Laid...back again

Last week we looked at the 17 jobs that made us attractive to the opposite sex. This stemmed from the popular perception that actors and other show people can attract and bed salivating fans of the opposite and same sex at will and with gay abandon. They can’t. For example tonight I will perform (on stage) before 130 people. I doubt that any will exhibit the slightest inclination to have sex with me. And any that do will probably be attracted by my closet of tight yellow trousers, pink see-through shirt and mauve chiffon scarves, which will make them of only little interest to me. Nevertheless acting still rates “up there” as an attractor. So, let’s go down. What are the least successful jobs as sex-magnets? These were harder to find. Impossible, in fact, for me to find. There is none on the Internet. So, I made up my own. In doing so, I place myself at great risk of offending everybody in these categories. But the way I look at it, and the point of this exercise is, if nobody else finds you attractive why should I? My 17 jobs least likely to get you laid are:

1. Bus drivers: have a long one but too quick to pull out and difficult to make a pass at.
2. Car salesmen: those gold chains are so abrasive.
3. Council workers: cynical view of the world and can never be quite convinced you would be remotely interested in them.
4. Gynecologist: just how many can he handle?
5. Hamiltonians: cows have to rest some time.
6. High court judges: no longer able to sit around in robes and wigs so have lost interest.
7. Masochists: attractive only to sadists—sex-deprivation is part of the game.
8. Politicians: despised by all and sundry, only a sadist would apply (see masochist above).
9. Radio jocks: honey voices but still hankering after those far off pirate days of being out on a boat with 20 other men.
10. Real Estate salesperson: we all know they over-sell.
11. Rodney Hide: suffers from premature ejaculation and the need to put it all together before he can get a big one.
12. Rugby league players: generally hunt in packs and hard to get alone.
13. Sex Therapist: Knows the theory, can’t put it into practice.
14. Solitaire Players: prefer to play with themselves.
15. Suicide bombers: their perverted ideas of what a blowjob entails repulses.
16. Teacher: who wants to lay there while they explain it to you?
17. TV Newsreader: so, I should be interested in YOU why?

Laid Back

If you have ever wondered about your acting ability, and you probably haven’t, try playing a gay guy. I am doing that at the moment. I thought it would be a measure of the credibility of my performance, and therefore my acting, to see whether I am attractive to men in that role or even indeed I am propositioned. I wasn’t. Moreover, I wasn’t propositioned by women either! That’s unusual for an actor.
Or is it? Common belief is that an actor, by virtue of their profession alone, is attractive to a person of the opposite sex—and to the same sex for that matter. We all believe that, don’t we? Well, in my boredom and with no real prospect of being propositioned in the near future, I decided to research that. My simple question? Will being an actor get me laid? Failing that, should I try something else? The answer is…try something else. It seems, according to one credible research foundation that published their research on the Internet, acting is not among the top 17 professions guaranteed to get you laid. Nor is road-building Barry. Instead the top 17 in order are:

1. Architect: Build me something as good-looking as you.
2. Glassblower: Really any job with blow in the title will do.
3. Firefighter: Drool over their calendars with us.
4. Doctor: Everyone wants some sexual healing ... especially if you’re a freelance blogger without health insurance.
5. Celebrity: Pick a groupie, any groupie.
6. Librarian: But you only stack up if you’re hot.
7. High-Ranking Soldier: Lookin’ so fine in that tight, fancy uniform.
8. Porn Star: Your job is to get laid.
9. Model (Preferably Underwear Or Bikini): You’re a professional hottie who can make us buy whatever you’re selling.
10. Hotel Concierge: You’ve got the keys to everybody’s room/heart.
11. Photographer: You can compliment and direct your subject til they take off their all clothes. Yes, yes, make love to the camera!
12. Bartender: You’re surrounded by drunk singles looking to mingle.
13. Musician/DJ: You can play peeps like you do tunes.
14. Personal Trainer: Let’s get physical.
15. Delivery Boy: Or girl, they come to you. This sadly does not apply to stanky messengers who run around all day.
16. Pilot/Flight Attendant: That jaunty cap, the mile-high club, man, there are just so many reasons we want to fly the extra-friendly skies.
17. Furniture Craftsman: They’ll give you more than one thing to sit on.

A good actor may be a celebrity (5) but that is as close as we come. Or don’t. So it appears that I fail both as an actor and as a lover. What is even more dispiriting in my quest to get laid is that “writer” doesn’t appear on the list either, which makes writing Fryday each Friday something of a pointless exercise, doesn’t it? But I won’t stop—in my next Fryday I’ll reveal the top 17 jobs guaranteed not to get you laid. I have an awful feeling council worker may be among them. Are you ready for that Barry?

A Word for the Wise

Many years ago I had the good fortune to meet Ernie Wise, the then erstwhile partner of the vastly funnier Eric Morecombe. Mr. Wise was out here to help launch the New Zealand chapter of Variety Club. I recall him as pleasant, and courteous but distant. Distracted. Like other celebrities here for the Variety launch he had been shouted a trip and a holiday in New Zealand. And I think that was why he was here. He certainly showed little enthusiasm for the event and none at all for performing. I was drawn to the conclusion then, and am certain of it now, that he was a shadow of the performer he was as straight man for Eric, while Eric’s much larger shadow continued to knock Ernie’s confidence and self-esteem. And performers are those most insecure of individuals. Eric’s gone. Ernie’s gone. But, we were talking about them last night midway through our opening-night performance when, as inevitably happens in dressing rooms, talk turns to performances, and performers. Younger members of our cast had little idea of whom Morecombe & Wise were. The oldest performer they recall is Ricky Gervais, and comedy begins and ends with Flight of the Conchords. You have to think that these young and theatrically-literate people are missing out, if that is the sum total. Conchords may someday become legends and Gervais is probably almost there but Morecombe & Wise in their hey-day and together will in history remain unassailable, for all who are “wise” in such matters anyway.

Hooked on it.

It is hard to feel passion for hookers. These days anyway. In my view they themselves are less passionate than they were when I first started. They are less committed to their craft, and certainly offer none of the stimulation and challenge that were so part of the enjoyment of playing with them. And I should know: I played with many, used and abused them. Some were good at what they did, others were not. But all, without exception when I was with them, were glad they were there and happy to play with me. In the eyes of some I was the best and it was a privilege to face me, grip me and try to pull me off. And that extended over many years, until I tired of it and settled for a more sedate existence. But I still watch them at work when I can and what I see today is vastly different from what I experienced then. Today's hookers don’t really care. They exhibit no finesse, no skill and, most different of all from my days, no willingness to go down, lie there and be abused incessantly. That is why perhaps, when one analyses “the game” today, anybody can be a hooker. In my days, it was definite skill. And I am still proud, even now, that I was one. Fond memories are all I have now. That and abject despair that those who followed me no longer experience that or the respect that ensued from taking...it all. Watch any NRL game this weekend and you will see what I mean. Being a rugby league hooker is no longer a proud profession. A hooker in that code, today, is sport’s equivalent of erectile dysfunction. So, if you are a masochist by all means watch hookers at play. But, as for me, I’ll be concentrating on hookers of the other variety this weekend. I have three of them at the moment. Together. And they are vastly more skilled, forthcoming, committed and...entertaining. Much more pleasurable in fact. But that is another story, for another time.

Talking

Talking to a hooker; back next week with that.

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There, for History

Unlike just anybody else it seems, I don’t remember where I was the day I heard Kennedy had been shot. Sorry. I can, however, remember where I was the day I watched Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin land on the Moon and I certainly enjoyed watching those enhanced pictures this time around on the 40th Anniversary of that landing. What I found remarkable about those celebrations, apart from the pictures, was the lack of Americanism about them. In their coverage, there seemed a desire by Americans to genuinely share their achievement with the world rather than take ownership. They were, for example, generous and gracious in acknowledging the role and contribution of the Soviet Union to the space race. American astronauts were paraded with dignity and all, it seems, were able to say what they liked. It was good to see. And I wonder if what we are seeing is a new-found dignity and maturity for America, rather than the jingoism of the past. Further evidence of that was the restrained way in which they covered the death of Walter Cronkite.
Contrast that with the hysterical coverage of Michael Jackson just a fortnight before. Have the Americans learnt so much in so little time? Or did one lead to the other? Are Americans themselves embarrassed by the Michael Jackson coverage?
But, returning to Cronkite, what I do remember about the Kennedy coverage was its announcement by a tearful Water Cronkite; it was perfect, if sad, television. Cronkite was there again for the Moon Landing and for that event we can add professional to perfect. Cronkite was there, always, for history. And history and we were well served by this man.
As a footnote, perhaps the only sadness attached to the Moon Landing celebrations was that Mr Cronkite didn’t get the opportunity to participate, perhaps by coming out of retirement to cover or comment on this event. He and we missed that by less than a week.

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Hey Joe

New Zealand news media are yet to reach the depths of personality-driven American media but they are close cousins with a distinct familial relationship. Witness the glorification this week and last of the death of Michael Jackson and the consequent funeral. They were on the television news every night in New Zealand, often the lead story of the news. Still are. That kind of sustained coverage is symptomatic of American media who are more than capable of giving the same coverage to a Lindsay Lohan story as they are to 9/11. Kobey Bryant probably tops them both.
But it is disturbing with the Michael Jackson story to see the same from the New Zealand media. As for Michael Jackson himself, I am ambivalent. I rate him as a performer and a dancer. But not as a singer, song-writer, arranger or as a person. I wrestled with the latter. Like most I had a view on Michael Jackson’s relationships with young boys and in my case that view was he was guilty as sin and charged. But coverage given that subject since his death (and here the media have done a good job) has made me less sure and maybe there was a genuine innocence there arising from an abusive upbringing and a weird but wonderful personality. I have no such ambivalence about his father, Joe, though. Joe Jackson is the best justification yet for patricide. The man is monstrous and his behaviour before and after Michael Jackson’s death despicable. Conversely, Katherine, his wife, seems okay. It’s probably okay also that she gets custody of Michael’s children. But if Joe is ever allowed to get near them we may well yet have another tragedy in the making. Despite that, despite the allegations of his life, I trust that Michael Jackson in his death will be at rest and that the New Zealand media will now give it a rest.

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Big thoughts and little hope

This week I have been living in hope; hope that I would win the $35,000,000 offered by Lotto’s Big Wednesday When that hope was dashed I found new hope, from a most unlikely quarter: the American Journal of Sex and Marital Therapy. I didn’t know such a publication existed or that there would be sufficient material to sustain it. Clearly there is; the journal has been going for 35years and addresses such scholarly subjects as Marital Disruption as a Stressor, Reliability of the Dyadic Adjustment Scale and the Longitudal Course of Marital Stability. And here I was just looking for something on vibrators! But what gave me hope was an article by our very own (Canterbury University) Dr Alice Boyes. The aptly named Dr Boyes found that whereas a slightly overweight woman may evoke a negative reaction in their men folk a woman is more forgiving and don’t see a man’s weight as an impediment to a full and loving relationship. Now, that is very considerate of you women. Good on you for taking a realist view and giving we slightly rotund individuals hope that you are not soon about to walk out on us leaving us to our KFC and sausage rolls. Having said that, weight didn’t figure prominently for women in the list of characteristics that make up a good relationship. It only scrapes into the top 10. For your interest, Dr Boyes’ list in ranking order is: Warmth/trustworthiness: understanding, supportive, kind, good listener, sensitive, considerate. Attractiveness/vitality: sexy, nice body, attractive appearance, good lover, outgoing, adventurous. Status/resources: successful, nice house, financially secure, dresses well, good job. Having published that list, I am now in terror of finding how many of those characteristics my wife thinks I offer. I can only…hope.


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Now playing: Luciano Pavarotti - De Crescenzo: Rondine Al Nido
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Now playing: Luciano Pavarotti - De Crescenzo: Rondine Al Nido
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A Little Schoolin’

In a speech yesterday Dr Sharples, who is Maori Party co-leader, said Maori should be able to go to university without any qualifications.
NZ Herald: Thursday 18 June 2009.

The call came. I knew it would. He was there.

HE: Bro.
ME: Whetu.
HE: Howse it goin’?
ME: Fine. You?
HE: Good. Just want to say bye.
ME: Bye? Where youse..where are you going?
HE: Uni?
ME: University?
HE: Yup.
ME: Which one?
HE: All of them.
ME: All of them?
HE: Big whanau, bro. Got to spread meself around. Thought I would do a couple of weeks at Auckland, do a bit more with the cuzzies at Rotorua, then down to Wellington and then…
ME: What are you taking?
HE: Anything that’s not nailed down, bro. You know me.
ME: No, what course are you taking?
HE: Course?
ME: What are you…learning?
HE: Learning?
ME: Isn’t that why you are going to university? To learn? A profession?...A trade?…A skill?…Something?
HE: Oh, I’m going to learn something!
ME: What?
HE: How to get a student loan.


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The Secrecy Surrounding Swanson

My wife and I are contemplating moving to Swanson. Swanson is of course the place South Aucklanders will be visiting when they can no longer get off at Mt Albert. Swanson also rhymes with swan song and therefore seems a particularly apt place to be for someone overseeing and foreseeing the final curtain on a career.
I know little of Swanson. Its location west of Auckland, but not quite the Waitakeres, would suggest a haven for suburban closet artists without the intestinal fortitude to go the whole way of the West Coast. It also seems a place of itinerants, either going to Bethells or escaping Ranui. Houses seem comfortable and that’s entirely appropriate given, as I see it, Swanson will be considered a comfort zone for many. That perhaps is its attraction for me.
On the distaff side living in Swanson would require a lot more travelling on my part. However, I enjoy driving so that is no great issue. I am rather put-off though by the secrecy surrounding Swanson—what have they to hide? When places as bland as the Twin Peaks of Mt Albert and Mt Roskill stand naked before us, why is it we never hear anything of Swanson? Am I being too harsh? Think about it: ask someone in Christchurch to list Auckland suburbs and I guarantee it will take a long time—if ever—before they get to Swanson. Mind you, the probably couldn’t name any Hamilton suburb; even Hamiltonians struggle to do that.
And maybe that’s what worries me most—is Swanson Auckland’s Hamilton? Now that would be an irony, would it not—me living there? Still my wife and I are having a look.
As a vastly more famous Swanson (Gloria) once said, “Time for my close up...”

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Let’s honour Arbor Day or inject ourselves with cyanide and inflict a painful death as a preference.

Birdsey Northrop is a name to conjure with. So is Leonard Cockayne. Northrop and Cockayne never met but they had in common passion for trees and particularly the planting of trees. It was Northrop who took the essentially American tradition of Arbor Day globally; Cockayne was the man who introduced it to New Zealand and is “generally recognised as the greatest botanist who has lived, worked, and died in New Zealand.” Implicit, there may be greater botanists than Cockayne, but none fulfilled all three distinctions of having lived, worked and died in New Zealand. I am sure that there are at least a few eminent botanists presently living and working in New Zealand who can’t wait to die here so they can claim Cockayne’s crown.
But what of Arbor Day itself? According to Wikipedia, it was founded officially by Sterling Morton (whom I thought was a Wallabies back) in Nebraska in 1872. The celebration may have its original roots in Judaism in a celebration called Tu B'Shevat. By the 1920s each state in the United States had passed public laws that proclaimed a certain day to be Arbor Day or Arbor and Bird Day observance. The dates differ and were established depending on climate and suitable planting times. As mentioned, the wonderfully and aptly named Birdsey Northrop brought Arbor and Bird Day to the world. As far as observance goes, I personally have not derived much pleasure, much less sensual delight, from observing trees. Birds are a different matter.
Why am I telling you all this? Well, today is Arbor Day of course. In New Zealand anyway. And it’s also Friday and this is Fryday and I have nothing else for Fryday that wouldn’t expose me to an enormous defamation suit from Dr Richard Worth. And what’s Richard worth? Not a lot. So, we’ll settle on trees and if you think that’s boring, I can only apologise, ask for your forgiveness, and suggest you mull over the thought that how vastly more boring would be Birdsey Northrop in the flesh. I have spared you that.


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