Columns
Column: The Libido Lambada (Get More From Your Sex Life)
by Suzan Ryan on Jan.17, 2012, under Columns
Past Perfect: Goldie Hawn
by Suzan Ryan on Nov.23, 2011, under Columns
John Birmingham: What Does it Mean to Be a Man?
by swerve on Oct.26, 2011, under Columns
Last Call: Robert Geddes’ Commandments of Summer Wine
by Suzan Ryan on Sep.22, 2011, under Columns
Interview: Jonathan Karamalikis, Aussie poker star
by Suzan Ryan on Sep.22, 2011, under Columns, Interviews
John Birmingham: Middle Age Rage
by Suzan Ryan on Oct.27, 2010, under Columns
MIDDLE AGE RAGE
Forget the sports car, the best way to beat mid-life blues is with boxing gloves
By John Birmingham
The guy was a lawyer, and a pretty successful one. I’d known him in a passing fashion 20 years earlier, when we’d both set our sights on the same woman. He’d won, but that was okay; she deserved better than me anyway. He was still with her and they had a whole tribe of kids. It’d worked out well. He was happy, and yet…
And yet one of the purest joys of his middle-age existence wasn’t his beautiful wife or well-adjusted children. And it certainly wasn’t his work. It was boxing. At some point since we’d been rivals, and he’d won the girl and lived the good life, the bloke had taken to wrapping his fists in long, sweat-stained pieces of cotton, climbing into a ring and pounding the putty out of whoever cared to take him on.
There is something admirable about an old bull climbing into the ring for one last shot at the title…
Of course, that meant he’d suffered his own share of damage. Headshots, crunching hits to the ribcage, awful shuddering blows in the gut that drove the breath from his body and left him feeling as though he might never stand up and draw another mouthful of sweet air into his lungs again. He’d recently been injured in a manner that was especially bad for a lawyer—breaking his wrist.
His wife didn’t understand. They never do. But I did, and you might, too. When you’ve lived long enough, you accumulate sufficient hard knocks and scar tissue; you swallow any number of defeats, large and small, rhetorical, personal, political and professional. You learn, unless you are a fool, that you do not have the power in your hands to reshape the world by force alone. Swing all you want at your foes and they will dodge and weave and more often than not mock you for your efforts.
But the older you get, it seems, the sweeter it is to take that upper cut at life anyway. Be it literal or figurative. I can only imagine this accounts for the large number of men who reach their 40s, usually after a decade or so of enforced lassitude and slump-shouldered toil, only to find themselves drawn into extreme sports—or at least ones that are extreme for their creaking bones and dulled reflexes.
It’s a truism that many sports cars and high-performance motorcycles are owned by middle-age men looking to borrow some of the oomph inherent in their engineering, but I’d be willing to bet that many more are drawn back to the playing fields of their youth—or the boxing rings and dojo mats. For one thing, it’s cheaper and less likely to be openly ridiculed by the gentle lady folk. More often, their response will be blank-eyed puzzlement.
But as someone who returned to a martial art in mid-life, I totally understand why my lawyer acquaintance couldn’t wait to get the plaster off his wrist and the gloves back on, to push himself in exactly the same hazardous fashion that had led to his embarrassment and virtual crippling not long before.
There’s just something really pure and simple about testing yourself physically. And few things challenge a male like fighting—even if the war is entirely constrained by strict rules, padding and a hard-earned understanding that, unlike a 20-year-old, you are not, in fact, immortal.
For just a few minutes, perhaps once or twice a week, the tedious demands of grown-up life fall away and all that matters is hitting and being hit, absorbing the attack and lashing out in revenge. Manning up in the most primal way possible.
I suspect my lawyer friend had some trouble convincing his wife to let him get back in the ring after his last injury. Old bones don’t heal quickly or particularly well, and a bread-earner has responsibilities beyond gratifying his own ego. But the modern world doesn’t make it easy for a man. Not like it used to.
And while there’s something slightly absurd about a fat, balding buffoon reinforcing his sense of self-worth with an imported sports car, there’s also something admirable about an old bull climbing into the ring or pulling on the rugby boots for one last shot at the title. To rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Last Call: Cooking with booze
by admin on Feb.01, 2010, under Articles, Columns, The Magazine

Wine and food... an excellent combination (see end of article for image credit)
TV chefs pour wine into cooking pots all the time. But does alcohol improve the average dinner recipe? Is it a waste of good plonk or a secret ingredient that makes a good meat meal great?
By Ben Canaider Continue reading “Last Call: Cooking with booze” »
Gear: Spy Camera Home Set-Up
by admin on Jan.29, 2010, under Columns, The Magazine

Indoors or outside, at the office or at home; be smart, get secure, get camera protection Continue reading “Gear: Spy Camera Home Set-Up” »
Billie Exposed… Where have all the real men gone?
by admin on Jan.22, 2010, under Columns, The Magazine
I’ve noticed that some of the guys I date take longer than me to get ready. I like a guy who makes an effort, but I don’t want to go out with someone who owns more hair products than I do. Continue reading “Billie Exposed… Where have all the real men gone?” »
Motoring: Canberra’s SummerNats
by admin on Jan.15, 2010, under Columns, The Magazine

Australian Penthouse goes for a spin with Peter Grmusa, Burnout Master and two-time Summernats burnout champion Continue reading “Motoring: Canberra’s SummerNats” »











