I’d love to do the housework but my sick sperm are killing me.

You’ve got to feel sorry for the inhabitants of Planet Man. No, really — I’m being serious here, people.

If we’re not being told to “man up,” we’re being accused of acting like testosterone-fueled louts whose brains — and eyes — never rise above the level of a woman’s swimsuit area.

That point has been hammered home to me lately courtesy of a number of stories on the Internet and in magazines about the various minefields we all tend to stumble through in order to form a relationship with a member of the opposite gender.

The first article (1) suggested women actually use a mental stopwatch during sex. Something along the lines of “One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thou . . . you’ve got to be kidding me!”

On the other hand, as it were, the Viagra Vanguard isn’t that popular either. I conducted an informal poll (OK, I asked two women) and the consensus is that, no matter how well-intentioned (or well-lubricated) the lovemaking, at a certain point friction becomes the most important factor. Plainly speaking, things eventually get rubbed raw. And by things I mean, you know, things.

Here’s another example of the pressure the inhabitants of Planet Man face on a daily basis: a woman’s reaction when we attempt to answer that eons-old question: Does my bum look big in this fig leaf/loincloth/animal fur/jeans?

Face it, guys, there are only two possible answers and they are both going to end in tears:

Him: No.

Her: You’re lying

Him: Yes.

Her: You’re dead.

If that’s not enough mixed signals for you, another story (2) related how Kiwi men are rated the eighth best husbands in the world. Based on — wait for it — their willingness to do housework.

In other words, my fellow penis possessors, what the ladies are saying is what impresses them most is not our performance in the bedroom but, rather, the length of our vacuum hoses and our stamina in the kitchen when faced with a sinkful of greasy dishes.

With that survey in mind, I’ve now taken to parading around the house wearing nothing but an apron and pink rubber gloves.

Which may explain why the neighbors no longer open their curtains.

Yet another story (3) featured the news that healthier sperm may mean longer life. Yes, apparently good semen quality will add years to our time here on Planet Man. Of course, more years means more housework but, hey, we’ll just have to take solace in the thought that at least all those swimmers churning in our netherlands are happy little buggers.

The story does not explain how to achieve healthy sperm, but I’m thinking exercise. I’m also imagining this conversation:

Her: What are you doing in the bathroom with the door locked?

Him: I’m living longer.

Her: You’re dead.

But just before she breaks down the door with the same frying pan that will soon be bouncing off your skull, you might want to take the advice of a blogger (4) who offered up a list of compliments every woman loves to hear. Even if you’re saying them from the other side of a locked bathroom door while swaddling your body in a protective cocoon of Charmin.

If you have  sensitive gag reflex, you might want to skip this part, but here’s the top five compliments that might save your life:

1. You’re irreplaceable.

2. You bring light to my life.

3. You are perfect just the way that you are.

4. I love your (fill in the blank with any of her body parts situated outside the swimsuit area — if you can think of any. I know, me neither).

5. I am so proud of you.

Yes, as a matter of fact I did throw up in my mouth just typing that list. but what left me shaking my head (apart from the fact that I want to meet the man who actually utters No. 2 — and then kick him in the nuts) is that the following compliment failed to make the list:

Him: For a fat girl, you don’t sweat much.

Her: You’re dead.

But after all the doom and gloom besetting Planet Man via these reports — if your rotten sperm doesn’t kill you, your wife will — I was pleased to find at least one tidbit of good news.

According to The New York Times (5), a potbelly (nicknamed the Ralph Kramden) is the new hot look for males. Six-pack abs are so, like, yesterday, dude.

The story noted that a taut belly and other metrosexual traits are now considered “prissy” and an indication that you “may have too much time on your hands.”

This revelation could, of course, lead to this conversation:

Her: You’re fat.

Him: I have no time for you because I’m busy.

Her: You’re about to be busy being dead.

***

Reference sources:

(1) Men’s Business, by Matt Philp, Your Weekend, The Dominion Post, Aug. 8, 2009

(2) Kiwis 8th best husbands, Aussies worst, AAP, Aug. 4, 2009

(3) Men with livelier, more plentiful sperm live longer, by Anne Harding, Reuters, July 27, 2009

(4) 5 Compliments Every Woman Loves To Hear, by YourTango, Aug. 4, 2009

(5) It’s Hip to be Round, by Guy Trebay, The New York Times, Aug. 13, 2009

***

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***

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Taking a road trip back in time. To 1974. When I still had a future. And hair.

See that picture on the right? Yeah, that’s me. Summer of ‘74. Side of the road. Highway 1. The Trans-Canada. Heading east. Road trip.

My son, Koleman, has been going through old movies for a family friend named Ann. He’s probably copying the movies to DVD because he does that sort of thing to earn extra cash. Or he might simply be looking for footage of himself and his sister as youngsters.

He came across a section of film featuring his mother, Bev, and me, along with my two brothers, James and Jerry, and used frame capture to send me the photo.

Bev and I were married that spring, as madly in love as two kids can be. We’d just come off back-to-back six-month contracts to provide recreation for the handicapped. We each cleared $100 a week. We thought we were rich.

We would go on to work a third contract but, on the summer day this photo was taken, we were between jobs. We’d packed our clothes and my two brothers into our pale yellow 1966 Plymouth Valiant and were heading for the small farming community in Saskatchewan where my father grew up and where several of our relatives still lived.

By pure coincidence, we encountered Ann and two girlfriends traveling in an orange VW van, on their own odyssey across Canada. We pulled over to chat. Ann had a movie camera. She filmed the meeting. That’s me, smiling at the camera. Smiling at the chance encounter on a wind-swept highway in the middle of nowhere.

I was three years out of high school. I was three years on from counselors and teachers who preached about the importance of making goals for the future, of formulating five-year plans so you could set a course, set a direction.

I was three years on from the clean-cut fellow who went back to Langley Secondary for an extra semester because he wasn’t quite ready to face The World. The same fellow who had vowed to never get married, never have children. The same fellow who would have been quite happy to live in his parents’ basement and read The Hockey News for pretty much forever.

And then I met Bev. She was the first girl I kissed. I married her eight months later. We decided to drive to the Prairies for a belated honeymoon. I invited my brothers to join us.

I don’t remember a whole lot about that trip, but a couple memories stand out.

The Valiant, as dependable a car as you could want, blew a water pump. I was so shy about dealing with the mechanic that James, younger than me by a year, had to do all the talking.

At one point, for some reason, Jerry was pissed at the rest of us. During a lunch break at a Dairy Queen, he sat several tables away and, having grown bored, started to throw his fries at us. It was funny. Then he started dipping his fries in ketchup before he threw them. That wasn’t so funny.

We stayed at a motel one night and dispatched Jerry to the fast-food restaurant next door to buy dinner. Rather than walk around the high fence separating the two properties, he decided to scale the fence and drop down the other side. He landed smack on the hood of a car, much to the dismay of its driver.

I do remember it being a fun trip. There were plenty of laughs and hugs and the strengthening of familial bonds. But, during all those miles and hours of driving, not one thought was wasted on the future. The future, my younger self reasoned, would look after itself. That’s how things work when you’re three years out of high school.

It was assumed Bev and I would start a family and I would find work as a writer. In the summer of 1974, that sounded like all the planning we needed to do.

It wasn’t.

Things have changed in the 35 years since that road trip.

We sold the Valiant to one of my sisters. She was turning left on a yellow light when another driver came straight through the intersection and T-boned her. My sister survived. The Valiant didn’t.

Ann suffers from Parkinson’s disease now. She no longer drives.

James is currently maintaining a bedside vigil over his partner, who is not expected to ever leave the hospital.

Jerry is happily married. He has worked at the same job for nearly 30 years and invests his money wisely. He no longer jumps blindly over fences.

Bev and I divorced in the mid-’80s. I thought we could still be friends. I was wrong.

My life took a few other detours along the way as well. The hair, once long, is now mostly long gone. I tend to shave on a regular basis, if only to keep the grey at bay. I did become a journalist and then I wasn’t and now I pray to be one again.

I do still tend to ignore the concept of five-year plans. Because, right now, all I can afford is  a 14-day plan. That’s the one where we hope to make it to Viking Woman’s next payday before the bank takes our house.

I still own the hat I’m wearing in the photo. It’s in my storage unit, buried together with the other memories of that road trip. With the memories of my first marriage. Of myself three years out of high school.

I’m smiling in the photo.

I don’t smile much these days.

At least he was gentle when he kicked my dream to death: Publish or Die! Part 10

Graham Beattie is an important man in the New Zealand publishing world. I know because he told me. He is so important, in fact, that, despite a request from a close personal friend, he was still far, far too busy to offer me more than a few stale crumbs of advice from his table of publishing experience.

Beattie did manage to take five seconds out of his hectic schedule to suggest I contact the New Zealand-based TFS Literary Agency. I did just that, sending a query letter to someone named Chris Else on June 22. Included in that letter was the entire text of the wonderful, magnificent, ego-pumping review Brown Girls received from Working Girl Reviews. Nothing like glowing comments from a neutral source to cause a literary agent to sit up and salivate.

Yeah, right.

Skip ahead 43 days to Aug. 5. Yes, that is more than six weeks later and, oh look, still no contact from Else or anyone, um, else at TFS to a query that takes 129 seconds to read. I know because I timed it.

Aug. 4: I send a short e-mail to Mr. Else asking — ever so politely — if he ever did receive my query and, if so, would he mind sparing 129 seconds to peruse it.

Aug. 5: In what can only be considered a strange coincidence, Mr. Else writes back the very next day after my e-nudge. To his credit, he apologizes for not contacting me earlier. But now he has concerns about the review I included with my query. Does this mean Brown Girls has already been published?

Aug. 6: Not so anybody noticed.

Aug. 6: Another e-mail from Mr. Else: Have I approached any other publishers or agents with Brown Girls?

Aug. 6: No.

Aug. 7: In that case, he asks, can I flick him the first 10,000 words.

Aug. 7: I can’t hit Send fast enough.

Aug. 19: This time, it only takes Mr. Else 12 days to write back:

Hi John

Thanks for the opportunity to look at Brown Girls. It’s good but I fear it isn’t good enough for us to want to take it on. The problem, in brief, is that a number of the characters, including your main character seem a bit cliched. Plus, I think we would have a much better chance of selling it in NZ if the main character were a (sic) NZer and not an American. Sorry.

Chris

Funnily enough, Mr. Else’s e-rejection arrived the very same day I received this comment from a member of authonomy.com:

Your writing is short, fast, and precise. The vivid imagery is amazing. “yellow fangs. greasy slobber.” “400 pounds of fat and sweat.” This is really, really good writing. (John R. Lindensmith, authonony.com)

Which, strangely enough, came after these comments:

The writing in this is deliciously taut. All the characterisation is good, minor as well as main. The MC (main character) is a bit of a hackneyed photo-journalist meets ’tec, but you infuse him with a back story of his novel and some mystery about his manhood that works to get over that. (Marc Nash, youwriteon.com)

. . . this is extremely good, very polished, writing. It feels complete to me as a reader. The plot’s good, and it slowly builds up intensity. There’s a real feeling of being there amongst the action. (Charlie Chuck, authonomy.com)

You set up the conflict – both social/political and personal very quickly, giving this pace and intrigue. Brilliant. (Elinor Evans, authonomy.com)

Five comments from five different people, four of whom are wannabe writers who are also voracious readers. In other words, the kind of people who actually buy books, thus providing agents like Mr. Else with their mortgage payments, courtesy of author commissions.

Five people. Four positive reviews. So who, exactly, has their head up their ass when it comes to assessing Brown Girls? Yeah, I thought so.

I pointed this out to Mr. Else (the difference of opinion; not the head/ass part) when I wrote back to thank him for taking a look at my writing sample.

I really wasn’t expecting a reply but, again to his credit, Mr. Else did reply:

Hi John

It’s not what I think so much as what I think potential publishers would think, which, of course, is certainly not what a potential reader would necessarily think. There’s nothing to stop you trying a few NZ publishers direct. There is not necessity to work through an agent in this marketplace.

Best

Chris

What I didn’t bother pointing out to Mr. Else was that it would take very little effort on my behalf to change the main character from an American to a Kiwi. As it is, I’ve already changed Jack once, because he started out as a Canadian.

But Mr. Else has already made up his mind and so I’m letting this one go. Because it will only turn into a pissing contest and no one wins those.

It’s just too bad they’re pissing on me.

This way, when you see the yellow pants, you’ll know what to do.

The instructions are very specific.

If Viking Woman ever finds me wearing yellow golf pants pulled up to my nipples, she is to shoot me immediately. No warning. No hesitation. No mercy. If I’m dressed like a cartoon character on drugs, it can only mean one thing: old age has me in its anaconda grip and it’s time to send me back into the welcoming arms of Baby Jesus.

I once spied an elderly gentleman clad in such attire and it scared me so badly coffee actually shot out my nose. Which was an interesting experience because I wasn’t actually drinking coffee at the time.

Fashions come and go. And then they come back again, whether we want them to or not. The fedora, for instance, is as dead as John Dillinger. Or it was, until the likes of Justin Timberlake resurrected it. These days, wearing a fedora is cool again, providing you’re a big fan of boy bands. Or, you know, gay.

As faithful readers know, I’m currently working part-time in the laundry room of a seniors’ residence. (I know what you’re saying: “But, John, you’re a highly-trained, experienced and talented journalist.” To which I reply: “I know. Weep with me.”)

I see a lot of clothes on the job. I also see a lot of feces, but I’ll leave that story for another posting. The residents are, for the most part, my grandfather’s age, so we’re talking two generations further down the Fashion Highway. That said, comfort dictates there are plenty of sweatpants and T-shirts and other loose-fitting apparel going in and out of my machines — items you’ll find in my own closet.

But there are also several articles of clothing you will never find in my possession.

Let’s start with handkerchiefs. Oh, sure, I own a couple, but their function is limited to polishing the lenses in my glasses. I do not and never have employed handkerchiefs to blow my nose. I don’t know anyone who does. That’s why they invented shirtsleeves. And the back of your hand.

Is the handkerchief doomed to fall out of fashion once my grandparents’ and parents’ generations have shuffled off this mortal coil in their knitted slippers?

Probably. Unless, of course, you’re a wannabe gangsta and want to look, you know, retarded.

Nightgowns should also be consigned to history. And not a moment too soon. That whole Little House on the Prairie look is so dated. And that date is 1800. If you’re wearing a nightgown, you’re not getting into my bed. Unless, of course, we’re playing that whole Michael Landon fantasy game. Again.

Actually, if you sleep with someone who wears a nightgown to bed, you are not the target audience for my blog. Back away from your grandchild’s computer, put your teeth back in and put the kettle on. It’s time for a cuppa tea and a lie-down. Coronation Street starts at 7.

Singlets worn as undershirts? I’m thinking no.

But what if this isn’t a generational thing? What if there is a standard uniform for the elderly, administered by the government at the insistence of lobbying groups from the likes of Sansabelt and Hush Puppy and Depends.

Maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe when you’re 110 years old you just wear what you bloody well want because, really, who is looking at you? Besides undertakers, that is, measuring you up with their eyes as you limp past. No, at a certain age it’s all about comfort and whatever won’t hold a stain from the strained apricots.

Surely there is no Fashion Law for the Elderly. Right?

Right?

Still, I can’t help picturing myself years from now answering a knock on the door. Some wiseass punk will be standing on the verandah, grinning like he owns the world. He won’t say anything, will only shove a package into my hand and turn away.

I will balance the package on my Zimmer frame as I slowly make my way to my favourite chair. It takes me awhile to rip off the tape and open the box, but when I pull back the tissue paper to reveal what’s inside, I will let out the longest sigh my withered lungs can muster.

The polo shirt is the colour of margarine. The pants are baby-shit yellow. The shoes are white.

There will be a note and it will say something like, “Hi, gramps. Guess what? Time to burn the jeans and the T-shirt that says ‘Trust me, I’m a gynecologist.’ Enjoy your new wardrobe.

“P.S. Sucks to be you.”

“Honey,” I’ll call out.

“Yes?” Viking Woman will reply from her sewing room.

“They’re here.”

“Hang on. I’m coming.”

By the time she enters the room, something heavy and dark clutched in one hand, I’m already wearing the pants.

What was it The Who sang? Oh yeah — “Hope I die before I get old.”

It would certainly save on bullets.

Ed. Note: For dramatic purposes, certain aspects of this blog posting have been embellished. Or are outright lies. For example, we do not own a gun. As Canadians, we are constitutionally required to abhor firearms. It’s right there in our passports. In very fine print. Somewhere.

In reality, Viking Woman would be reduced to clubbing me to death with a hockey stick.

Like I was a harp seal pup.

Dressed in yellow pants.

Skipping ahead to the part about the cameras.

Smile! You’re on Candid Camera. And CCTV. And video. And digital. And pxt. And YouTube.

Well, you get the picture. Because, face it, you’re in the picture. Big Brother is not only watching us. He’s pretty much staring.

Viking Woman has always advised her healthcare workmates to conduct their duties as if they were being filmed. These days, chances are good that they are.

New Zealand is too small of a country to produce a lot of high-quality TV and so we are treated to imports from the U.S., the UK, and Australia. What New Zealand does do well is reality shows (although Island Wars is such a pale imitation of Survivor as to be practically invisible). Most of these are aimed at protecting consumers from being ripped off in a time when every dollar is precious.

The Hidden Camera segments are always revealing, in more ways than one. This usually involves an actress inviting various tradespeople into a house wired with cameras so we can surreptitiously observe how well the contractors work. Or not.

Inevitably, one of the males ends up in the actress’s bedroom and/or laundry and is soon seen rifling through her underwear, holding it up to exam or, in one  case, pulling a pair out of the dryer and sniffing it (because he liked the smell of fabric softener?).

These images are, of course, accompanied by the predictable screeching condemnation-slash-indignation of the (usually female) commentator.

In these scenes, the panty sniffer’s face is pixilated but his clothes aren’t, meaning he can be easily identified by anyone who knows him. Not too sure I’d want to be eating my dinner in the lounge with the missus when scenes of my nasal naughtiness were suddenly flashed across the nation’s TV screens.

I, for one, know I’m being watched. While waiting in line at a bank, I will often seek out the specific camera focussed on my position. When I’m browsing an electronics store, I tend to hunt down the camera that is broadcasting my thinning crown to the assembled crowd of shoppers.

Las Vegas, of course, is a nest of video vipers. The casinos will tell you they are watching their own employees, lest a card dealer pull from the bottom of the deck or tuck a stray twenty into a cuff.

Regardless, I’m always a bit nervous when I’m in the pit. I have no idea how the likes of craps is played and would love to stand and watch a few games to educate myself. But I don’t know the protocol with this. Do I look  suspicious? Like a pickpocket? Like someone counting cards and blinking twice when the queens are all played?

I have this fear of being tapped on the shoulder, asked to step into an office, having a burlap bag that smells of hundred dollar bills pulled over my head, and being bundled into the trunk of one of those Chrysler 300s with blacked-out windows. Followed by a long drive into the desert, a short, sharp crack of a handgun and, oh look, the coyotes have a free meal, courtesy of my curiosity.

Which pretty much explains why I don’t gamble. Or, when I do, I stay with the mauve-rinse crowd in the penny-slot area.

Are there cameras in other parts of these hotel/casino complexes? Oh God, I hope not.

During one family stay at The Luxor, we all went to the Tournament of Kings dinner show at Excalibur. The entertainment included a “little person” dressed as a joker, who skipped through the proceedings.

It had been years since any of us had occasion to skip and so, later, while gathering outside the elevator shaft back  at The Luxor, we challenged each other to see if our bodies could remember how to do it (I’d had a similar experience as an adult trying to do a somersault, with disastrous results — as I knelt on the ground, I realized that my muscle memory had actually forgotten how to roll forward).

My sisters had once been dancers and so such movements came easily to them. As for me, well let’s just say I didn’t take dance lessons. It was ugly, it was clumsy, it was hopeless. It was downright embarrassing to think a grown man could no longer will his body to skip.

Or maybe it was embarrassing because a grown man actually thought skipping was a good idea.

Was my effort caught on camera in the hotel? I’m thinking no, because surely anyone watching live would have dialed 9-1-1 immediately and reported a guest suffering convulsions while his family stood there peeing themselves with laughter.

If Big Brother was indeed watching me, I’m guessing he was also wetting himself.

Next time, the duck walk. Coming soon to a website near you.