Fashion

  On this day, after many years of slow reduction through various camp speech mannerisms, actions and choice of clothing, the last crumbling vestige of what could roughly be referred to as my masculinity departed from my outstretched arms. Gently floating away out of my desperate reach, like my prettiest laced hat in the lukewarm summer breeze (due to my current depletion of masculinity I am unable to fashion a more manly simile).

 The final straw that broke the camel's back was probably less akin to a straw and, metaphorically speaking, closer to a brick aggressively hurled downwards onto the animal's unprotected spine.Today I sat myself down before a table mirror and used purple eyeliner while a cheesy pop song, whose lyrics basically consisted of reiterating the singer's desire to become a glamorous super star, played loudly in the background. In my defense, the latter had been orchestrated by four females who had decided to aid me in my make over and the mirror, or in fact the bedroom I was in, did not in fact belong to me. Furthermore the eyeliner was being applied in order to allow me to look like a certain anime character (Kaiki Deishu from Nisemonogatari) since I will be attending a convention in cosplay tomorrow.

 Nonetheless, I admit that this was another large step towards the crucial wavering borderline of opposing genders, the all important division which I suspect I may be dangerously close to slipping over. Before the eyeliner incident, to regain an average amount of masculinity after all the other tremendously camp things I'd done I would have probably had to spend many months in the gym (the balance system being roughly about one bench press per camp hand movement) plus several mandatory hours of laddish sexism. However taking this new eventuality into mind, it may only be a matter of time, perhaps the point has already been reached, where it is just far easier to make a visit to the sexual organ swap shop than the alternative years of gym attendance.

 Hence the issue of the purple eyeliner, potentially the tipping point, is a key matter that must be settled by a higher authority. As I stand in the defendants block of the metaphorical courtroom of gender division, standing trial for excess femininity, all seems lost. I cannot deny that I knowingly and willingly allowed the use of purple eyeliner on my person, attempting to deceive the judge and jury will only result in a heavier sentence. Such an act may result in me being given sixty years in the gym or perhaps even sent to the operating table. However there is one argument, one defense that could turn this case around for me.

 It has always been believed and upheld that the pinnacle of manliness, the height of macho, is courage and the ability to stand firm in the face of those you fear. This has been true for as long as men have existed from the days of the cavemen facing rampaging mammoths, to the much chronicled image of knights battling dragons and even to today, where the actions of soldiers heading into war are commended and celebrated. Furthermore, one commonly experienced phobia, one terror that many people share, is the discomforting sensation of something pointed and sharp approaching the naked eye. In that sense, the use of eyeliner is the ultimate triumph over terror, the supreme display of courage that surely demonstrates the sheer overwhelming butch powers of whoever undertakes the act.

 I appeal to the court that I am merely a forerunner of this new brand of masculinity which will permeate popular culture in a matter of years. If anything my overwhelming masculinity as a pioneer against terror and crusader of courage should be recognized and celebrated. The sheer amount of macho involved in the act of applying eye liner should be enough to annul all of my previous debts of femininity, leaving me a free most definitely man.

Appreciation

  The appreciation of some things change with time and maturity. For example some books, when read at the age of ten, felt completely incomprehensible and hopelessly dull but when re read at the age of sixteen felt like the most profound as well as the most exhilarating literary excursion ever. Of course that infantile experience of incomprehension and the realization that there is still a whole universe of literature to be explored is important in its self (The educational equivalent of tough love. Like Spartans of literacy casting their young children out into the textual mountains of unfamiliar vocabulary and complicated imagery, left to fend off the hungry subtle thematic nuances armed only with the alphabet and a vague grasp of grammar) but in terms of appreciating the text for its true worth, a later reread is most definitely worthwhile.

 However there are things that don't seem to improve no matter how many years or experiences are accumulated. Events, ideas or objects which seem as worthless at the age of sixteen as they were at the age of six. I admit that there is a certain comfort in knowing that no matter how much time passes and no matter how altered I may become, there are some things which stay stubbornly the same. Nonetheless it is quite problematic and rather irritating when the said ever valueless thing seems to be universally accepted as mesmerizing and moving. This thing, for me, is fireworks.

 A passionate colourful blossom composed of several million brightly burning particles, vividly flourescent for an instant then withering to float away in the cold night wind. An instant artwork painted on the night sky to fade in a moment, leaving nothing but a ghostly shadow of smoke behind. Indeed fireworks are pretty, an extravagantly beautiful spectacle for the retinas. However I also thought that James Cameron's "Avatar" was quite an extravagant and beautiful spectacle but if they had somehow projected Avatar onto the night skies several times a year, every year for the last sixteen years of my existence, I would have stopped going after the second showing.


  In the same way, I would be able to show the extent of profound amazement  expressed by everyone else at the sight of fireworks only if I were a caveman who had magically time traveled from the prehistoric days to see the luminous aerial display for the first time in my life.

 However as a caveman I would probably show the same amount of awed wonder at the sight of a car or a television or just a toilet flushing but nobody claims that the movement of water down the porcelain U-bend is a moving and beautiful sight to be celebrated (even though it probably took about the same amount of scientific and engineering genius as the fireworks to get it to the standards it maintains today). Couples don't hold hands and cuddle while sitting in front of a urinal nor do parents excitedly drag their children off to go see the toilet. Perhaps its the infrequency of the fireworks that makes it special, maybe if we only flushed our toilets once or twice a year we would appreciate it more and hold festivals in celebration of the toilet, which would, noxious fumes and all, still be more enjoyable than the overly hyped irritating fireworks celebrations of today.

 However, no matter how much I might argue or object, in the end the only response I seem to get is "but its so pretty and nice, how can you not like it?" Even my more cynical and depressed associates, with whom I often rant concerning the many ignored petty flaws of the world, seem incapable of being bored of fireworks. Hence, in this matter, I am completely isolated. Somehow, every single person I have ever talked to seems to enjoy fireworks and will go to lengths such as travel just to go see the repetitive unchanging dull light show every year. So what is it? What is wrong with me? Why can I not like fireworks? Somebody help me! Teach me how to like fireworks! Please!

How does everyone else in the world maintain their appreciation of fireworks? Is it biological, am I a genetic mutation? Or is it through nurture?

 Are all babies taken from their cribs at the earliest stage of infancy and placed in a Clockwork Orange style cinema where they are shown endless reels of how fireworks is wonderful and other similar ideas necessary for a human being to function effectively within society? If so, can I enter the cinema as a late comer because I appear to have missed not only the screening of "How Fireworks Is Wonderful" but also "How Not To Be Socially Awkward" and "General Morality"

 Or if it isn't by nurture but by fundamental human nature then what can I do? Is there some sort of operation I can have to implant that all important fireworks appreciation cell which all homo sapiens other than myself seem to share. What if, in the future, we made contact with aliens and the only way to distinguish between human beings and aliens was by that single feature of fireworks appreciation? I'll be mistakenly identified as an illegal alien and deported to some far away planet at the ends of the galaxy, exiled and alone. Somebody, please, teach me how to like fireworks!