A Robin William-less World

Not very long ago I locked myself in my room for a couple of days and decided I wanted to be dead by Friday. I’m not writing to reap sympathies or defend my choice or lament over how thankful I am at my lack of success. Drinking a lot, taking a lot of pills isn’t poetic or tragic or even particularly sad, it is just a stark fact that is a symptom of my bipolar. My suicide attempt is also a stark fact and a symptom of my bipolar. One that until now, was a pretty well-kept secret.

If we all co-existed in a perfect society, the death of a bipolar celebrity like Robin Williams wouldn’t be the ignition for discussions about mental illness. I guess the thing is, our society is far from perfect. We place emphasis on popular culture and material items rather than the individuals that surround us and it allows things like mental illness a rather taboo or confusing topic. In 2014, the understanding about the black dog or the blues is far greater than when my Grandfather battled it. And while the mileage which has been run is valuable mileage, there is still a great distance to go. If the question what could they possibly have to be depressed about in their lives? Is still begging legitimate answering too then so does the lack of understanding.

The death of Robin Williams has quite literally shaken the world. One friend put it well when he said, there was a moment where you don’t know how you’re going to keep going because you have to live in the world without Robin Williams? I think that fear was a genuine thing for me. I had a feeling in my gut not entirely dissimilar to when my Uncle died.

As a bipolar sufferer, I often find myself idolizing those who suffer and are successful. I too subscribe to the celebrity culture which is so innate to our values as a Western society. By idolizing those who are celebrities and survivors of mental illness the media gives fuel to the notion that being mentally ill is to be genius and creative. And for a minority it is. But being mentally ill is also to be ostracized, discriminated and ordinary. More mentally ill line our streets than our red carpets. Thanks to the media, I have come to see success as an antidote to mental illness. Which is why the news of Robin Williams suicide at 63, was a rather blunt reminder that my mental illness is not merely an adolescent phase.

I described living with bipolar as being a survivor to someone recently and I was rather scoffed at. But here is the thing, mental illness is a physical illness. It is. If you were to replace the word bipolar with cancer the meaning does not change. Both make you ill. Both can be medicated. Both kill you. There is only really one, heartbreaking difference. If a celebrity (or anyone really) were to suddenly die of cancer, their death would be free of the stigma which shrouds the death of the mentally ill.

Robin Williams’ death helps raise awareness of this arguably terminal battle, we the bipolar endure. And that is special. He was special. Despite the darkness of his own world he still wanted to exert light and kindness and laughter into others. A cruel juxtaposition, but he had found completely beautiful and worthwhile cause. His death for me is a painful reminder that there is no cure. He led a life which contained blips not dissimilar to others who suffer a mental illness; plagued by the seduction of drugs and

alcohol. His death is rather a stark reminder that not even mentally ill celebrities hold an antidote. Success is not an antidote. The antidote is acceptance and education. And it is one we will have to find in a Robin William-less world.

That time I decided to read 6 Nick Earls books in 6 days.

I have always been a serious Nick Earls flag holder.  His writing seems to understand what it is like to be 16 and 17. It seems to understand what it is like to be on the verge of everything and yet feel and have nothing. I fight with my parents a lot these days. We fights about my pending university application, about the fact I stack the dishwasher in an unsatisfactory manner. We fight because apparently I need to open my bedroom windows more frequently and let some light into my life. The other day during the standard Kobi's first world problems Wednesday night family meal, I literally said to my father go read a lot of Nick Earls. Because perhaps then you WILL understand MAYBE a LITTLE how I feel about EVERYTHING. OK. We both kind of laughed, but part of me was being a little too serious.

And so for the past week, I have been on a serious Nick Earls bender. 6 books in 6 days; the reading diet of champions. So,  I suppose this is a small tribute to Nick Earls.  It includes some cute dear diary moments that his writing has created for me over the years. Thank-you for understanding. 

Headgames

Headgames will always be the novel which earned me my first detention. I retell many people this story and they often follow up by Is Headgames some kind of explicit novel? They all assume that it must exhibit some kind of crass imagery of human genitalia on the front cover. One person even said to me, Nick Earls, didn't he write 50 Shades? No. No. No. I was given my very first pink slip detention because I decided to read problems with a girl and a unicorn. By the time I had read the first page I was involved in some kind of internal battle as I struggled not to audibly laugh; I felt like I was giving myself a hernia. When I was mid-way through the story, my Homeroom teacher had messaged me shut-the-fuck-up with her eyes at least fifteen times. And before I had a chance to finish, I was sitting on the carpet amongst fifty other students doubled over in fetal position looking like I had some sort of internal bleeding. I was trying so hard not to laugh I actually felt as though I was becoming mentally unhinged. I was handed a pink slip detention and it read for laughing and being disruptive during silent reading.  The first ever detention slip to make it on my permanent record was for laughing during silent reading and so started my career as a thug, Thank-you Nick Earls.

Headgames literally had me in tears. It is comprised of 18 short stories which are bizarre and poignant and very likeable. Since reading this book last year I have become introduced to the world of alcohol and dysfunctional post-school friendships; suddenly I am Frank and Philby

48 Shades of Brown

48 Shades was the first Nick Earls novel I ever read. The reason I read it when I was 13 and the reason I liked it when I was 13 was because it was set in Brisbane. I'm not someone who has a great lot of pride for my hometown. I like the river, I don't adore it. The Go-Betweens are pretty cool.  That is about it. So to find a book that suddenly had a story, not totally dissimilar to my own felt good. I realize good is such a fucking inadequate adjective, but let's just fly with it shall we?

The book tells the story of protagonist, Dan in his final year of school, which is such a bizarre and yet relevant period of time in our lives. Poor Dan Bancroft is thrust into a world of his Aunt Jacq and friend Naomi  after his parents jet of to Geneva for the year.

When I re-read 48 Shades last week, I was reminded of what an absolute bitch calculus was. The whole novel is about Dan's awkward transition into the real world, which I could certainly identify with (now more than ever).  The thing that resonated most with me from this novel was Dan's awkward love life.

In a world of social networking, it is so easy to think that relationships exist merely at face value. But Dan reminds us that we are all awkward and terrible people because at 16 and 17 we are only just learning how to truly interact with other human beings. Dan made me feel ok that I like and care about a person I am not with; that I don't understand calculus.  Dan made me feel normal.

Monica Bloom

I bought my copy of Monica Bloom when I was at Schoolies. I know what you are thinking, Kobi you party demon. A $3.50 copy of Monica Bloom from the local second hand store, gurl you know how to party. The best part was it was a signed copy, To Nick Earl... I seem to be the plural you. I think I managed to read it in one afternoon with intervals of tequila. Despite my state of intoxication, something about it stuck. I was surrounded by people I didn't know particularly well and I felt myself inexplicably drifting from the people I thought meant something, and yet I found familiarity in it all behind the pages.

I think the passage of time from the start of our final year of school to graduation, is such a bizarre one; and Monica Bloom really captures that. I think on one level it is about the delicacy and simplicity of a crush and how hard controlling that can be. But on another level, it is about building our identity about managing the changes and chances that are lovingly thrown at us by the universe.

Whilst on the surface Monica Bloom is a real school novel (it is littered with school yard banter and tales of dropping it like it is hot at a school dance) it can be much more. For me it is about the familiarity of a Brisbane summer and the internalized struggles we seem to conquer amidst the ebb and flow of life. It is the age old story of growing up; but it makes your senses and the organ that keeps the blood pumping feel so much more.

Zigzag Street

I think Richard Derrington is me in ten years except perhaps he is a little more male and a little more of a lawyer than I will ever hope to be. I will be a 28 year old wreck. I will have half renovated house (or perhaps granny flat) and I am almost certainly\will club any potential suitor with my podiatrist approved footwear. I really can see it all happening.

I first read this novel when I was 15 and had just broken my foot thus surrendering any aspirations I had of being a prima ballerina. I read Zigzag Street and laughed because poor Richard just needed to buck up a little, you know? Back in 2010 I thought the dictionary definition of being an adult was having your shit together and while Richard was funny, he just wasn't living out these expectations for me.

But now I don't see Richard as a screw up adult; rather a fairly mediocre one. Literally nothing ever works out in life. Life is not like the Siamese Fighting Fish I owned when I was twelve. It doesn't keep running smoothly and unscaved when you leap out of your tank or get dropped on pine floorboards. Life actually likes to stand back while you are in the gallows and just peg shit at you. But I think, Zigzag Street taught me to see that the real power is learning to laugh about it all; laugh through the misery, the half finished porch and laugh through the hope.

Bachelor Kisses

I started reading Bachelor Kisses on route to Auckland and I think everyone on my flight was ready to absolutely murder me in a really brutal and violent manner. I laughed audibly through the turbulence and through my back neighbour glamorously vomiting what seemed like all his internal organs into his hands.

Bachelor Kisses explores the mess and chaos Jon Marshall (a medical resident) makes of his life, predominately through his misadventures with women and work.

My parents critcise it's crudeness; but I almost felt without the constant blow-job talk I would be to distracted as I attempt to wrap my head around the medical -stuff-

I was quenching my thirst when the air hostesses bought around our breakfast. I noticed the small pre-packaged jam on every tray. The book seems to capture the kind of situations I seem to find myself in with increasing frequency. I feel like the more responsibility life hands me on my breakfast tray the more I want to sit and allow water to stream out my eyes and nostrils.  And whilst it wasn't in a jar, I think water came out of hole on my face. If nothing else Bachelor Kisses will force you to reassess the way you look at jam jars.   

After January

I feel like After January was written about my entire 2013. Megan Burke put it well in her review when she said the line in the blurb he wasn't expecting much from January is incredibly grabbing. The few months post-graduation are the biggest anti-climax of one's existence. After being told for 12 years that you need to go out into the world and matter, it is incredibly difficult to feel like you do.

 January is the month that I felt stood between me and the start of my real life. There was an awkward air of nothingness; much like Alex I didn't expect much from January, or indeed September and I certainly don't expect much from November. But it has taught me to be more perceptive of the things that drift by. 

After January creates this world where you understand each of the characters intimately without the need for intense drama or Home and Away style action. It is a world of realism; like Earls' other novels. And it is the realism that make it such a compelling read.

Feminism Is Not A Folly

I have noticed that Feminism is a sticky word to slide into conversation, and it strikes me as odd. Why shouldn’t young men and women identify as feminist? Someone suggested to me, that perhaps we are too far removed from the need for traditional feminist ideals. To this I say, fuck yourself with a cactus. The premise of feminism has and always will be equality. Equality across every aspect of our existence. And with one female in Tony Abbott’s new cabinet I think it can easily be seen that this is yet to be achieved.

 

I asked one of my friends if they identified as a feminist. She said she shaves her legs and so doesn’t really buy into that bullshit. Another friend told me to stop caring so much. Feminism means different things for different people.  This all just made me more confused about the perception of feminism and the role of women in our society. I didn’t realize the amount of hair we choose to harvest on our body, affects our support for women’s rights. Why can’t a clean shaven man be as supportive of equality for women as that of a lesbian with some righteous pubes?

Our media are stupid and we let them control a great deal of what we think about everything. A large portion of us still believe that a feminist is a bra-less man-hater who could braid the hair from her armpits to the floor while counting her collection of coupons for the local abortion clinic – because all feminist are pro-choice, right? The media have lead us to believe that feminism is about strength and ruthlessness (which to a certain extent is very accurate) but they have also stereotyped feminism into something ugly and brutal when it simply isn’t. 

During the first two years of her term as Australia’s first female Prime Minister, Julia Gillard stated I want to govern for all Australians. She refused to label herself as female because it was not something she identified as being relevant to the way in which she lead our nation as head of the Labor party.  I thought this was a really powerful statement, not just for women but for everyone. It extends beyond sexism to the wider issue of acceptance. And yet, one dumb ass in my year 11 Art class still said, Its like she isn’t proud of being a woman.

 

The same kind of Assholery exists in those who believe Tony Abbott can’t be a misogynist because he has a wife and children.  As a great friend of mine would put it, that is really cute. Do you also go around telling people that Hitler can’t have warranted the killing of millions of people because he was a vegetarian? Gillard’s speech regarding misogyny was made in the most political setting humanly possible, and yet it transcended any politics. The video went viral in a matter or minutes because it resonated with Australians who have been affected by sexism. Her public adherence to feminism towards the end of her Prime Minister- ship only made her message more powerful. Julia Gillard is a testament to feminism existing in a contemporary sense.  Gender does not need to be a boundary or a definition or an identity, because we are all human.

Being proud of your gender is important, but it isn’t everything. 70% of our population enter the world via vagina and 50% of us own one. The vagina is fabulous, and I love it as much as the next person, but the penis is also a fucking awesome appendage. Without each other, we are nothing. Men and their penises can play just as an important role in feminism as women and their vaginas. I think High School Musical was being very pro-feminism when they sang we are all in this together.

I think the point I am trying to make is that everyone should be feminist. Feminism is for those who own a vagina, penis, both and those who don't want to own their genitals. Feminism is for Christians, Hindus, Atheists or people who belong to cult. It is for the Chinese, Greeks, Italians and Native Americans. It is for those who are attracted to men, women, both or neither. Feminism is for cat lovers, dog lovers and my neighbours who decided to purchase a couple of ducks. It is for the rich, the poor, the blind, the bipolar and the healthy.  Feminism is for those who deal, do and hate drugs. Those who have children, want children or are barren. It is for the people who drive a Honda, and the person you sat next on the bus. Feminism is not about the hair on your body but the fact that the owners of vaginas are diminished to be lesser individuals.

Feminism is not a party exclusively for those who have a uterus. Feminism is simply about equality. Why not identify as a feminist?

Stupid, Stupid, Stupid, Stupid Things I Have Done

I haven’t written for quite a while and I am sorry. I am struggling to handle any aspect of my life adequately; in consequence I am making a string of stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid decisions (please cue Bad Decisions, Bitch Prefect http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UjaA25yfhYY). I have been in a bit of a creative lull which has only been consoled by consumption of $8 bottles of Red Wine.  I am slightly jaundice, but I only assume it is because my liver loves me.



"Bad Decisions, bad life decisions, everyday."

In my absence I have done a lot of stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid things. I have watched too much Doctor Phil and written love letters to too many influential members of society (I will post my letter to Julia Gillard in the coming days). I have been offered payment in exchange for drifites with someone I have not seen for more than half a decade (I still don’t fully understand either). I become immersed in the world of ass-coinery-self-portraiture (they say curiosity killed the cat). I sat with heartbreak in a ute. I have gotten drunk with exes/ played boggle with exes/ slept with ex's brothers/ cut an ex’s hair (I think this is where people commonly try to apply the term “YOLO”).  Last night, after being drunk at a work function I salsa danced in the top of Queen Street Mall with a man old enough to be my father’s father (my grandfather).  He chewed Extra peppermint gum and let me wear his fedora, so I figured he was alright.

Salsa finished, the final chorus of Hip Don’t Lie faded away and the group of strangers who had been united through the swaying of hips dispersed; and I felt incredibly lonely. I noticed an old woman lying on a bench. I use the term “notice” rather deliberately, because I know she is always there. But last night, at 9pm was the first time I allowed myself to notice her. I sat next to her, and offered her the piece of gum I had managed to wrestle off my old, perverted salsa partner. She took it. I bond with a lot of people (with the exception of my orthodontist) through chewing gum. The actual exercise of chewing gum is pointless; it literally achieves nothing (other than, perhaps some fresh breath). Someone could live their entire life, not chew a single piece of gum and be no better or worse for it. We spoke briefly, about her son and about the dicks that exist in our society. She spoke about everything with such detail, which seemed to make her increasingly hopeless. Her face was incredibly gaunt, and her mouth was drawn firmly. It almost looked as though the cigarette dangling from her mouth was a mere intension of her face rather than a foreign body. We exchanged adoration for each other’s taste in cardigans. And as I got up to leave her, she just held out her hands; one was palm up and the other palm down. And she said “These hands used to create. But now I fucking won’t even let them beg, because I am too fucking proud” Cackling she pulled out another cigarette and we parted ways.  

I slowly migrated against the crowd across the bridge to Southbank. I feel like my life is a struggle against the crowd. Suddenly I found myself standing in front of my favourite busker. I think buskers have this incredible power to influence people momentarily without them realizing it. When in a crowd, music is the only thing that makes me feel less alone. It was 9.55 pm, and the man who I had come to see was packing up. I just stood and watched; had I been older and more intimidating and perhaps male he, may have thought I wanted to be his non-consensual bum buddy, or something.

And when I involuntarily started weeping, he started playing.

Dirty old river must you keep rolling, flowing into the night.
…. As long as they gaze on waterloo sunset, they are in paradise.

I don’t remember when I first started listening to Waterloo Sunset. But there was a period of at least one month where I felt like it never ended. Last night, felt like it never ended. My initially reluctant tears rapidly morphed into involuntary sobbing and the busker continued to play the song I had wanted to hear all night. He finished, and then naturally started to make inquires about my wellbeing; because I literally must have seemed like a mentally unhinged human being (…well). I offered him gum; and we bonded.
I play because I like connection. Connection of the people who say I suck, who try to take my money (yes, that happens) connection of the people who smile because it reminds them of a better time. Or people like you who come and stare at me and cry. Because I know someone more than myself is getting something out of it.

He then packed up, wished me both caution and luck with my public drinking endeavors and fled into the night.

It’s funny, as I write this it has just struck me as peculiar that I don’t know the names of either of the people I met last night. I don't think knowing there names would change anything. I connected intimately with these individuals last night. Initially it was about the gum; because gum changes nothing. Nothing changed last night, the lady in the olive jumper is still homeless and busker's dog still died two days ago.  I claim I hate people. But I don’t think that is entirely true. People are fucking fascinating, if you let them be. People who have known passion and known affection are delicate and broken and I like that.

Everything in my life is so acutely unusual at the moment; I don’t know how to make sense of anything that is occurring. I don’t know why I choose to drink, or get offered some drifty payment or why I choose to become very emotionally invested about things that don’t mater. But the bizarre-ness and unknown of everything is almost making it normal. I feel so strongly that my life is a little like chewing gum, whilst it may not change anything or impact anyone there are moments of goodness. And if that is as good as it gets, if this minty flavoured misery amounts to nothing more than the stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid things I do. I'm ok with that; at least it gives me something to write about.

waterloo sunsets fine

Gays Pay Their Taxes Too

Today, purely by chance I found myself caught up in a Same Sex Marriage protest. It is almost magical the way the universe can make certain moments collide for seemingly no reason. This week I have been a wreck, for no reason at all. Today, I met an elderly couple who wake up everyday knowing that in their lifetime it is unlikely the law will ever legally validate their love. Today, I saw a couple homophobic bigots being homophobic bigots. Today, I suddenly felt part of something; today I wasn't a total wreck. 

I easily get worked up about a lot of things (see posts about Sultanas, Dolphin Rape and Jodi Picoult).... but the fact that the same sex marriage debate is actually a legitimate issue in 2013 really, really, really, really shits me (emphasis on the really).  

One couple in the wave of protest caught my eye. Not because of their flamboyant gettup or luscious, rainbow hair.... but their walkers. They dragged behind the hundred people in a painfully slow gait. Before the protest veered up another street they decided to take some time out on a bench. Because my parents and school taught me absolutely nothing about stranger danger, I gave into my compulsion to go and talk to these women. We spoke about nothing, and everything....

I could go and pick up some random boy at the Gold Coast after a 48 hour bender and then drag him drunken to alter and still have more right to wed then the two women (with their walkers) who have been in a monogamous relationship for more than 3 decades. These two women have raised two children, own an apparently well mannered beagle and have always paid their taxes (because, yes....gays pay taxes too). And after three decades they are together facing Diane's terminal illness; they have supported each other in sickness and health. 

3 days ago Tony Abbott, the leader of the opposition party in Australia and an (arguably) influential voice in our nation told a Sydney broadcaster that he is not someone who wants to see radical change based on the fashion on the moment on the issue of gay marriage. I'm sorry, but last time I checked being a raging homosexual wasn't the new black of this spring's line in vogue. The two women who I met today,  have shared 30 years of their life together. I assume, that it is a little more than a mere fad Mr. Abbott why should who you love make you less of a person in the eyes of the law? 

Today I actually legitimately witnessed an elderly onlooker at the protest glance at a gay couple who were holding a baby and remark,

"Poor kid being raised by a couple of fags; it will only end up like them" 

To me, the baby already had an advantage on this man. Being raised in a same sex household means that the child won't become a homophobic asshole. Just as the sexual orientation does not affect the ability of human being to hold a job, pay a mortgage, eat it does not affect their ability to raise a child. 

The same elderly onlooker who was giving the gay couple and the baby they were holding the stink eye, then spotted a flyer about Transgenders which had fallen into the gutter. What he chose to do next, I still only reflect on in utter disbelief. He spat on the flyer. An actual wad of saliva actually exited his mouth and landed onto the block letters Being Transgender in Australia. 

I would just like to take a moment to point out that all this happened today, on August 17 2013. The quotes were authentic, and homophobic shitheads suck.  Last time I checked Jesus didn't say... Love your neighbor unless they are gay or a transgender because they are inferior and deserve less rights. 

If we bring each other happiness, why does it fucking matter who we love. I think that is what Jesus would say.

10 Things I Wish I Had Known Last Year

A few weeks ago, fellow blogging extraordinaire, Sarah posted about things she has learnt in the past few months. You should read about it here (<<SEE HOW TECHNOLOGICAL I AM BEING (but that is another story)). I was feeling particularly lonely and nostalgic today so I took a trip down memory lane and read through the heinously unedited posts of 2012. It is incredible how much is the same. I'm still left handed and shameless anit-dolphin rape- enthusiast, I still hate Jodi Picoult and applaud people with nice cinema etiquette. But in equal part there is a lot that has changed. These days, I'm not so hostile towards crying  I am about as spontaneous as nun during lent. (That was a  unnecessary introduction; here is a list of things I wish I had known last year)....

1. School is literally irrelevant. OPs means nothing and QCS is as important as keeping up with the shenanigans of the Summer Bay kids. I have no regrets in never doing homework.

2. Whilst school may be irrelevant; it is also incredibly easy. At school your life is mapped out for you in a neat six-period-2-lunch-break-5-days-a-week-plus-homework-timetable. It's like a gift-wrapped life from God. There is literally nothing bad about school; it fills in the hours.

3. Crying is important. Last year I wrote that "Crying is a low point in humanity". Dear readers, please consider this a retraction. Crying is important. Crying for no reason is important. Crying at absolutely nothing is important. This year I have traced my infant roots; and now I weep like a baby on a weekly basis.

4. Friends are like Aids. The good thing is once you leave school they become someone else's Aids.

5. I honestly used to believe that getting drunk was overrated. Let's just obliterate that thought. If you don't drink you must be stupid or dead; how else do you live in this world?

6. I genuinely like comic sans. Please feel free to read about my sudden relisation here

7. Last year, I wish I had known that I wasn't destined to be a Journalism and Mass Communications graduate. It's not that I particularly regret quitting uni, or the process of uncovering what it is I really want; but I would have loved to not have come in contact with the careers councilor at QUT. Apparently due to a severe case of intelligence I shouldn't be studying art; just what the fuck (see point 5).

8. People diagnosed with mental illnesses have more fun.

9. Cockroaches are just the coolest mother fuckers out. I wish I had wasted more of my life obsessing over their moist bodies.

10. Life is too short to edit blog posts.

Thanks for making it to the end of 10 Things I Wish I Had Known Last Year. It's a shame I couldn't have posted it last year really...
These days I just bring all the literate and well read boys to the yard with excellent taste in cardigans, glasses (the men on e-harmony are lining up).
CIAO readerz.

King George Square Mime Hate

There is a man who positions himself just outside King George Square Bus Station and paints himself entirely silver. His tie is permanently erect, so that if you were partially blind or intoxicated he would look windswept. My friend informs me that these people (who act like statues) are called models (Stickler, 2013).

Now it was always my highly unqualified opinion that these models had the express purpose of resembling a statue.   So, you must be able to vaguely understand my confusion when every time I see the windswept ironman of King George Square he is moving as freely as any other individual in the square.

 Please feel free to leap at me with corrections but, models have the express purpose of resembling a statue.  You are suppose share a beautiful moment of bonding as you waft pass them and donate your ten cents to stop them starring at your crotch. If they move they are supposed to be incredibly stiff; as though they are recovering from a lifetime of being a cement monument. 

The windswept man in King George Square has it all wrong. Every time I see him he appears to be doing the robot or scratching himself, even shaking children's hands. I used to give him the benefit of the doubt; perhaps I just caught him at a moment where his nose was particularly itchy or his bladder particularly full, or even his urges to shake hands with little children particularly overwhelming. I mean as Miley once said, Everybody has those days. But alas, I feel as though windswept ironman is having one of those years. 

I think the bottom line is, if I was a (for lack of better term) a professional model (like the lady painted white in the middle of the mall; kudos) I would be really shitted off at someone who feels he has a right to the model gettup but not the etiquette. I mean it is a little like dressing up as a guard outside Buckingham palace, only to salute passers with a strip tease. 

I know it shouldn't bother me how this poor excuse for ironman builds his modelling career, but come on mate; if you want to act like a statue who has exceeded their Valium prescription dress up in a freaking clown costume.