Battle of the Sams

Today I thought it might be nice, for a change, to showcase the work of both Fairfax Sams. One being Sam de Brito, author of All men are liars. The other being some chick who likes shoes or something. One devotes his time and energy to problems facing the modern male, including relationships, gender roles, health, porn, drugs, and some more light hearted topics. The other copies and pastes text from AskMen.com, and goes to movie openings.

Recently Sam de Brito wrote a blog entry called The Old Guy, which is about aging, wisdom, death, and hope. Some highlights include:

It's one of the sadder characteristics of Western society that just when men, and particularly women, have garnered a sense of what life is actually about, we stop listening to them.

The contempt we hold for the elderly manifests itself most potently in our attempts to reject the inevitability of the aging process, the billions we spend on cosmetic surgery, hair dye and fish oil and the looks of panicked terror when people like the man on the bus suddenly realise they've become The Old Guy

"What we fear is our own demise and indications of aging are simply unwanted reminders of our mortality. By rejecting old people and the signs of age in ourselves we are simply reacting to a natural fear of extinction that has preoccupied humans beings forever."

One of the greatest mistakes you can make at any age is to think you've nothing left to learn and though the trade-off for wisdom is diminished sexual attractiveness, health and vitality, you'd be insane to rebuff the transaction completely and opt for aging and ignorance.

The beauty of Livingston's writing is that it is underpinned by hope - that if you do the right things, the hard things - happiness and joy are the alloy you'll produce from the ore of self-discipline and self-examination.

vs.

This extract is from The Art of The Tease with Venus and Mars

Say what? Oh yes, apparently females these days like to flirt, flirt, flirt to their heart's content, teasing and titillating the poor bloke into buying her drinks, keeping her company and gyrating next to her on the dance floor. If he's lucky, he'll get a peck on the cheek during Justin Timberlake's Sexy Back.

But hold on gents. Before you attempt to tease your latest squeeze about her weight (a definite no-no!), her age (ouch!) or her choice of high heels (bad move), please beware that there's a difference between a GSOH (a good sense of humour) and downright rudeness.

Is it just me, or do you have a mental image of Gore Vidal and Adam Sandler playing Scrabble as well?

P.S. Thanks to Robbie for pointing me to Sam and the City Sux, a blog which seems to have started 12 months ago but sadly never continued.

FUCK OFF.

How to He-Tox (or She-Tox!)
August 15, 2007

PISS IT.

Don't you just love bringing up the subject of an ex? Because as soon as you do, everyone around you begins proffering up salacious stories detailing how long it took them to get over their toxic ex. They explicate their previous lover's behaviour and what they did to anger them so, debate the merits of whether or not they'd go back to the scene of the crime (my advice is never!) and bitch, tut-tut and moan about their ex's new partner (even though you think they're lovely deep down).

FUCK OFF.

But when your heart has been sat on like a cheap pair of sunglasses and you'd rather eat dirt than have to go out on the prowl again (only to be groped by yet another philandering cad or tease), what's a scorned lover to do?

FUCK OFF.

James Blunt penned a song, crooning a farewell love ballad to his ex aptly titled Goodbye My Lover. The lyrics, which include the line, "I know love is blind, but my heart was blinded by you," is enough to touch the hearts of any recently dumped, heartaching, soul-destroyed, newly single singleton who knows all too well how Blunt was feeling at the time. (Even the most retrosexual of blokes can be heard giving a light sniff when the song comes on the radio.)

FUCK OFF.

Even though I was happily dating someone new at the time the song was released, listening to Blunt harp on about kissing her lips, holding her head, sharing her dreams and sharing her bed and continuing with his heartfelt plea, "I know you well, I know your smell; I've been addicted to you," was enough to bring back all those fuddy duddy feelings I thought had long been suppressed.

FUCK OFF.

Of course not all of us can punch out a Grammy-nominated ballad and mass broadcast our feelings to the entire universe in an attempt to help us get over an ex. Hence the experts have come up with another solution: the He-Tox/She-Tox diet ...

PLEASE GOD, FUCK OFF.

Why is it so effective? Because it's your chance to call the shots, says Greg Behrendt, author of It's Called a Break Up Because It's Broken. "This is about taking care of you, and putting yourself in a position where you can get through this really tough time with some measure of ease. Sixty days gives you the emotional distance necessary for total recovery."

YOU TOO, FUCK OFF.

Take my miserable friend K. After being dumped by her beau of four years and listening to endless amounts of James Blunt and sharing caramel KitKats with me, you'd think she'd be strong enough to take a stab at the He-Tox.

FUCKITY FUCK OFF.

ARSE.

Singtel

Single v Settle, and which sex is more choosy?
August 1, 2007

See if this scenario rings any bells. You meet a person you like. You begin dating and you instantly hit it off. You meet their folks, holiday with their mates and think you may have found "the one".

Then calamity strikes.

While listening to the White Stripes and perving on Ryan Gosling in The Notebook, you suddenly find yourself wondering what the heck you're doing.

"Ohmigod - I could be stuck with this life forever!" you moan to yourself. And then you start to wonder if maybe you could be happier with someone else. If there could perhaps be another person out there that you're meant to be
with.

Oh man, if I had a dollar for all the times that's happened to me!

Is it just a case of lifestyle envy? Cold feet? Or something more ...

Put down the Alain DeBotton book, and step away from the reading glasses.

Of course as many singletons can attest, even before we get to the stage where we're debating over whether to settle or not to settle, there's the sticky business of the hunt. And this week, it's having Aussie women in a tizzy.

This may come as a shock, but I don't think "Samantha Brett" actually exists. The blonde chicky with the caterpillar eyebrows is nothing more than the face of Ask Sam.

Samantha Brett may actually be my 68 year old mother.

My phone became abuzz with frantic requests from talkback radio hosts asking me to give tips to panicking women as to what they can do to combat the supposed man drought in Sydney and Melbourne.

Here's my advice:
1) Stop panicking. That's why the men left in the first place. This whole 'mining boom' thing is just a ruse to get some peace and quiet.
2) Stop calling talkback radio hosts for advice.

Byth Musters

Sexual myths debunked
July 25, 2007

The first paragraph of this Clog made me shoot coffee out my nose - and I finished my last cup over 4 hours ago.

Readers' questions have been pouring in, begging ASK SAM to dispel some sex, dating and mating myths.

THAT'S BECAUSE YOU KEEP PERPETUATING THEM.
THEY'RE TELLING YOU TO SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Anyway, let's have a butcher's at what Sam's put on the table.

MYTH: It's healthier to sleep in the nude

FACT: It's true! Well at least according to the web portal sleepnaked.org. And while one in eight women like to get some shut-eye without any clothing on, according to a poll on the subject, 62 per cent of men do the same! Okay, so there may not be any scientific studies to back it up, but sleeping naked is said to be more comfortable and relaxing, making it easier to fall asleep in the first place, resulting in a deeper, longer sleep which enables your body to regenerate itself and have more energy the following day.

So...there...there's no actual evidence to...to...say that it is healthier, is there Sam?
MYTHBUSTING FAIL.

MYTH: Sex can make you skinny
FACT: That's right folks; apparently 30 minutes of the horizontal hanky-panky can help you burn 200 calories. Celebrity personal trainer Nicky Waterman reckons that by doing it five days a week, you're doing aerobic exercise equivalent of two and a half hours at the gym! Not to mention that having sex three times a week lowers your risk of suffering a heart attack or stroke by 50 per cent and you've got no more excuses.

This man has slept with thousands of women.



MYTHBUSTING FAIL.

MYTH: Men think about sex every seven seconds
FACT: That by the time a man finishes reading this column, he's thought about it 70 times! Not entirely true, but nevertheless close. The rumour came about after the Kinsey Institute released the results of a survey back in 1948 which found that 54 per cent men think about it every day, several times a day. (Only 4 per cent claimed they only think about it once a month.)

For you kids out there who are a few years out of high school and a bit rusty when it comes to addition and subtraction, several is indeed very close to over 8000* - remember how you were taught only a few dozen people died in World War II?
MATHEMATICS FAIL.

On a personal note, I've just been interviewed for an article on Samantha Brett which will be featured on TheSavvyGal in the next couple of weeks. I'm under no illusion that I'll be the recepient of glowing praise from a website whose logo consists of a shoe and a handbag, but we'll see how it goes.++

* Based on your average 16 hour day.
++ If it goes badly, I'll just get my system administrator friend to haxx0r teh systemz.

Trying too hard: How the noun generation do it

Fast love: the art of the quickie
July 18, 2007

One thing that shits me about advertising, marketing, and mass media is the temptation to put "generation" after every-single-fucking-noun. You know the ones. The Youtube Generation. The iPod Generation. The Syphilis Generation.

In an attempt to make it look like she has insight in to humanity, Sam has adopted this technique and really made it her own. First there was "The Blog Generation", then there was "The Casual Sex Generation", now there's "The Quickie Generation"

After all, who has time these days for all the hullabaloo and hassle of lighting sweet-smelling candles, making polite small talk over a three-course meal or worse, meeting the folks, the friends and the family even before being shown the bedroom?

The cast of Pride and Prejudice?

I got to thinking about this topic after it was brought up by a bunch of blokes over wines at a friend's birthday party. (I can always count on a few boozed-up gents to give me plenty of fodder for this column.)

And Sam's column makes me want to drink! Wow! Now that's what I call the Circle of Life.

But ladies, I do have a small warning for those of you that are looking forward to bidding farewell to lengthy mid-week sessions after a 12-hour day, a pump class and an episode of Desperate Housewives still to go. Apparently the three words most hated by men during sex are these: "Are you done?"

For me it's "My water broke!"

Achin' for an A Cup

A-cup of cleavage
July 9, 2007

They've been called everything from hurdy-gurdies, funny udders, angel cakes and Betty Boops to mangos, melons, jugs and FiFi's Funballs.

FiFi's Funballs? Betty Boops? Funny udders? Hurdy-gurdies? If that's not a list of Wiggles B-Sides, I don't know what is. I'm really starting to think that Sam isn't from a privileged Eastern Suburbs family at all. It's more likely she was made in the Hasbro factory from defective pony bits and surplus Care Bears.

Scarlett Johansson, the doyenne of large assets (think those sultry lips, saucer-sized aqua eyes and super-sized lashes) terms them "my girls", lamenting that they're "my charms, my feminine wiles".

And everyone from Marilyn Monroe to Victoria Beckham has concurred, deeming them symbols of femininity and sexuality.

I don't know if Sam has finally discovered irony, but if I was a chick, and I had titties like Scarlett Johansson, I wouldn't be lamenting a thing. Shit, I wouldn't even have an acting career, I'd be fired for sitting around playing with my boobs all day.

I took a quick glance around the restaurant and suddenly all I could notice was the abundance of cleavage. From the group of girls sitting to my left to the female twosome ahead of me and the waitress serving us our drinks. When I mentioned this to the blokes I was with, their faces turned into huge grins as they too began to enjoy the scenery.

I call bullshit on that. Those guys knew there were boobs-a-poppin' before they even set foot in the bar. And also, I think Sam's a lesbian.

The scene reminded me of my recent trip to New York where two single 30-something femmes (both successful TV producers) decided to show me the town.

There she goes with the dropping of the job description and social status. I can't tell if it's "girl power" pride, or some sort of social climbing middle class denial.

Anyway. Dude, how good are boobs?






Ahh, Miriam. I look forward to the day when the restraining order expires.

And finally, I'd like to give a shout out to the wonderful Lady Harsh who gave Sam a nice little shit-canning recently.

Oh the joy of my life, the joy of my days. Sam Brett, who is no longer allowed to be in the city – she must now be Ask Sam, and then people may actually realise what that is and may want to stop. Still my joy is complete because Sam Brett is wearing the exact same dress as only two weeks ago. I know Ask Sam – do you think that means like your dress sense, you’re ideas are recycled? Do you?

Pure hatred aside, I have to say this Sam Brett ensemble looks cheap and tacky. From the over extended hair to the mismatching shades of shoulder versus face tan. The ill fitting sack dress gives Sammy B a bit of stomach. But worst is the bag – while I'm sure it's actually a real Fendi, to me it looks like a $5 bargain from outside the Hard Rock Bali. I even double checked for spelling errors – Fendy, Findi, Fndi. (I'm sure there are many who wish I checked my own page with the same diligence).

Sam Brett is now on the permanent celebrity guest list. This will prove equally entertaining as well as proving that anyone can really, with little talent, be a celebrity. Sam continues to show no originality with her ten months behind the play dressing, and growing resemblance to Rachel Zoe. Wait for it, December 09, Sam’s going to start rocking the leggings. And before you say it, hell yes it's professional jealousy. I'd love an excuse to swan about and 'blog' about my modern day 'dating' dramas!

This person makes me quite mad, so I will refrain from getting too out of control!! But for just a second, indulge me – YOU ARE NOT CARRIE BRADSHAW, YOU ARE NOT SARAH JESSICA PARKER, YOU ARE NOT CANDANCE BUSHNELL, YOU ARE NOT PLUM SYKES.

Phew that feels better. For someone who is supposed to be the cool, edgy, hip girl about town, Sam looks strangely like Dannii Minogue just before she left YTT. Including the bubble skirt and massive fringe.

Now I'm not one to make outrageous claims, but I think Lady Harsh could well be the best and most important person on the internets. Ever.

Why Angelina Jolie is great and you're shithouse.

As we all know celebrities are better than us, and we all need to be more like them to be happy, decent human beings. So to help you out, I've compiled a list of celebrities that have whole heartedly endorsed Sam's dating advice over the past 2 months.































So there you have it. If you're not getting a root, have a shit job and no money, it's because you're not one of the people above - although I'm not sure who the douchbag is with the pots is, I think I saw him on TV once or something. Maybe a young Peter Russell-Clarke?