is gone.  The freedom from archaic, old-fashioned values is gone.  Even the “naughty” aspect is eradicated.  The hook-up, more often than not, eventually becomes about one person’s power over someone else.  One person, free of emotional reservations, sees another as, well, kind of a come bucket or fleshy vibrator.  If the bucket or vibrator gets upset, he or she (usually she) is derided for not following the rules.

Expecting everlasting attachment isn’t fair, but nor is it fair to demand cold detachment from people who are, for all intents and purposes, being intimate with another human being.  

We don’t need to return to an era where kissing was scandalous, but we do need to find balance between austerity and overindulgence, especially when that overindulgence starts to prove more wearying and trying than it’s worth.  

Sex is about the enjoyment of another person’s body, not the cold use of it.  Somehow it’s become cool to forget that, and I think that’s sad.

A Burning Question

So, I’m kinda a member of the press now.

Well, not quite.  I write for a college newspaper, and I write for free.  In fact, I write because it’s a program requirement. However, it’s been a challenge, and a rewarding one at that.  

Anyways, I think I may have made some kind of etiquette or journalistic faux pas today.  Perhaps it was merely a professional one, I don’t know.

I’m writing a somewhat important story about some wayward support-gathering tactics used by a prominent political party.  I’m not the first person to talk about it.  This isn’t a Woodward/Bernstein thing, though it would be cool if it was.  I’d like respect and notoriety at a young-ish age.  If I had it, I wouldn’t have to worry about proper phone etiquette, for people would be calling me.  

So, because this is a somewhat important story, it requires me to contact somewhat important people.  Today, I called a politician, and when his assistant answered the phone, I just asked for the person for whom I was calling.  The assistant seemed kind of surprised, and did a little, “umm, uhh” sort of thing before asking about the nature of my call.  

I guess you can’t just ask for a politician the way you’d ask for your friend when you’re bored and want to talk about America’s Next Top Model.  

Are you supposed to be like, “Hi, I’m so and so, and I want to talk to Mr.____ about this, can you help me?”  

Was it brash and ignorant and rude of me to ask to speak directly to an important elected official?  Did I come off as amateur and socially awkward, or ballsy and assertive?  

I think the former.

Damn.

An Awkward Thought for a Wednesday Afternoon

Okay, so I kind of have this health problem.  It was discovered recently, and it’s not serious.  Well, it’s more accurate to say that it’s not likely to progress from curable to serious.  Still, it has to be managed with careful observation and, as a worst case scenario, very minor outpatient surgery (meaning I won’t have to spend a night in the hospital or anything).  The surgery part isn’t a guarantee, it’s a “maybe.”  Even if it becomes a must, it won’t be anything crazy.  In fact, it wouldn’t even be entirely correct to call it surgery, but rather moderately aggressive interference.  With some kind of electrical device.  

It won’t be as painful as it sounds.  I hope.  

Basically, I’m not all that worried.

Anyways, I know how I contracted this problem.  I got it from doing something that wasn’t in my best interests health-wise.  It wasn’t anything crazy – or even rare or unusual – but it wasn’t particularly wise.  I could have done things differently.  

However, I’m comforted by the knowledge that this was preventable.  I’m relieved that it had a defined trigger, and didn’t spontaneously occur.  Mystery, in this case, is a terrifying entity to deal with.

After I found out exactly what was ailing me (and why), I shared my wisdom (which I thought was actually common knowledge in this enlightened era) with a former “victim” and she looked doubtful, and a little scandalized.  

She hoped it wasn’t true, and that I was misinformed.  She dared not believe that ___ is caused by ____.  The ailment, she said, was no different from lupus or [some types of] cancer.  It appeared randomly and without provocation – a mere stroke of bad luck.

Even if something undesirable is caused by inadvisable behavior, is it not a little bit of a relief to know that ill fortune didn’t befall you randomly?  That you now understand the cause and can prevent such things from happening in the future?  Isn’t it just a relief to know why something happened?  Are all people not comforted by understanding cause and effect?  I know I am, I don’t like to spend too much time wondering why.  I like a firm “how.”    

Besides, the sooner you identify problems the sooner you can fix them, and the sooner you can (if need be) adjust your behavior accordingly.   

The good thing is that I know from whence this issue came, and I’ve accepted my involvement.  I’m not drowning in the throes of shame or embarrassment.  I’m not guilt-stricken, either.  I’m just relieved, really, to know the “hows” and the “whys.”  

P.S. I don’t have HIV or herpes.  

P.P.S. You all thought I had herpes, didn’t you?

P.P.P.S. Pigs.

Birds of Paradise

I’m watching Planet Earth on Blu-ray.  The picture is exceptional and the sound superb.  My dog thinks there are actual sharks in the living room – he’s been trying to catch them for the past 10 minutes.

I just saw a segment on birds of paradise.  If you’re not familiar with the animals, I can’t think of a way to describe them.  They’re tropical birds that have upside down umbrellas for wings, and they lift these elaborate hula skirt-type things up to their chins to tap dance for potential mates.  Not only do they sing and dance, they clean!  Upon waking, they immediately tidy their dwellings, going so far as to sand their branchy bachelor pads with bits of bark (I’m not kidding).  When a curious girl comes looking for a possible baby-daddy, they turn their wings into superhero capes and do a jig that would take most people two years to learn.  

These bizarre birds turn into tiny dancing batmans with makeshift fedoras to impress females.  They bob and jiggle and thrust and gyrate and beat-box with their feet.  Their wings somehow develop glowing blue eyes to add a fantastical sci-fi element to the mating ritual.  

It makes me wonder if women were ever meant to chase men.  If male birds do choreographed hip-hop dances to impress females (sometimes to no avail), perhaps human women should request a bombastic song and dance routine on every first date. Something with spunk and colour and style, something that hints at how incredible sex will be.  

I think people would like dating more if they took the lessons of these birds to heart.  Even a failed connection would provide some entertainment, and a spurned man would have at least gotten a vigorous work-out in.  

Everyone would win, I say.  

“His personality wasn’t great, but those magical green eyes that popped up on his chest while he danced the charleston…that was something!”

I love it!

…When my dog lies on his back and makes little grunting noises.  His belly has this warm, distinct smell that makes me want to poke it.  I also like to kiss his dry nose and tell him he’s a baby (and an old man, because of his long white beard).

He’s such a cute boy

On other happy notes, I suspect this shall be a good week.  I have only one assignment due, a job interview, and my one year anniversary.  

So, here’s to life’s little joys.

On a sad note, a dear friend is departing for a year.  I’ll miss her long-winded complaints and deviant actions.  There shall be a great and terrible void in my life.  I better receive many novel-length Facebook messages about the rigors of life in a continent far from here.

Fat Politics

I’ve long been a loyal and devoted follower of Dan Savage (a great sex columnist, and an even greater writer).  I came upon his column while perusing a Now Magazine during an unbearably long lunch break.  

Being a life-long suburbanite, I never had access to an alternative weekly before.  At home, the only papers to hit my doorstep are the Toronto Star and Mississauga News.  Neither publication spends much time discussing obscure sexual fetishes, or advertising for strip clubs and escort services.  I also went to a Catholic high school, where no such reading material was readily available.  So you can imagine my delight when attendance at a notoriously liberal university led to the discovery of salacious material embedded in innocuous newsprint.  

I fell in love with Dan instantly, and shared his divine insight with everyone I knew.  

One day, he wrote about complaints from disgruntled readers.  He had angered them by saying that larger girls look bad in too-tight pants.  Specifically, he was referring to the roll of fat that hangs over a snug waistband.  More specifically, he was commenting on the phenomenon of size 8 women trying to wear size 4 pants, and looking like ruptured sausages because of it.  Now, the sight of strangled skin struggling to free itself from the confines of hip-crushing pants is loveably referred to as “muffin-topping.”  The consensus of the people (fashion experts, casual observers, my mother, etc) is that this trend cannot continue.  Fashionable attire is supposed to make you look better, not worse.

However, the argument was not about what looks good, but rather the “right” to feel good in unflattering outfits.  It seems like that excess flesh is political, a “fuck you” statement to a world that values women’s bodies rather than their minds.  It’s not terribly out of line to wave the finger at the media.  Hollywood likes its women dirty-skinny (and it likes to deride them for it, too).  No two people are built the same, and not everyone is meant to slither underneath closed doors or have legs the width of a man’s wrist.

However, we must be able to agree that a 5′2 person should not weigh 400 pounds.  Yet we can’t.  According to outraged Savage Love readers, being fat is just like being gay – a permanent, unchangeable aspect of one’s being.  To advise a torn man to gently confront his wife about her 90 pound weight gain is to encourage hate and discrimination.  

People counter these arguments with offensive remarks.  They decry the existence of disgusting excess weight, and demand that the whiny fatties hit a gym and stop eating gallons of ice-cream.

Why, I wonder, can people not be reasonable?  Why must things become so political?

It seems to me like excess weight (as in weight that’s close to double what it should be) is not always a product of laziness (God knows that they’re are lazy and inactive skinny people), but rather a product of a culture that’s lost touch with basic health principles.  Our portions are enormous, our cheap food loaded with fat, and our favourite gourmet lattes filled with sugar.  A lot of jobs require nothing more than the use of fingers to punch numbers into a computer.  

It cannot be denied that obesity is linked to health problems, but not a lot is done to curb the problem at a national level.  People would be horrified if the government taxed sugary pops (or sodas, for any American people reading this) like it does cigarettes, or forced restaurants (fast food ones included) to abide by pre-determined health standards (and they wouldn’t, because franchises are generally good for the economy).  Instead, we (sort of) encourage people to make healthy choices.

“Eat an apple,” we say.  ”Go for a walk.”

There’s nothing wrong with making a personal decision to eat less and move more, but it seems like some people don’t know how much they truly eat or how little they actually move.  North Americans have grown so accustomed to platters of pasta and buckets of fries (I’m only using mild hyperbole here) that some would find anything smaller dissatisfying.  Also, does everyone know that one can of Coke contains up to eight teaspoons of sugar?  Do people know that a venti white mocha from Starbucks has almost as many calories as a quarter-pounder with cheese from McDonalds?  

When people hear the word “diet,” they think of deprivation – of raw vegetables and tiny cuts of skinless, boneless chicken breasts.  Really, it can be hard to tell how much is too much, and it’s harder still when the fries that make your hips swell seem to melt off of your skinny (but perhaps more sedentary) friend.  

So, if there was less fast-food, less pop and smaller portions, would people be smaller?  Yes, they absolutely would.  A plump figure was considered attractive in the 18th century because everyone was thin and hungry.  Now we’re more than satiated, and we have the muffin-tops to show for it.  

Instead of arguing over what looks good, and what should look good, and why thinking a certain person doesn’t look good is akin to a lynching, we should be trying to figure out why this debate exists.  Why do some people need two seats on an airplane?  Is it because they’re lazy wastes of life?  Drains on the medical system? Inconveniences in crowded areas?  Or is because we’re a culture that consumes and consumes and consumes?  A culture that wants more food and more TV shows and more electronics?  We want big houses and big cars and big walk-in closets.  We want instant food for low-prices.  We’re too busy to cook and go grocery shopping.  

It’s not right or just or fair to make a thicker person feel like a lazy slob – he or she is no such thing.  However, we cannot, as a culture, over-consume something and incur no ill effects.  Too little food will kill, and it seems too much will too.  

What’s to blame isn’t bigotry or intolerance, but rather ignorance.  It seems we don’t know why we are the way we are.  We’re bigger than we want to be (and much bigger than we’re told we should be).  It’s hard when you’re tired and busy and want a quick burger before bedtime.  It’s hard when every restaurant serves you a meal that could easily be shared with two other people.  It’s hard when high-fat foods are delicious.  It’s hard when many jobs require that we just sit and stare at a computer screen.  

The problem has more to do with a culture obsessed with size and convenience.  Perhaps we’d all be benefitted by caring less about both.