Yet Another Poor Observation

So, Scotland elected to remain in the United Kingdom last week, and it is the opinion of this publication that the People have made the right decision. If you are prepared to look beyond the mists of mere appearance, you will see that Scotland is a fantasy country, and the illusion, as desirable as it may seem, would dissipate in the dawn of independence. My great grandparents were Scots, and like many of past generations they held the sincere belief that the Kingdom of Scotland once resided among the family of nations. But like all legends, from Saint Patrick to King Arthur, it is viewed with a sober skepticism these days. As I have said before, it is humane to allow people some play and escapism, but there comes a time when we must put away our toys and face the world as adults. I would love to ride a unicorn across a land where men can wear skirts freely, partaking in centuries-long duels for the prize of immortality, but the sting of the thistle and the pungent taste sheep innards awakens me from my contented dream. Such things are permissible, but only under the safe guidance of Westminster. I believe it is this wisdom that swayed the vote in the right direction; it certainly had nothing to do with the 'no' campaign. Their recklessness and lack of professionalism could have had catastrophic consequences. They couldn't even campaign in the right country most of the time. An independent Scotland would have been tragic, but its advent would have encouraged others to go solo, and the Scots would have regretted everything in the wake of an independent Wales. Fantasies are contagious, and it may have led to a nation of Lord of the Rings cosplay enthusiasts emerging to the west of England.

Bagpipers growing in the wilderness, yet another Scottish myth.

Perhaps the greatest danger in this whole ordeal is that democracy can achieve anything. A dark whisper could be heard on the corners of the 'yes' campaign, rumouring dangerous notions of social equity. An independent Scotland would supposedly distribute the wealth of their oil, creating a society markedly different to that of David Cameron's vision. "Surely," I thought to myself upon hearing such rumours, "Alex Salmond isn't that stupid." Wild, bleating radicals who blabber out ideas large reforms, about liveable wages, universal healthcare and education, and investment in infrastructure, are only drawing attention to their ignorance of economics. The truth of the matter is that poor people almost never become super rich and successful. You are blind if you think otherwise. In fact, poverty is more likely to lead you to a life of crime or, at best, grinding it out for a subsistence wage.

What is the key to success then? Some of us unique individuals have cracked the code, and we scoff at those who think it's something complex. It's simple: all you have to do is be born into wealth. Yes, reader, it is that easy. Those of us who are really well-off, us elites of mind and means, have the courage and the wisdom to have been born into wealth. We use our massive means and educational opportunities to perpetuate our wealth, assuming we don't increase it dramatically. The middle classes have some vague notion of how it works, as evidenced by their being born into moderate means. The working classes are completely clueless, and those outside the First World are beyond my comprehension. I don't why anyone would choose subsistence living over excessive affluence, when it is a mere matter of being born into wealth.

To fulfil your dreams you must not delude yourself that putting a piece of paper into a box can shift the wealth of the world in your favour. You need to work hard to have been born into a family of abundant means. If you insist on not taking most straightforward path, you will have to struggle past every social, economic, and psychological obstacle, abandon much of the life you are familiar with in favour of an unknown future, and face the jeering disregard of those in higher echelons. You need to be the most productive person you can be and sacrifice all your free time. You should cast away your vulnerabilities and become machine-like in your pursuit; abandon all your desires except for that to climb into a social status, where you don't know anyone and may not be accepted by many of them. You have to learn to take with humility the jeers that you are lazy, regardless of how industrious you are.

Again, I must stress, that is the hard way, and I would advise you avoid it. Let go of your cynical neurosis for social change and embrace being born into prosperity. You must aim to be born into a higher social status and soar to your destiny on gilded wings!

One Fine Day

The following extract comes from my upcoming novel, The Untarnished Beauty of the Unbridled Soul. After four glorious months, Rapshaldeo has decided to end his passionate relationship with Miranda. She was the one, she is the one, but, unfortunately, she won't be the one, and there's only one way this is going to end.

Through a crowded street on a fine day, the two lovers drifted hand-in-hand aimlessly. Though their digits were finely knitted together, Rapshaldeo's grip was looser than usual; his light touch contrasted with the heavy feeling on his shoulders. Several bodies brushed finely by them, hurriedly rushing amid the sprawling mess of people. And what a fine mess Rapshaldeo was going to make. The lovers were parted occasionally by more urgent pedestrians, and when they were finally rejoined, they continued their silent conversation. It took some time for them to reach the fine pillars of the park gate; you can afford to take your time when you are going nowhere.

Rapshaldeo led her into the park, and she almost resisted, slowing to draw the fine strands of hair from her face. Something was wrong. His gait, his fine kisses on her hairline, the slight hint of doubt in his voice. When dealing with a man who lives his life like an actor on a grand stage, there is a fine line between true affection and forced affectation. She also knew, though she refused to face it, that he could only act for so long and the fine sands of time were sifting steadily through the hour-glass of their relationship. The hour-glass of her body, clad finely and enchantingly in her floral dress, attracted the glare of the brute lions sunning themselves on the grass. Rapshaldeo felt a pang at the thought of her in the grip of another, unwrapping her fine finery, and covetously exploring the fine balance of voluptuousness and firmness that comprised her body. He supposed he would find many other fine women, in his futile attempt to fill the void left by Miranda's absence. He would romance them with fine wines, exclusive hotel suites, theatre dates, and intricate sex games. Nearly every day, since he was seventeen, the languorous eyes of women had admired what a fine young man he still is, and the more loquacious among them would brazenly declare, "He's so fine!"

Their feet tread lightly over the fine blades of grass towards the large pond at the centre. The sadness of their steps paced themselves with a fine gentleness, as neither wanted to disclose the dramatic reality that they were sharing inside. On the outside, they were but an ordinary couple, two people having a fine time in each other's company; few people had the perception to see that their love was hanging on by a fine thread. Some kinds of sadness and uncertainty need to be expressed; others are better left concealed. There are feelings which possess a fine character, and there are those to which nobody wishes to give credence or a voice.

The news would not be fine music to her ears. What a fine time to tell her — right before her twenty-fifth birthday. He knew well that he was cutting it too fine to the date. He had to escape; it was imperative. The mystery had dissipated, like a fine powder dispersing into the air. He was jaded once more, in the wake of another fine mystery disclosing itself so easily and predictably. Would he ever remain in love with someone? He longed for it, knowing well there was nothing finer. Despair grasped him suddenly, like a fine rope around his throat, and the exigency to fill the void with chat made it all the more pressing. Before meeting Miranda, he had felt that his life was just fine and merely needed some fine-tuning, but now he found himself completely lost. Despite the fine weather and bountiful surroundings, his soul withered inside.  

They reached the fine-sized, glistening pond, where they could no longer remain silent and credibly uphold the pretence of being content. Words perfunctorily left their mouths about how lovely and fine the water was. "Look at the swans!"she chirped, maintaining what finesse she could. "So majestic. Their feathers are so fine." Rapshaldeo managed to produce some forced utterances through the fine space between his sorrowed lips. Like all shared experiences, whether they be of a fine quality of not, the pressure to confront the reality of a finished relationship was felt heavily by both partners. He glanced at his finely-tuned watch nervously, immediately apologising. "The car's quite a bit away, and I don't want to pay a fine."

"We paid for two hours.", she replied with a hardly contained shrillness. "It's fine."

They both could hear the heavy ticking of every second that passed, fine hands moving closer to the inevitable deadline. They stood as silhouettes against the glistening lake, and a passerby could say, for the first time in several fine months, that they saw only two individuals. In the sudden switch, they crossed a fine line, and Miranda felt abandoned. Hoping to reconnect, she desperately tried a subtle touch, the finest of tentative gestures. As necessary as they seemed at that moment, she loathed herself as she felt the words leave her lips: "Is everything okay?"

Their fine eyes met briefly, before Rapshaldeo took them away hurriedly. Everything around them disappeared, like a fine dust in the breeze, yet they felt they were being broadcast to the world. The miserable sequence had finally commenced, and they resented every fine second that went by. Fine finery fined fines finely. Finely and finally, Rapshadeo said they only thing one can say in such an unfine situation.  

"I'm fine."

"Fine, then."

Is Having a Tug Ever Just Having a Tug?

This week, I've been mostly concerned with the recent controversy over the hacking and publication of celebrity nudes on 4chan. While building a body of iron in the gym, I got chatting with my fellow bros about the issue. We agreed quite readily that it was quite a tangled issue, and there were many angles to consider. Despite these apparent impediments, we were sure that there was an absolute perspective, a line of thought that lead directly to the truth of the matter. Stevo cracked a cynical one about the apparent futility and self-deception of pursuing absolute truth, which got a giggle out of us. He's a miserable prick though, because his calves are under-developed. I suggested that we would have to muscle our way through the issues, pitting each perspective against its exact opposite, before pitting the amended argument against its respective opposite. The process would thereby refine our perspective until we arrived at the most nuanced and rational conclusion (or at least apply that process as much as we possibly could). If there are two things that we gym rats agree on, it's that you can't skip leg day and that no system is as reliable as the (misattributed) Hegelian dialectic for discerning the rational and the real.

Madzer Dave got us started by mentioning how he'd ride the hole off Jennifer Lawrence and Kate Upton if given the chance. Simon told him sharply that he'd be lucky to get a wank over one of the pictures, before adding that the our sexual impulses didn't merit the release of the theft of private property. We then explicitly concurred that neither celebrity was likely to be interested in Dave. Madzer, perhaps angry at our comments or affected by the hormonal changes the steroids were causing in his body, started bleating on about how it was a great victory for the hackers and that the celebrities in question had little to complain about, given they were practically naked in many photo shoots for magazines. After calming him down a bit, we were able to convince him that hacking into someone's account was wrong, and all the  sexually charged photo shoots in the world didn't justify the theft of private images. I considered confronting Madzer on using the sit-ups bench for doing unnecessary decline chest presses, while he was in a malleable state of mind, but the conversation moved on quickly. Jimmy exorcised the notion that the celebrities were in anyway responsible for what happened, eager to label such thoughts as 'victim-blaming'. The comparisons between the leak and rape soon came into the discussion, but we agreed in the end that, despite the sexual aspect of the wrongdoing, the crime was theft, not sexual assault. "To what extent are the celebrities to blame for what happened?", Simon mused, adopting a pose with his foot on the 'pec deck'. "I mean, if you're thick enough to leave your stuff in the locker without locking the door, ye deserve to be robbed. I'm not saying its right, but don't be so fuckin' stupid."  RA-head Pádraig countered that their vulnerability was no grounds for taking them, gesturing with the arm that has a tattoo of Patrick Pearse. We soon came to agree that, while it was greatly imprudent of such famous and coveted celebrities to leave their naughty pictures in a vulnerable cloud, the wrong lay only on those who hacked the accounts, even if it is hard to assign blame to faceless collective. Old Larry, who had joined the circle of  physical aesthetes, asked meekly what they meant exactly by a 'cloud'. "Is it like the internet or something?", he inquired semi-dementedly, his voice getting more distant as we muscled him out of the conversation. "He's like a scrotum on a pair of legs.", complained Gary, knowing well that Larry was still in earshot. "I feel like vomiting when I see him in the locker room", which was rich coming from a man with no neck. "The only gains that guy can hope for is the firmness of rigor mortis", I added. Nobody laughed, and Simon called me a "posh prick."

Kate Upton's career is over now we all know what her nipples look like.

Michael, whose ripped physique is made palatable by his gentle demeanour, suggested tentatively that Apple's iCloud may be responsible, as it leaves accounts vulnerable, often without the user's knowledge. We agreed that while the utility should be available, it should come with the explicit consent of the user and continual reminders of its existence. We chuckled about how nobody is likely to forget about it now, before returning to the main topic at hand.

After some more dialectical consideration and dick jokes, we found that we had not yet finished with the sexual aspect of the leak. There seemed to be something sinister in the idea of lots of covetous men and boys obtaining something sexual from a woman, despite her explicitly wishing to keep it from them. It's not sexual assault, it's not quite voyeurism or stalking, but it's wrong. Simon proffered that perhaps it was "the feeling that a woman has had some of her anatomical and sexual autonomy taken away from her. She is no longer in control of that which should be solely hers to share or keep." This, we agreed, was not such an issue for men, as their sexual powers lie mostly in different things. We left the issue of whether or not this was a feminist issue in aporia; it concerned the objectification of women, but it also concerned the nature of our sexuality. Gary summed it up for all of us, when he said, "It's okay to use or objectify someone, provided you respect them and consider them to be more than their utility." "And you don't limit them to some prescriptive definitions of their sex." We all then eyed a beautiful woman doing squats, safe in the knowledge that, while beginners would admire the form of her body, we old pros admired her more for the form of her technique.

As the group began to return to their exercises, I couldn't help but mention what went unsaid throughout the whole discourse, namely that the leak was a Pyrrhic victory for the hackers and horny masturbators. Michael smiled instantly, knowing what was coming next. The others seemed to agree, but I doubt they really understood what I was trying to convey. I explained that the satisfaction of desire, particularly of a revelatory desire, such as this, was empty, as it didn't contain the desire or longing that drove its satisfaction. To use a proverb, you can't have your cake (as a future prospect), and (have) eat(en) it. The sexuality that young men learn is never satisfied, only silenced temporarily. Actual sex, no matter how good it is, satisfies few of the intense desires conjured up by images of beautiful women. Naked revelation only satisfies by some sense of completion or forbidden insight, and that soon evaporates. The sexual currency of naked flesh, like all organic material, has a definite expiry date. This is the case with most desire, especially when revelation is concerned. Revelation, for all its vaunted value, has virtually no duration. Perhaps it's an overstatement, but satisfaction and contentment don't seem to derive from the attainment of a long-held desire.

As future projecting creatures — especially us fitness aesthetes, so focussed on obtaining a difficult goal — the thought brought much disquiet. Michael smiled again, saying he knew what I was talking about; the other slaves to muscular gains shuffled off silently, quickly returning to the rhythm of our routines. A little anxious about what I had said, I went over to Michael's house that night, in the hope of talking to someone who understood. Despite both being straight, we had homoerotic sexual relations that night in the tight grip of our musculatures. This is the inevitable conclusion of being overly preoccupied with every muscle on the male body; that and gym is like prison. Anyway, he proved that everything I had said earlier was wrong.