LAST DECADE'S LEFTOVERS: BEACH RANT 2004

Ok, because I’m brain dead I’m gonna wimp out and post something that should never have escaped the archives. I think it’s circa 1995. I actually wrote this as a reply to a real-life beach invitation from a couple of guys that worked at Woolies during my retail days - which were also my radical Marxist-feminist days.

I had a crush on one of these boys at the time and for some godforsaken reason thought it would be a good idea to write a satirical essay in reply to a casual invitation to hang out. It was later to reappear in one of my crappy fanzines. No, I’ve never been normal. Nor did I ever manage to make that guy fall in love with me. When you read this, like me, you’ll be baffled by his indifference. The glimmer of nascent literary genius shines brightly indeed…..

Look, I don’t think it’s a great piece by any stretch of the imagination. But it always seemed to resonate with people, for whatever reason. So here it is. A peace offering in this, my moment of creative anguish, to tide you over until I get my mojo working again. And to assuage my guilt at abandoning my post (pun intended). Apologies to those who have had to endure it before. It isn't any better in it's revised state. Having said that, it is shorter, however...

Some Cliff’s Notes trivia to preface the piece. Since I wrote this I have actually had malignant skin cancer. I now have a striking 10 cm pirate gash on the outside of my left thigh and a slight indentation where I lost a bit of muscle to boot, courtesy of Mr Melanoma.

Aargh, me maties….Now to ye buried treasure….


BEACH INVITATION RSVP

I don’t like the beach.

I don’t like that opening statement. I really wanted to encapsulate my entire thesis into one snappy and/or witty sentence. But reality is, I’m far more long-winded than that. So sit back, wipe that depilatory crème from off your intimate areas and prepare yourself for the sedentary ramblings of a proud sloth-a-holic.

My neon-white skin with its smattering of benign melanoma doesn’t like answering the door to those diabolical UV strangers. We know they are on missions of conversion and we don’t wanna go malignant. I’m not being overly melodramatic at this point. I have seen many a specialist over the years who have impregnated me with their scare-tactic counter-revolutionary dogma aimed at keeping us all indoors and/or to encourage rampant consumerism.

(Eds note 2004: ignore embarrassing, humourless political extremism…)

CASE STUDY ONE: A childhood nickname of mine – “Melanoma”. Thanks Mum for that one. Sure, make light of the fact that I have skin cancer. Yes, CANCER. It’d be even funnier if I died, right? What a great anecdote… “Yes, we used to call my daughter Mel – Melanoma – and then she died of skin cancer. That’s hysterically ironic, isn’t it?”

(Eds note 2004: The weird political ranting goes on for a couple more paragraphs and gets a bit out of hand really…. I somehow get onto anti-bacterial soap conspiracy theories and the “Slip, Slop, Slap” campaigns as capitalist mindfuck propaganda. This 2004 version will spare you the grief)

Ok, Ok, the beach argument…. I’ll try and remain focused here….

Now I know I’m not fat and I generally feel that I am comfortable with my appearance, but any mention of the beach just seems to annihilate such confidence. The beach shares the same function as an advert in Cosmo. It acts as a leveller, washing away any ideals you have about yourself and dumping you ruthlessly into the sand.

It’s also possible that I talk the talk, but don’t walk the walk. My super-PC, left-wing femmo rants could all be a whole lot of BS. Yeah, yeah I’m liberated, independent, self-assured and have left all my body hair in the right places but I can’t step onto a beach for godssake.

(Eds note 2004: To strike a resounding blow against the patriarchy I grew long, luscious armpit hair and cultivated furry legs for a year or two. Yes, it was as despicable as it sounds… I’ve since re-submitted to the patriarchal demands of smooth hairless skin)

Anyway, God knows I don’t care what anybody thinks of my appearance – one look through my wardrobe will tell you that.

(Eds note 2004: This was also the period in which I dressed like I had just raided the deceased estate wardrobe of a smelly 70 year old man and his equally smelly – and equally deceased - 70 year old wife. Lots of ill-fitting “old man pants” and unflattering 70’s print-polyester shirts and dresses)

It’s just that swimwear is so damned intimate. It’s just lycra underwear, OK. And I sure as hell wouldn’t walk down the street in just lingerie and a smile. I don’t appreciate, nor do I engage in, gratuitous displays of flesh. I hate skimpy. It’s for idiots who relish the opportunity to have their femininity defined for them by a patriarchal society. Fuck phallocentrism (aah, the irony). Excuse me gentlemen, but the world does not revolve around your collective genitalia.

(Eds note 2004: Yes, I did really talk like this once. The boys ran screaming after I was finished with them. At this point I also elaborate on my bizarre "Sistine Chapel Ceiling Painting Theory of the Self". Again, ye shall be spared…)

Fuck it. I really feel that analysing the beach is a hell of a lot more fun than going there. By jove, I think she’s got it! In a nutshell, this rant is my problem. While everyone is out frolicking on the beach and having a great time, I’m sitting hunched over my word-processor and having a great time. And hell, I like it like that. I’m a nerd, a geek, a boffin.

So many sunny days, so many excuses for avoiding the beach. And here’s a few more of ‘em.

BAYWATCH: What better reason to boycott the beach. Beware the silicone set and middle-aged, washed-up actors who still think they reek of pure sex in a pair of swim shorts, specially designed by the good people in Wardrobe to hide a flabby belly bloated from years of drug and alcohol excess. I’ll never forgive you for growing up and leaving Nightrider, David Hassellhoff. You are the anti-christ. I saw it on the ‘net.

TAMPON COMMERCIALS: As a pre-requisite, these always feature young girls prancing around the beach in bikinis (Or formalwear? Please explain, Mr Marketing?) Oh enlightened middle-aged-male-advertising-exec, free our troubled female souls from the oppressive burden of menstruation so that we shall paddle in the exalted waters of sexual exploitation and stereotyping.

SHARKS: I saw the Jaws films repeatedly at a very impressionable age. From these I learned that a shark will always kill a lone swimmer, and at least one member of a congregated group of swimmers. This is of great concern to me. I have a special skill for attracting the unwanted attentions of crazy people and other unpleasantries. Thus, it is not unlikely that I would also act as a shark attractant. I would surely be killed.

TSUNAMIS: The danger is so real. Take it from me, I’ve been dumped by some pretty heavy waves in my ye-olde beach-going days. Actually, I have a penchant for really bad 70’s disaster films so I find tidal waves really fascinating. If I were feeling suicidal enough, an approaching tsunami would be the only way to get me near a beach. I still wouldn’t swim though.

SEWERAGE: Gallons upon gallons of Sydney’s excreta. Like swimming around in your toilet bowl – but less hygienic.

THE SYRINGE MINEFIELD: All those buried hypodermics placed strategically in the sand by bitter and vengeful HIV-AIDS patients in their misguided attempts to redistribute their bad karma. I was warned of this danger by A Current Affair, who would most certainly not engage in tabloid sensationalism to attract ratings at the expense of journalistic integrity and truth. Ray told me so.