Are my current posts so boring that everyone seems to be reading my entries from… 2006? 

First I received that nice email from the Sun-Maid raisin girl about a post from that year.  Today, I received a different type of response to a ”humorous” post I wrote in May 2006 titled “Seven Reasons to Abolish Mother’s Day.”

The comment:

You are, by far, the biggest loser that has ever lived. I challange you to a debate on the reason for mothers. Obviously, yours has failed you and you are tainted in your view of mothers. What about father’s day??? How many have bailed out on their pregnant significant others? What about that, you coward? It has not happended to me…I just think you need to view the whole picture. Let’s meet face-to-face, or are you scared?

Valerie

Valerie –

I know EXACTLY who you are!  You are the coward.  If you are so brave, why don’t YOU use your real name?  Would you like me to out you?  OK, I will — Mrs.  Elaine Kramer! 

Nice try, Mom!  Valerie, hah!  You’ll stop at nothing, won’t you?  Don’t you know I can track you with Sitemeter?!

I know I said I would call you back in five minutes today and then forgot all about it.  I’m busy.  Get used to it!  I was on Twitter.  I had no time to talk.  And I know I still haven’t sent you a mother’s day card from… last year.   But seriously, get a life –

You’re the best, Mom.   Happy Mother’s Day on Sunday! 

(uh, the card is in the mail.  I just sent it today, so you probably won’t, uh, get it in time…)

They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.

But people were pissed at losing paradise.

So they paved the parking lot and planted paradise.

But people now had no place to park at paradise.

So they raised taxes, spent 6 billion dollars, and built a light-rail system to paradise.

But now any shmuck could get in, and the place was swarming with trailer-trash who took the light-rail in from the boonies, ruining the appeal of paradise.

So they privatized paradise and made it into a gated community.

And they build underground parking for the residents.

I’ve been depressed. And lonely. And needy. And horny. And looking for love in all the wrong places. And pissed off at mommybloggers for naming every other blog MommySomething. And finding Twitter superficial.

And I have high cholesterol.

Is it any wonder that I haven’t blogged all week? Do you really want to read this crap?

Call me co-dependent. I need a woman at my side. Who is Adam without Eve? Without Eve, Adam would still be walking around the Garden of Eden, eating mud, and playing with himself!

“Hey, Adam, why don’t you try this delicious Apple?” said the sneaky snake.

“Uh, God said not to. I don’t want him to get mad at me and take away my wee-wee. I like raisin’ my cain.”

“What a dimwit.” said the snake to himself. “C’mon, God, you can do better. You need to go back to the drawing board and chalk this one up as the beta.”

“I think you’re correct, snake,” boomed God. “I will create the superior Wo-man! But what do I do with my first unsuccessful attempt, this creation called man.”

“I have an idea,” said the snake. “Give the Wo-man a pair of boobs so then he always has something to play with and to think about. His simple mind will be amused.”

And to commemorate this event, on Shabbos, Jews worldwide eat matzoh ball soup to remember the wisdom of God in his creation of wo-man.

Today, I am happy again. I received a very nice email from a very special, inspirational woman. She is beautiful, smart, and I have been in love with her for a very long time. She is also well-known… a major celebrity that you all know. I have had celebrities come to this blog before, like the cowboy from the Village People, but never someone so special. And, yes, she loves me too.

May I introduce you to Delia Pacheco, the woman behind the image on the Sun-Maid Raisin box since 1970!

In 2006, I wrote a post titled “I Love You, Sun-Maid Raisin Girl,” bemoaning the fact that the company was updating the image of the raisin girl in their marketing to make the image seem “hipper.” I’m glad to say that Ms. Pacheco is still on all the boxes of Sun-Maid Raisins, and I smile and wink at her every time I enjoy my favorite healthy snack. She is like my real life Eve!

Thank you for the email! Here is Ms. Pacheco’s Squidoo page with her story.   She is much more than a pretty face — she is an artist, a cancer survivor, and the founder of a Christian ministry!

Greetings to you, the lucky finder of this golden ticket, from Mr. Willy Wonka!  I shake you warmly by the hand!  Tremendous things are in store for you! Many wonderful surprises await you!  For now, I do invite you to come to my factory and be my guest for one whole day — you and all others who are lucky enough to find my Golden Tickets.  I, Willy Wonka, will conduct you around the factory myself, showing you everything that there is to see, and afterwards, when it is time to leave, you will be escorted home by a procession of large trucks.  These trucks, I can promise you, will be loaded with enough delicious eatables to last you and your entire household for many years.  If, at any time thereafter, you should run out of supplies, you have only to come back to the factory and show this Golden Ticket, and I shall be happy to refill your cupboard with whatever you want.  In this way, you will be able to keep yourself supplied with tasty morsels for the rest of your life.  But this is by no means the most exciting thing that will happen on the day of your visit.  I am preparing other surprises that are even more marvellous and more fantastic for you and for all my beloved Golden Ticket holders — mystic and marvelous surprises that will entrance, delight, intrigue, astonish, and perplex you beyond measure. In your wildest dreams you could not imagine that such things could happen to you! Just wait and see!  And now, here are your instructions: the day I have chosen for the visit is the first day in the month of February.  On this day, and on no other, you must come to the factory gates at ten o’clock sharp in the morning.  Don’t be late!  And you are allowed to bring with you either one or two members of your own family to look after you and to ensure that you don’t get into mischief.  One more thing — be certain to have this ticket with you, otherwise you will not be admitted.

(Signed) Willy Wonka

(from Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory)

Who has never hoped for that Golden Ticket that will gain him entrance to the places of his wildest dreams? 

On Saturday, I was walking along the street in Long Beach when I notice that a new candy store had opened down the block.  It was one of those upscale candy stores that was geared as much for adults as kids, with a large selection of exotic and nostalgic candies from the past.  Outside the entrance, a few adults were online waiting to get a signed headshot from some “celebrity” who was there to promote the store.   I’m pretty good at recognizing those in the public eye, but I had no idea who the celebrity was at first, even when someone told me that this was “Mike Teavee.” 

“Who?” I wondered. 

Then I saw a poster for the 1971 version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, and immediately remembered the obnoxious kid in the cowboy outfit, one of the winners of the Golden Ticket to the factory.  Sitting here was Paris Themmen, who played Mike Teavee in the film.  I stood on line.  The woman in front of me was next.  She was thrilled to meet a character from her favorite movie.

“Can you please write “To Meg, Martin, and the two girls — Mike Tevee says, “I love TV, Willy Wonka Candy, and I love YOU!”

The actor quickly scribbled the message.  It seemed as if he’d done this countless times before at other candy stores and movie conventions.

Next, It was my turn.  I had never stood in line to get a signature before… well, other than for Crazy Aunt Purl’s book signing in LA, who then promptly stopped coming to this site after I told her to sign my book “Neilochka, I’d knit you a pair of socks anytime, anywhere.”

“Hey, how ya doing?” asked Paris Themmen, the former Mike Teavee.  I’m a big fan of the original Willy Wonka, and the books of Roald Dahl, but I wasn’t really prepared for this random meeting with the former child star. He seemed like a cool guy, and seeing that I was a little down in the dumps over things with Sophia, I saw this as a pick-me-up.

“Uh, great,” I said.  “Thanks for coming here.”

“What would you like me to write for you?” he asked.

I really had no idea.

The result:

After he handed me his signed photo, some pretty girl handed me a free “Willy Wonka” brand candy bar.  Now, if I were Mike Teavee or a character in Willy Wonka, I probably would have ripped open the packaging to see if there was a Golden Ticket inside.  Unfortunately, my first destination was to read the back of the wrapper for the nutritional information, where I discovered that this candy had more saturated fat than a pastrami sandwich at Canter’s Deli. 

“Hell, I should at least try it and see if Willy Wonka would approve.” 

I took one bite of this grainy, milk chocolate pseudo Nestle Crunch bar and I knew immediately that Willy himself would drown the producers of this monstrosity in a vat of chocolate (I later found out that the “Willy Wonka” brand is licensed to Nestle). It tossed most of the candy, which is probably the best thing for my cholesterol.

Besides, there was no Golden Ticket inside.

One day, I’ll get that Golden Ticket.  But it won’t be in a candy bar. 

Thanks for the photo, Paris (Mike Teavee)!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Lillies of the Valley

I might as well finish up a week of blogging posts, with a post about blogging –

Yesterday, I made fun of those badges that we all put on our blogs announcing some award or honor. Today, I’m thinking of offering my own badge for you to put on a post. This time I’m not joking.

The idea came to me earlier today –

In the morning I brought my car in for a smog-check. Are there smog checks all across the country, or only California? Just in case you’re not familiar with them, you bring your car into a service station once a year and some machine makes sure that your car isn’t a terror on the eco-system. The service station knows that you have to do this test, so they find a way to rip you off (it’s the labor!) If you fail, you can’t register your car. If you pass, woo-hoo! — you can drive your car at 5mph on California’s crowded freeways and pollute away. That is, after you pay a FEE for your smog test certificate.

While, I was waiting for my car, I thought about some blogs that I had recently read. I noticed a growing thread online — internet addiction. I know that I have felt jitters when I haven’t checked my email by 3PM. I’ve worried about not blogging for TWO DAYS straight. Will everyone forget my name?

The internet used to be a lot simpler — blogs and email. Now there is twitter and facebook and flickr and youtube and… who wants to actually leave the house anymore?! I can even watch “Lost” right on my computer so I don’t even need to move my butt over to the couch to watch TV. I can twitter my restaurant’s exact address to you over my phone, and then take a photo of the sandwich I’m eating to show you all.

Because of personal issues with Sophia, I’ve been using the internet as a friend lately. After all, you never get mad at me. You love me — no matter how many times I curse! It’s nice having you. I just don’t want to get addicted. Don’t worry… I’m just taking precautions. I’m pretty bored with most of the stuff online. I could easily drop every application I use (except for my blog) and not miss it all. I’m too cheap to pay for texting or data on my phone, so I never “check my messages” when I leave my home. I like that. Still, I think it is important to remind myself that I am not married to technology, or hooked in an unhealthy way.

That’s when I had this idea for an internet smog check.

I would post some beautiful badge right here on this blog — maybe next week — created by someone talented like Secret Agent Josephine. This badge would say something like “I passed the test!” You could then post this badge on one of your blog posts, impressing your friends, but only if you first pass the test: You must stay off the internet completely for twenty-four hours for ONE DAY, from midnight to midnight. No email, nothing! Only then, could you post the badge on your blog, announcing to the world that you are a healthy person not addicted to the internet. Maybe you could even write a post about how hard or easy it was to not go online, inspiring us all to interact with real people.

If by 2009, a blogger has not yet posted her badge on a post, it would be a clear cry for help. If someone is unable to stay off the internet for just ONE day once a year, it is time for the rest of us to get together and have an intervention and help this poor soul.

We’re always asking each other to read our posts and be part of the “community,” but sometimes, the best way to befriend a blogger is to tell him to get the f**k off the computer and go outside!

More ways to fight the addiction.

I’m a bit constricted by my blog at times.  I look around and see that most of the well-known personal blogs revolve around that blogger’s day-to-day life.   I know that is obvious.  I’m just noting that these writers rarely deviate from their theme.  They use their blog as a journal or diary.  These bloggers let you into their world, warts and all, until you feel as if you know their family — and you care about them.  The best of these blogs, like Dooce, are  well-written and honest. 

I’ve never kept a diary.  It always seemed boring to me.  And I sometimes have trouble being honest.  I’m not a liar.  Well, I am.  I don’t only lie to you.  I lie to myself.  That’s why I’m in therapy.  So, in a way, my lying to you is being very honest.  Get it?

I try to write about reality.  Most everything in this blog, including my conversations with my Penis, is rooted in reality.  I find it interesting that my favorite posts are almost never YOUR favorite posts.  You seem to love when I write in an honest, diary style.   You feel as if I connected with you because I revealed some private truth.   It’s as if personal blogging is supposed to be the private become public, and dammit - he won me over with the admission that his mother washed his mouth out with soap.  It doesn’t really matter that I spent twice as long crafting something really silly.  The comedy never wins the Oscar.

Even if I were completely fact-based about my day to day life, I’m not sure I can effectively capture “me” through the details.  What actually happened today — May 1, 2008?  Sophia got a flat tire on the freeway and I came to her rescue.  I bought a new tire for her car and had a cup of coffee in Denny’s.  I arranged to meet with a producer.  I spoke to my mother.  This is all fun stuff, but most of the REALLY interesting events occurred in my head.  I got annoyed about “blog badges” and wrote my last sarcastic post.  I went on Craig’s List and wondered about apartment hunting.  I wondered how Carly from American Idol was managing.  I made a note to write a post someday about Brian Dunkleman (remember him — the comedian who co-hosted American Idol with Ryan Seacrest in season one!). I wonder if he is still pissed or if he was able to move on to a happy life.  I worried about this headache that I’ve had for three days, and tried not to become a hypochondriac, fearing it is a tumor or something horrible.

Am I  presenting a clear picture of my personality, and does it even matter?  I had an IM conversation with someone last week who seemed to be under the impression that I was some sort of Lothario having sex chats with women in every American city.  When do I have time?!   Truthfully, online sex chats would be too difficult for me because I would feel obligated, as a writer, not to be cliched.  How many unique ways are there to say, “So, are you unbuttoning your blouse now?”

Me:  “My hand is touching you…”

Her:  “Here?”

Me:  “Yes, there… but that’s not very descriptive.  Let me go on Wikipedia and look up what it is actually called in the  English language.   Also, I already used “touching you” twice already.  There must be some other way of saying that!”

Her:  “OK, enough.  I had my orgasm.  Thanks.  Bye.”

 I would feel too much literary performance anxiety to have any fun. 

I present myself as a nice Jewish boy who’s calling his mother every day, and then the next day I’m f**king four women in my bedroom.  Who am I?   I’m not sure I really know exactly who I am, so why should you?

But let me just stick to the blog — my writing.  Would be better to focus more on the reality in my life, or continue writing whatever shit comes to my mind?  The inconsistency of this blog’s tone must be very frustrating for some readers. 

I can also go the other way — not caring about you, the reader, at all.   That could be refreshing.  That would probably be the most honest approach.   I could explore different facets of my personality.  I could write a post like I was a woman.  I’d like to imagine what it would be like to give birth.  Would that be weird for you?  I’d like to be racist or nasty and say things that I don’t really believe, but not worry about your reaction. Why do I always have to write about what I believe?  It might be more fun to write about someone else’s beliefs. 

I’d like to finish a post without having to make the ending work.

In a new feature here on Citizen of the Month, we’d like to showcase the most interesting blogs and bloggers that are writing today.  It’s time to cut through all the PR and learn what makes some of our favorites really RAWK!  No more popularity contests.  No more BS.  On COTM’s “Top Ten Bloggers,” it’s always going to be the men and women who really matter, the ones we love (and hate!) up close and personal –  the Top Ten Bloggers of the week.   Each week, we’ll explore a new theme.  Because of my unique situation as a well-known personal blogger, my contact list runs deep.  You’re going to be surprised who is going to be involved!

Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?!

I’m now taking nominees for this week’s Theme:  Who are the Top Ten Poorest Bloggers?   We’d like to know!  I’m not just talking about some typical money problems — we want to meet those who have been unemployed for years, are in debt, may lose their home, or are just too lazy to make a living.  Are you one of those Top Ten bloggers?   Get on “the list” and let everyone know!

Who will be in this week’s #1 spot?  If you nominate yourself in the comment section, please email bank/IRS account information or a letter from a collection agency as proof of your honor.

Coming soon:  “Top Ten Bloggers” blog badges.  Show off to your friends that you rawk! 

First a post about sadness, now sleep.  Can he get any more boring?

Hold on a minute.  I think we should write more about sleep.  Think about it.  We sleep for 1/3 of our lives.  If we live to a hundred years of age, that means we slept for thirty-three years (ok, thirty-three and a third).  The woman at Bagel Stop in Redondo Beach is thirty-three years old.  I know that because I recently heard her tell her friend, “Woo-hoo, I’m thirty-three today!  Are you coming to the Cheesecake Factory tonight with Joey for the party?”  On that same day as her birthday, somewhere else in Los Angeles, an elderly man turned a hundred years old.  He had slept through the bagel woman’s entire life.

We like to tell stories about action, not sleep.  We climb mountains, we kill whales, we buy video games, we love.  We write about sex.  But sex is small potatoes compared to sleep.  Even if we had sex every single night for our entire lives, which in my experience lasts about… uh, eight minutes a pop, that means that if we live to a hundred, we have only spent 8 minutes x 356 days x 100 years having sex, which equals…  well, just take my word for it… it is less than the time we sleep.   I’m just too sleepy to do the equation.

Yes, I’m sleepy.  Exhausted.  I can’t wait to go to sleep. 

Should I be embarrassed to tell you, my dear reader, that I want to go to sleep?  It does feel a little funny.  It’s an area that we usually keep off-screen, like Meryl Streep sitting on a toilet in a movie.

I’d like to take sleep out of the closet for one day. 

Years ago, poets compared sleep to death, and maybe that has scared us from talking about it.  Sleep is the absence of action.  It looks like we are dead to the world.  A lot of people actually DO die in their sleep.  People have nightmares.  Children want the lights on.  Sleep can be creepy.

But it’s time to take the reaper out of the sleeper! 

I see sleep as food for the brain.  If the day sucked, there’s always tomorrow.  Sleep refreshes you.  If it was a good day, a good night’s sleep is a reward for your accomplishment. 

Sleep is your friend.  I don’t usually remember my dreams, but I’m sure they are good ones.  I’m sure there are a lot of hot women in my dreams every night.  I know this for sure — in my dreams, the sex always lasts for longer than eight minutes.

Good night.  Sweet dreams.

On Sunday night, I was feeling sad.  I was thinking about my marriage situation, why I was taking so long to move out, whether I should get a roommate, if I should go to New York for a few weeks, how that would affect my writing, and other issues that I would rather not have bouncing about in my head.  These nagging questions took time and energy from important things, like keeping up with your blogs, or poking people on Facebook.

Don’t worry, Mom.  I wasn’t depressed, just sad.   

So, what does a blogger do when he’s feeling sad?   He writes a blog post. 

I wrote a blog post about… feeling sad.  When it was done, I read it over, and it just seemed pointless.  What was I  expressing? 

I… am… feeling… sad… period.    Bleh. 

There wasn’t much artistic merit here.  I didn’t describe the sadness in any poetic manner,  like saying my sadness was like a black cloud hovering over Redondo Beach or compare my life to the crumbling facade of an ancient pyramid in the Egyptian desert.  I’m not that melodramatic.  Life goes on.  My sadness was more a pedestrian sadness… a blah sadness.  The type a sadness where a friend might call you on the phone and say, “Hey, let’s go to see that new movie where Jessica Alba walks around in a bikini,” and I might answer, “Eh.”

So, I wrote the sadness post.  It was done, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to publish it.  I noticed that a blogger friend was on Yahoo IM.  I contacted her.

“Could you do me a favor?” I asked. “I wrote this post about being sad, but I haven’t published it yet.  Could you read it and tell me if you think it is something I should publish?”

“Sure,” she said.

I sent the post over and waited for her response.  After a few minutes of me nervously pulling the hairs out of my arm –

“It’s good.  You should publish it.”

“Isn’t it… about nothing?”

“Well, you’re sad.  That’s what it is about.”

The moment she said this, I suddenly felt very different… calmer.  I felt relieved, as if my stress had drifted off.  What had happened?

Someone had read my post about being sad.  Someone knew I was feeling sad on this Sunday in April.

Oddly, I didn’t have the need to publish it anymore.  She knew I was sad.  It was enough.  It wasn’t important to have readers from the four corners of the world reading my post.  I wasn’t trying to promote my blog.  I just wanted to to tell someone that I was feeling sad.  And now I did.  Mission accomplished.   I said thanks to the blogger, and that was it.  I deleted the post and wrote another post where I have sex with various women in my old bedroom in New York.  Did I think this new post was a bit stupid and perverse?  You bet.  But it made me laugh, and I wasn’t sad anymore. 

Bloggers always talk about how many “comments” we get, as if getting 300 strangers giving you feedback is the ultimate validation.   Sure, it is amazingly cool and satisfying.  Yesterday, I just wanted to connect… to say that I was feeling sad.   And one reader was all that I needed to make me feel better.

– starring Neil, Sophia, Neil’s Mom, several half-naked girls from Queens, and introducing Moondog, as Neil’s surfer dude buddy.

FADE IN:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS - REDONDO BEACH - DAY

Neil and Moondog have just finished hanging ten at Redondo and are now chilling at Don Carlos’, the sweetest joint in town for fish tacos. Hot girls in bikinis are constantly walking by. All the girls seem to know Neilochka (his surfer name) and Moondog.

Neil: “I think it is time, Moondog. I’m gonna find me my own place and move out.”

Moondog: “About time, dude. My ear was burning like the hot sand hearing this every week after week… for three years…”

Neil: “Maybe I’ll first go to New York for a few weeks cause I still don’t have any digs. Just feeling as down as GeekDude without his Red Bull. I’m feeling major wipeout over my babe.”

Moondog: “Sure, man. We’re all bummed about you and Sophia. But maybe it’s time to move on. Time to ride the next big wave. Definitely go to New York for a trip.”

Neil: “Yeah, I can go see some of that, what do you call it, art. At that museum from that movie. That museum rocks. They got the stuff from the posters… but they’re real!”

Moondog: “Hell no, forget the old dead white dudes. You need to get over Sophia. You got to start schtupping everything is sight. There’s some pretty hot skirt over there in New York.”

Neil: “Sweet. But can’t I do the same here in LA?”

Neil looks over at a buxom beauty in a tight bikini as she rollerblades by, her breasts a bouncin’!

Moondog: “Dude, surfer dudes like us are a dime a dozen at the SoCal surf and turf. In Gotham City, we’re exotic. They hear your LA accent and your Hollywood style, and they’re already getting wet from the tide. It’s time for you to get on that plane, and shine off your own Big Apple hidden away down there…”

Neil: “And where do I meet this chicks? I don’t have the Benjamins for those Samanthas and Mirandas.”

Moondog: “LOL, dude. NYC is P***y Grand Central. They’re everywhere. East side, west side, all around town! Just look at a map of Manhattan. It’s shaped like a giant breast with the nipple pointing out to Brooklyn.”

Neil: “That’s no nipple. That’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Moondog: “I’ve felt up two girls from Brooklyn and there must be something in the water there because Brooklyn nipples could slice a pizza pie. No wonder the Dodgers had to move to LA. They couldn’t concentrate on the game. All those Brooklyn nipples.”

Neil: “Well, I won’t be in Brooklyn. I’ll be in Queens. And I’ll be staying with my mother. That’s not a very good spot for a little romance.”

Moondog: “Hey, I met your mother. She’s cool. The babes won’t even know she’s there. But be strong. This is for you… to live it up… don’t call Sophia… for anything…”

CUT TO:

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - NIGHT

Neil is making passionate love to Freya Aaronson, the once Orthodox, now Reform, Jewish girl he loved in high school but never looked his way, but is now a an assistant editor at Random House and currently submitting her fiction to the New Yorker Magazine.

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me harder, Neilochka! Nothing could feel as good as you f**king me, Neilochka… maybe except getting published in the New Yorker! F**k me, Neilochka!”

Neil: “Could you just be a little quieter? My mother is sleeping next door. She has to go to work tomorrow early.”

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! Wasn’t your mother written about in the New Yorker because she’s been working forever at Farrar, Straus, and Giroux? Would she mind if I left behind a few of my stories, Neilochka? They’re perfect for the New Yorker. F**k me, Neilochka! Your mother is amazing. F**k me, Neilochka!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed, being ridden by Yvonne, the flirtatious black girl from the local stationary store, a brainy grad student at Fordham. The bed is pounding against the wall.

Yvonne: (as she rides him) “Oh my god, dinner was amazing, Neilochka. So good. And my friends consider me a foodie! I can’t believe your mother’s secret ingredient for her brisket is… ketchup. I never would have guessed. How long does she cook the brisket for? It was so tender. So soft.”

Neil: “Can we talk about this later? A conversation about soft, tender meat is not something a man wants to hear when…”

Yvonne: “Do you think she would mind if we went for seconds of the brisket? I can’t stop thinking about it! That brisket was so good. I need to get the recipe. Will she be serving this brisket for Passover?”

Neil: “Passover was last week.”

Yvonne: “Too bad. Try to come fast so we can go have some more brisket.”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed with the petite Emily Ning, a divorced mommyblogger. She lives on the third floor of the same building as Neil’s mother. She works in PR for a Hong Kong-based bank downtown. She is an ardent blogger and loves reading Citizen of the Month. She is giving oral sex to Neil.

Emily: “Do you like how that feels? Do you like that? Am I making you dizzy? You didn’t expect me to know how to do that, did you? How about if I use BOTH hands on your?”

THE CAMERA PULLS BACK

to show that Emily not only giving oral sex, but is also throwing punches in the boxing ring on Neil’s Wii-connected TV, and talking to her opponent, another mommyblogger, via cell phone.

Emily: (into phone) “You didn’t expect to go right, left, did you? You’re going down!”

Emily continues on with her oral sex, looking bored, then leans over to her laptop and sends a quick message to her opponent via Twitter.

Emily: “Knockout, sucker!!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil’s head is between the thighs of Anna Castro, his long-time friend from elementary school, who he has liked ever since they danced the Tarantella together at the fourth grade dance festival. Anna is lying in the bed, her legs apart, waiting impatiently for Neil to take some action. Now, Neil is on the phone, looking frantic:

Neil: (into phone) “I know what I said, Sophia. I said I wouldn’t call you. But I’m telling you… it’s not in the right place with her. I can’t find the spot. Yes, I have my glasses on. Isn’t it in the same place on every woman?… You don’t have to be sarcastic! I didn’t complain when you called me with that stupid computer problem about Photoshop Elements… Yes, she’s nice… It’s none of your business… OK, her name is Anna. .. Yes, the one from the fourth grade dance festival. .. No, I didn’t step on her feet… Yes… yes… Yes, I’m taking the damn cholesterol medicine… Listen, I didn’t call you to chat…”

Neil’s mother opens then door to Neil’s room, carrying a tray of Oreo cookies and low-fat milk.

Neil’s Mother: “Would anyone like a snack?”

Anna quickly jumps out of bed.

Anna: “Thank God. Yes!”

Neil’s Mother: “I’m watching “Dancing with the Stars” on Tivo, Anna. Would you like to join me?”

Anna: “Absolutely!”

Anna exits with Neil’s mother.

CUT TO:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS - REDONDO BEACH - TWO WEEKS LATER - DAY

Neil and Moondog are chilling at Don Carlos’, chowing on fish tacos and drinking Coronas. Moondog is shaking his head in disbelief.

Moondog: “Dude… never tell this story to… anyone.”

The End