Excited to announce some dates at the end of July. I'm playing Hamilton's Gravity Bar on Thursday 19 July, then the Za Bar in Tauranga on Friday 20 July, followed by Rotorua on Sat 21 July at the Pheasant Plucker. Online bookings via eventfinder.
Click HERE to book for Hamilton.
Click HERE to book for Tauranga.
Click HERE to book for Rotorua.
More dates will be announced soon!
The show opens this week at Downstage. Played two nights last week in the Concert Chamber of Auckland Town Hall. Auckland Scene reviewed the show: "Must-see, nerve-wrenching, white-knuckle comedy."
(The reviewer also perceptively described me as "the thinking woman's comedian.") If you're not a woman, or you don't think, or you don't think you're a woman, that is still OK. The show works across many cogito-gender-identities. I like to think I put the Titties into Cogito-Gender-Identitties. Boom.
To read the full review, go to AUCKLAND SCENE.
The Downstage season runs May 15-19, 8.30pm. Pre-book your own personal comfy duration-of-show chair-furnishings at DOWNSTAGE.
Uncalled For, my new show in the 2012 Comedy Festival, plays for two nights in Auckland, May 11 & 12, at the Town Hall's Comedy Chamber. Then 5 nights in Wellington, May 15-19, at Downstage. Here's the image that appears in the Festival brochure.
Having been called IN(appropriate), OUT(rageous) and OFF(ensive), my latest show promises once again to be EDGY(cational).
Galloping head-long against complacency, I shall joust helmetless against the forces of Conservatism, King & Country. It may be unseemly. Perhaps even unbecoming. And yes -- Too Soon.
Get your red-hot Auckland bookings here!
Or your equally red-hot Wellington bookings here!
There’s something about Mary. And there’s something about this mug.
The iconic poster for Raybon’s live show ‘Clear and Present Manger’, has transubstantiated into this sturdy handled chalice, offering sanctuary to all beverages hot and cold. Whether your calling is coffee, tea, or holy water for a quick baptism, this mug will withstand all the healing elixirs you pour into it. Mazel tov!
Are there coded messages inside this painting? Is the baby a miracle, an imposter, or a victim of human trafficking? Is Mary so hammered from Xmas drinks she doesn’t notice who’s on her lap?
The perfect Christmas™ present, this Finite Edition® mugs has been moulded from genuine stone chippings and manger-scrapings quarried in Royal Bethlehem,* then lovingly hand-baked by a higher power.**
Verily, this is not so much a coffee mug as a healing talisman*** in the spirit of Christmas.****
This mug paints exactly 1000 words, two of which are: Merry Christmas.
* Untrue ** A factory in New Plymouth, technically north. *** Utter fiction. **** Baseless fantasy.
To purchase for your loved ones, shop here.
You ready to take the highway to the Manger Zone?
Come see my new show at Downstage next month. It promises to crucify Xmas and skewer Santa. Vacant-eyed reindeer will be cluster-mulched into a delicious steamer of rednosed dim-sum.
For me, Xmas is an annual dream come true: the perfect public holiday. It’s all childbirth, and no paternity.
Verily, it shall be a night for living mangerously.
Presented by Classic Hits, and sponsored by Hummingbird and Betty's, the show runs 6 nights only, from Tuesday Dec 6 to Sunday Dec 11. All tickets are under $30. On the Preview Night (Dec 6) all tickets are $20.
Bookings at Downstage. Group discounts available.
You've seen the mugs. You've possibly even bought the mugs. Quite possibly, you've even received them, by courier, in glorious ceramic 3D.
But you've been wondering: how does Raybon do that?
Wonder no more. Here's an exclusive, behind-the-scenes peek at Raybon's artistic process. This recently smuggled video clip -- filmed secretly, deep inside his celebrity hideaway kiln -- takes you through the often painful steps of an intimate process which he describes as: Political Pottery.
Not only are Raybon's ideas thought-provoking, in this case, they're downright coffee-holding.
The mugs are available for a limited time from the Shop on this site, or on Trade Me.
Background to a scandal
Opening Night of the Rugby World Cup: Auckland trains stranded thousands of fans, causing many to miss the Opening Ceremony, and even the match. Some weeks prior, Adidas attracted disapproval for pricing the All Blacks jersey more expensively in NZ than overseas. And, during World War 2, the lives of some six million Jews were wiped out in an extraordinary genocide perpetrated by Germany. Trains were involved.
Five days after the Rugby World Cup opening, and 66 years after the Holocaust, I tweeted this: Wednesday 14/9/11 11.47pm:
“Maybe Adidas should run Auckland public transport. Nice German company. They should know how to load thousands onto trains.”
Three days later, the Herald on Sunday rang, shrill with anger. I asked her to email me questions, but she refused: “I’ve got you on the phone!” She’d located people who’d been offended. What did I have to say? Didn’t I have a responsibility? I asked the reporter to get these complainants to contact me, so I could respond. (Twitter is an open forum of back and forth, but when offended parties don’t use Twitter -- for example, when a reporter uses GPS, CSI and DNA to geo-locate the most offendable people on any given topic, to tell them of a tweet that plainly wasn’t meant for them; and then with emotional, loaded questions, demands a response on the spot -- well, for that, try Facebook, or this site.)
Next day, Sunday September 18, the Herald on Sunday’s headline read: Kiwi Comedian’s Holocaust Joke Falls Flat (Being the Herald on Sunday, the headline really should have been: Nobody Famous This Weekend Caught Having Inappropriate Sex.)
In brief, one of the people offended said what I’d done was to “trivialise” the harsh realities of the Holocaust. Another said, “There really isn’t anything funny about the Holocaust.” (Valid opinions, all.)
Since the article, however, I’ve attracted much, much stronger criticism. This is what I want to address here. I’ve been accused of anti-Semitism. In fact, if you read the article at the Herald online, a picture of evil fashion designer John Galliano appears adjacent, from an article months before. Visually, the effect is ‘Holocaust joke’, and next-door, John Galliano, and in the middle, me. I wind up being painted anti-Semitic by association, innuendo, or worse, by defamatory web layout.
My tweet was anti-Adidas, anti-Nazi, and obviously, anti-bad trains. It was also really rude to Germans. But it was not anti-Semitic. If anything, it was anti-anti-Semitic. Referring to something isn’t always a recommendation. An allusion doesn’t have to be an alleluia.
Anyone who calls my tweet anti-Semitic is doing real, foaming anti-Semites a disservice. Crazy Mel Gibson is anti-Semitic. The barking mad leader of Iran, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (who pledges to wipe Israel off the map) is anti-Semitic. Neo-Nazis are anti-Semitic.
It’s not like I released an album with the Hamas Symphony Orchestra. It’s not like I designed a new Spring Collection with John Galliano. It’s not like I sent al-Qaeda flowers of condolence to mark the tragic loss of Osama bin Laden. It’s not like I went into Anne Frank’s house with members of the SS and shouted in my best German: she’s in the bookcase!
My tweet wasn’t anti-Semitic. It was insensitive (in other words, I brought up, obliquely, the subject of a tragedy, but without wearing black, playing an anthem, or making a two-part documentary.) But as Steve Martin said, comedy ain’t pretty.
Somewhere in the world, right now, there’s a disaster, a genocide, a tragedy. And quite soon, somebody will make a joke about it. But it doesn’t necessarily mean they’re cheerleading for it. A mention isn’t a manifesto.
I don’t deserve my name linked anyplace near anti-Semitism by malicious, salacious media shorthand. My career in comedy (if you can call it either) has stood up against racism, in favour of the underdog. My jokes demonstrate, I like to think, the folly of racism. Judge me by my words, not my words as pecked over by hand-picked offendees who create so much graphic detail of any tragedy, of course it’s gonna ruin the joke.
(Fun fact: the two founding brothers of Adidas, Rudi and Adi Dassler, were members of the Nazi Party. Appropriately, Adi was born Adolf. And Rudi was Rudolf, making him Rudolf the Red-Nosed Nazi. It doesn’t appear there are plans for Adidas to rebrand as Adolfdas.)
THE H-BOMB
My tweet didn’t use the word Holocaust. Obviously, the H-word has headline grunt, which appeals to the Herald on Sunday, but this word does not appear in my tweet. This is deliberate. Holocaust, quite frankly, is a difficult word to use in a joke. Tends to drag the audience down. (I advise young comedians against it.)
The choice of euphemism is vital. I’m not a shock jock. It’s the difference, between ‘f***ing’ and ‘intercourse’. The fact is the same, but one version has bubble-wrap. Notice, in my tweet, no expressions like systemic murder, Zyklon-B, or Dachau. I didn’t even use the word people. Or humans. Or Jews. I said, deliberately, ‘thousands.’ To use a number is distancing, and when you want someone to laugh at a joke, you need to create emotional distance. (But not so much that it isn’t a joke.) My words were ‘thousands’, and ‘trains’ -- enough to get the idea across, but hopefully, not so much to form a detailed mental picture of genocide, til suddenly we’re watching Schindler’s List and reaching for a tissue.
Bottom line: I was insulting Germans, not Jews. I hope we've cleared that up.
Finally, to all the people who’ve expressed their support, I have seriously been grateful for every single message. Thank you so much.
- The Dominion Post
Comedian Raybon Kan has taken his first step into the heady world of political pottery this week, as his website begins to sell humorous mugs.
"I don't want anyone to think I'm cashing in on the Rugby World Cup. Those words, as such, do not appear on the mugs."
Kan says the mugs are a statement about free speech. "At a time where everything seems to be touchscreen, I like using a medium that stands up to hot beverages.
"If you plan to abstain from coffee, the mugs have a revolutionary new multi-function which also works with cold drinks.
"And if you buy both mugs, and don't eat a thing for six weeks, there are also amazing weight-loss benefits."
The mugs go on sale from today, either from raybonkan.com or Trade Me.
So I’m in this Roast of Murray Mexted tonight, on Comedy Central. Had very little idea what to expect. First thought was: “Why me?” (Often my first thought. Maybe I’ve seen too many Jason Bourne movies, but most invites feel like an ambush. Who’s punking me now?)
Certainly didn’t think I was there for my depth of rugby knowledge. I gave a speech, based on a superficial inkling of innuendo and gossip, sprinkled with a touch of court-ordered name suppression -- and afterwards, I was able to relax and have a good time. Everyone was very funny, and importantly for New Zealand, not so rude as to never be able to bump into each other again.
The next day, however, different story. All I could think was: Ohhhh! That’s what I should have said!
And all that day, I did nothing but taunt myself with awesome things I should have said. Zingers bloomed where previously there had been desert. Why didn’t you fire that ace down! By the end of that day, only one day too late, I had the perfect Murray Mexted Roast speech. Sadly, I’ll never get a chance to use it.
The French call this feeling, l’esprit de l’escalier. I’m sure that straight away, they came up with a better name for it.
Enjoy the show tonight.
Here's a link to the trailer for the Roast.
http://bit.ly/qx1ETF
Here's the link to an interview I did today on BBC Radio's Up All Night show. (Becoming quite the international correspondent. Can't be long before the BBC send me to a war-zone.) Raybon Kan on BBC Radio's Up All Night show
My segment begins at 3.45. Had fun doing the interview. Think I was fair trying to explain the point of view of the sign's supporters, ie the opposite view to mine. ;-)
This is a link to me being interviewed on BBC Radio about Wellywood. Or should that be Wellywoodgate? Interview is Chapter 7. Guess I don't have to blog about this now. Phew. My interview on BBC Radio
Stumbled across this. (Wasn't searching for lion-tiger intercourse.) A faithful, patient dog is breastfeeding the offspring of a male lion and a female tiger. (Both actual parents, felines, have absconded.) Wrong on so many levels. First, lions and tigers? As the Bible says, "That ain't right." Noah's Ark isn't some swingers' key party. I saw The Lion King, and this kind of thing didn't go on.
Secondly, if you do get all jungle slut with some totally wasted tiger, or vice versa, lion up. Both of you. Hang around. Pay the maintenance. Look after your weird mutated babies. Don't expect some third species to step in and do what you oughta. Feed them some zebra nuggets.
Third, at some point, these cubs are gonna get a little bit bigger, and eat 'mommy'. In a word: ungrateful children.
For the original news article, go to: http://bit.ly/jYPky5
On the bright side, Kyle Chapman denies being a racist. The message has gotten through -- even to a white supremacist -- that racism is a bad look. In years past, he wouldn’t have bothered denying racism. Why would he? Other races spoiling this neat and tidy landscape: that’s his core value. And he’s hardly the only one. In years past, before racism went out of fashion, racism was a handy shortcut -- an easy way to know, at a glance, who to dislike. Much like “red sky at night, shepherd’s delight”, racism gave you a useful rule of thumb. Something like: “slanty eyes, surrounded by flies.” Racism was common sense. Indeed, racism was probably a badge of glamour, a sign of worldliness, a hint that one had travelled. On Close Up, interviewed by Mark Sainsbury, Kyle Chapman spoke the code of the closeted racist. “Immigration is out of control.” “We’re New Zealand nationalists.” He was looking to “recruit like-minded people.” His objection wasn’t to Chineseness -- (speak the code!) -- but Communism, which was destroying his freedom of speech. It didn’t occur to him that the Chinese who flee China maybe aren’t the biggest fans of Communism themselves. But that might have required thought. I doubt Kyle Chapman and his 42 Facebook friends are ever going to come to one of my shows. I have a certain audience: liberal people for whom thinking is an enjoyable pastime, not the devil’s pitchfork, stinging the brain. So why even address his opinions? I doubt I can talk someone into liking country music if it’s not their cup of tea. And I am really, really, really not Kyle Chapman’s cup of oolong. How do I, whose parents and siblings were born in China, whose dad can surgically extract a fish bone with chopsticks, a person who loves yum cha, whose first language was Cantonese -- how do I influence a person who simply can’t stand the sight of me, or my kin (or even Bruce Lee) because our faces pollute his pastoral wonderland? To try change his mind is an exercise in futility. (Kyle, look it up.) You can’t logic someone out of something they didn’t logic into. But to me, the extremists are not the problem. More disturbing than Kyle Chapman and this flaming, street-marching Hero Parade racism, is the racism we don’t notice. The racism of absence. Without wishing to sound all X-Files, look where we’re not. In Middle Earth, where trees can walk and talk, anyone who isn’t white is an Orc. The so-called races -- elves, hobbits, Rohan, dwarves -- they’re not different races. They’re different heights. Of white people. In Shortland Street, set in the New Zealand healthcare system, not one single doctor is Chinese or subcontinental. No Asian doctor, no Indian doctor. Not one. From memory, the last Chinese character was a drug dealer. (And I don’t mean pharmacist.) Sometimes, I watch Robbie Magasiva and pretend his character is secretly Chinese. (Much the way in the TV series Kung Fu, Kwai Chang Caine was played by that Chinese actor David Carradine.) Should a soap reflect reality? Should Shortland Street resemble Queen St? Or should we accept that Shortland Street is actually science fiction, set in a parallel universe, where all Asian doctors have been wiped out, probably by a killer virus called Chapman’s Cure? How do you fight an absence? Remember Obama’s election campaign? I was in the UK, and in liberal comedy circles, you could sense a nation looking down its nose at these bigoted Americans. How could a black president be such a difficult concept? But the hypocrisy was glaring: how white is British politics? Compared to the faces on the streets of London, the British power structure ranges from, hmmm, cream to ivory. A black prime minister for Britain? Good grief, they’re not ready for a black Doctor Who. That would make their heads pop. Even though Doctor Who travels through time, reincarnates, lives in a Tardis and battles Daleks, the notion that Doctor Who could be anything but white is, well, outlandish. (Quite frankly, with a name like Doctor Who, he really should be Chinese. Casting directors: let’s take a meeting. Doctor Hu?) The absence of Asians in media meant my first Asian role model was Mr Spock. Spock, the Vulcan, was good with computers, inscrutable, and capable of great feats of martial arts. His eyes were arched, his pallor yellow, his haircut a bowl, probably recently emptied of rice. The absence of Asians in media says this: we know you’re there, but we tune you out. As Paul Henry would say, you don’t look like a New Zealander. Ask yourself: Why is it OK for Chinese to own dairies, but not dairy farms?
***** Raybon’s show Awesome $ecrets of Winning Thru £aziness is part of the NZ International Comedy Festival in Wellington from May 17-21. Book at Ticketek.
Raybon's new show is coming to Auckland and Wellington in May: part of the 2011 New Zealand International Comedy Festival.
AWESOME $ECRETS OF WINNING THRU £AZINESS*
*Or What Would A Panda Do?
Tactical Laziness Connoisseur Raybon Kan shows how to achieve All Your Goals the E-Z Way!!!
$$$!!!!! Get a Million Dollars! All at once! In a pile! In $1 coins!!!
XXX!!! Get Married! All at once! In a pile!
Is your hammock strung too tight? Your snooze button too rigid? Can’t be bothered dialing pizza? This Show Is For YOU!!!
Raybon Kan has been named New Zealand's Best Comedian (Metro Magazine and North & South), played sell-out tours and performed at the Montreal Just for Laughs Festival and the Edinburgh Fringe.
"He has the true comedian's ability to take the ordinary, the mundane, the unnoticed, and turn it into the bizarre."
The Press
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AUCKLAND - FIVE NIGHTS ONLY Limelight Laugh Lounge, Aotea Centre May 3 to May 7, 8.30pm Special Discount Preview: April 30
Auckland Bookings: Edge Ticketing http://www.the-edge.co.nz/raybonkan.aspx
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WELLINGTON - FIVE NIGHTS ONLY Garden Club, Dixon St May 17 to 21, 8.30pm
Wellington Bookings: Ticketek http://premier.ticketek.co.nz/Shows/Show.aspx?sh=RAYBONKA11
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Hi there you!Yes, you. Welcome! Thanks for finding this page. Hopefully you're here on purpose -- unless you got ambushed by my clever use of metatags. I haven't blogged in months, so this is a note to say hi. If you're interested in my occasional ramblings, I now micro-ramble on Twitter (@RaybonKan) so you'll never miss one of my prematurely born, malnourished thoughts. Isn't that what Twitter is? Or perhaps it's a nursery for bonsai thoughts. It's new for me, so by all means pull up a chair and enjoy the growing pains (and join in!) Oh well, better check my Twitter feed. See you on the attention-deficit side!
Raybon
I don’t want to listen to Tiger Woods’ phone messages.The media in 2009 is an outrage. Did Henry VIII have to deal with this kind of invasion? Caesar? Elvis? In my view, Tiger Woods has behaved impeccably, and utterly without reproach, in the relevant category: Superstars Married To Someone Hot But Not Famous. I don’t see how can we hold Tiger Woods to a different standard to other rock stars. Adulation is part of the job description. It’s like marrying Superman and expecting him to walk everywhere. Mrs Woods -- a nanny (ie illegal immigrant guest worker), not even a member of the Spice Girls -- knew, pre-marriage, that Tiger was worshipped globally. To this life-lottery Powerball-windfall of a union, she brought zero fame, and only three sexual-fantasy points, she being a (1) Swedish (2) Nanny (3) Model. Yet, are we to believe that for this meagre investment -- which would only diminish over time, especially with Florida sun damage -- she expected 100% of the worldwide rights to Tiger’s entire body, even in countries she wasn’t in at the time? She expected rights in Melbourne? New York? Las Vegas?!? Surely, the most she could expect were the Swedish rights to Tiger, in perpetuity, and events where they were both on the premises and arrived on the same flight. (It wouldn’t surprise me if these were the exact words of their wedding vows.) Who did she think she was, Jennifer Aniston? Sarah Jessica Parker? Good grief, we’re talking about Tiger Woods here. Tiger is in his own category, like Elvis. Would we be surprised, or judgmental, that Elvis cheated on Priscilla? No. People had class in those days, even the media. People knew to turn a blind eye. Even Priscilla looked away. She didn’t act all trashy, chasing his car out of Graceland, smashing the windows with blue suede shoes. Mrs Woods, on the other hand, used the golf champion’s signature club to attack the sponsor’s luxury vehicle, after scratching his face, no doubt with sponsored nail polish (he’s worth it.) Has there ever been domestic violence with this much product placement? Life for Tiger is completely unfair. You can be the best-looking billionaire on the planet, a global monarch. Here’s all the women who want to have sex with you right now, this instant, as soon as they wrap from their underwear shoot, but don’t touch them. What sort of deal with the devil is this? Let’s be honest, the puritanical media reaction is pure envy. We would love a deal with the devil, but we can’t even get an appointment. It’s so easy to say, don’t cheat on your wife. Of course Tiger knew he was married. But have you never forgotten something you knew? Everyone knows not to lift their head on contact with the ball, but they all seem to forget when there’s a club in their hand. So it is with groupies when you’re famous and married. Jesper Parnevik, shame on you. How dare you say you regret introducing Elin to Tiger? The only reason we care what you think is because you knew Tiger. (I suspect he’s deleted your number now.) And thanks to that introduction, eight years ago -- several lifetimes in celebrity years -- Mrs Woods is set for life. And since when did the Swedish people get so morally uptight? Not to mention turbulent, and fingernail-attacky, like Latin Americans at an election? Good grief, the French president met his previous wife when he was celebrant at her wedding. Let’s get with the times. And credit where credit is due. What about all the women Tiger hasn’t had sex with? Do we have any idea what it’s like to be Tiger Woods? Imagine being in a room where 100 people all try to hit you at the same time, with 100 tennis balls. A few would hit, right? Well, if you’re Tiger Woods, it’s not tennis balls being thrown your way: it’s women. Beautiful, sexually aggressive, competitive women. Sure, he’s had a few affairs. But as a percentage of all the beautiful women who have offered to sleep with him, I’d guess his uptake is somewhere between celibate, homosexual or dead. I bet the Dalai Lama doesn’t have as clean a record as Tiger. Anyone who wears bed sheets constantly, is obviously sending out the glad eye. Maybe we should call him the Glad Eye Lama. Let’s look further at what else Tiger didn’t do. Faced at 2.30am with anger and violence, and indeed shame -- his mother was right there -- he didn’t contribute violence. A lover, not a fighter, he drove away. Indeed, in a hybrid, for the planet. As Michael Jackson implored us to do, Tiger beat it. Like Gandhi, he chose the path of non-violence. If only, like Mandela, he’d chosen a long walk to freedom instead.
So the new version of Fame is out. Matter of time, I suppose. (There are probably 1980s weather forecasts in Hollywood development.)“Fame costs and right here is where you start paying.” Error 1: Fame is somehow linked to training in the performing arts. Obviously this doesn’t apply today. The way to be a household name is simply to be the last one evicted from the house. But did the Fame theory ever work? One of the original characters was a brooding songwriter. (How many songwriters ever need to evade paparazzi?) A cellist. (Cello isn’t even an instrument, it’s child abuse. And not even the glamorous child abuse that gets you on Oprah.) And, a dancer. (Check the chorus of tap-dancers in a Broadway musical. How many of them test positive for fame?) Dancers are the least famous people in the world. Any time it’s better when there’s more of you on stage, it’s not fame. You might as well make patterns in an Opening Ceremony. For that matter, sit in the stands at an Opening Ceremony. Same thing. The big picture is the star, and you are a pixel. Pixels don’t get their own dressing room. Does fame cost? Well, the price of fame is privacy. And for the non-famous -- those suffering a chronic oversupply of privacy -- having some removed, is the whole point. Fame doesn’t cost. It just keeps giving and giving. Until it expires. Right there is where you start paying. The price of fame is the comedown. Pay later. It’s like a credit card. Which brings us to... “I’m gonna live forever.” Elvis (42), MJ (50), Bruce Lee (32). Yes, their names are remembered. Is this the same as living forever? On this question, the coroner is still out. If he were alive today, Elvis would be 74. In other words, alive, but not freakishly so. Only as ‘immortal’ as a healthy human. So, fame keeps you alive, up to the normal lifespan. Forever? We’ll know more about fame’s magic healing powers, if Elvis is still famous when he’s 150. So how to update the Fame school curriculum? Well, look at what’s on TV. These days, the Fame classes would have to include performance cooking, grumpy restaurant management, house renovation, landscape gardening, hiring, firing, spouse selection, wilderness survival, envy, quippy vitriol, and veterinary science. And of course, how to marry a professional athlete.
So the Germans have produced an Aids awareness ad in which Hitler has sex with a hot woman. Well, Hitler’s the surprise reveal at the end. It’s not like the ad opens on Hitler, in bed, ranting, giving a speech, while a sepia map of a nude woman uses cartoon arrows to indicate Hitler’s artillery, tactics, and sites of invasion.It’s more like this: a smoking hot woman is having glamorous, smoking hot sex all over every part of an expensive hotel room, with some guy -- oh, it’s Hitler. The end. When they reveal Hitler’s ravenous coital face, the tagline reads: Aids is a mass murderer. (For the observant, there are subtle clues enroute that the man was Hitler. The sex begins, after all, in the shower.) For most of the ad, though, not seeing the man’s face (and not wondering either) all we do is savour the woman’s lust. The viewer thinks: whoa, that chick is hot. And then - the buzzkill downer. It’s Hitler. (But I was enjoying that!) My first reaction to Hitler was the same as any time I’m watching porn and we dwell on the man. Move the camera. Away. Go back. To the woman. My second thought was this. Way to go, Hitler! Hitler’s scored a hottie! Hitler has a way with the ladies! As the saying goes in German, Power pullen Pornopussy! Not only that, Hitler has clearly been hitting the gym. Ripped? He looks like he’s just completed the Iron Cross in the Berlin Olympics. He’s built like the pool boy, not the millionaire. This is not some jaded, decadent Caesar’s lazy five-minute assisted wank with a slave girl. He’s really putting some effort, imagination and cardio into the whole session. As reflected by her enjoyment. She’s having a great time. She is definitely not lying back and thinking of Austria. Samantha from Sex and the City would give this session two fists up. But alas: It’s Hitler. We the audience only notice this at the end, but surely, she knew this from the outset. Some would imagine this was part of the attraction. So what’s the real moral? Hitler has Aids, so when you time-travel-shag him, use eine Kondom. Be a safe Nazi.
It bothers me that Malawi won’t let Madonna adopt that little baby girl Mercy. Maybe if it was all anonymous, it might be OK. Maybe if there’d been a group of orphans (finalists if you like) it might have been less hurtful. It would be less cruel if no single orphan knew they were the actual baby who had won the lottery to become Madonna's Next Top Child.But Mercy will one day grow up and learn that when she was a baby, she had this opportunity. As fateful as the circumstances she was born into, she was offered a quantumly different opportunity. And the life people dream of, to the power of ten, could have been hers. But her government said no. Envy? In years to come, as a young adult in Malawi, Mercy will look around her humble surroundings, and wonder what the hell her underperforming handout-requiring state was trying to prove. What chip on their shoulder possessed them to stop one of their own being scooped into the golden lifeboat? Couldn't they have thought of it as a nice thing for the baby? Surely just the music and dance lessons would make it worthwhile. Not to mention the chance to get past infant mortality. Malawi owe Mercy a life-long debt, big-time. I don’t know what could pay it back. No income tax ever? President for life? Maybe the kindest thing to do is to change her name, and gently brainwash her so she never finds out -- what could have been. Sigh.
This week I have been the victim of street crime. I was pickpocketed in London. I lost my entire wallet: credit cards, eftpos cards, driver’s licence. Fortunately, I still have my passport, so I was able to go to the bank the next day, and prove I am the owner of that account -- yes that one -- the one with no money in it.I am never giving anyone directions again. And -- I am also never hugging anyone on the street again. And -- mark my words -- I am definitely not dancing with anyone on the street either. Here’s what happened. It was about 2am on Saturday. I was walking home, intoxicated. (If anything, this is the moral choice.) To help me find my way, I was using a compass. I bought this a week ago in Paris, to solve this problem I have, emerging from underground train stations, and not knowing which way is north. A man with an Italian accent asked me for directions. I thought, I must really look like I know my way. I told him to bear north-northwest. I admit, it pleased me to have superior geography to someone else. And then -- he hugged me. I didn’t want to reject him. I didn’t want to offend his Continental notions of personal space. The hug took quite a while. But he was not finished thanking me. I realise, as I recount this, I probably still had my wallet at that point. Because now, he beckoned me into a Greek-style man-dance, where he stood by my side, and put an arm over my shoulder. He lifted one of his legs, and implied, by demonstrating, that I do the same, and entwine one of my legs with his, in a three-legged can-can hop. Man. I thought I was drunk. This guy is wasted. Maybe it’s my open-mindedness, or my dance training, but I obliged. What can I say -- he led well. And that was that. It wasn’t til the next day I noticed my wallet was missing. I didn’t suspect the Italian guy. He was lost. Wouldn’t he have taken my compass instead? Still, better pickpocketed than being mugged. If I’d been mugged, I’d have felt traumatised. This way, I just felt over-charmed.