I wasn’t lying when I said I bought a web-cam.  But maybe I shouldn’t tell you that I got it for 75% off at Radio Shack.   Hey, that’s a great bargain!  Even my mother said so.

OK, so now what do I do with it?   What?!  I’m just asking. 

In other news, my mother dumped me today to go out with her friends to see “Sex and the City,” and didn’t even invite me.  How do I become so co-dependent in my marriage when my mother so easily drops me like the British tea in Boston Harbor (please note the clever American history reference for Independence Day).  Well, whatever.  I’m not going to stick a feather in my cap and call it macaroni over the whole thing.

You know, I haven’t had macaroni and cheese for ages.  I need to buy a box of that Kraft stuff to see if I still like it.

So, how did I become so co-dependent?   It must have been my father.  Yeah, it was him.

So, today is July 4th.  Despite our country’s faults, America is a cool place.   I know July 4th is all about liberty, justice, pursuit of happiness, and other American values — but in my opinion, our greatest gift to the world is free speech. 

May we always protect our right to free speech.

In honor of this important American value, I’d like to bring up the Pelcorp Management Company again.   On my last trip back to my old Queens neighborhood, I reported on how Kissena Boulevard, the street down the block, looked like a slum because 75% of the stores were shuttered, with graffiti everywhere.  Many of the stores have been closed for TEN years, despite a thriving community.  Why?  The plan seems to be to slowly force everyone out when the leases are up, so the management company  could bring in a K-Mart, or something similar.  While this is promising for the future, the entire block has been an eyesore for a decade. 

As I wrote in the previous post –

Despite a history of New York building, the fourth generation of builders now “specializes in the marketing and sale of luxury properties in Palm Beach County. This includes waterfront, country club, and other estate properties.”

The Kissena Boulevard holdings, one of their four retail holdings still in New York, must be their least attractive holding, compared to their shiny new malls in Florida. No wonder they seem so disinterested in the upkeep of Kissena Boulevard!

So, let me once again mention Prescott Lester and his Pelcorp Management Company (why did their website suddenly disappear?) on this July 4th.    Thank you, free speech!   Thank you, America.  Mr. Prescott, you are always welcome to comment here or write me - and give me your side of the story on how your company intends to enhance the community, and why shops like the bakery were left to rot for a decade. 

I wish the best to all the hard-working immigrants who owned these stores and now were forced to move, or give up their businesses.   Of course, I like to look on the positive side of things.   With some of these new Americans out of work –  they can spend more time taking spelling lessons.

The big question on my mind after yesterday’s post was “What type of pornography do women like?”  After doing extensive research and interviewing several female bloggers on Facebook chat while offering unsuccessfully to show them my new “web-cam,” I now can present the results. 

The methology used was completely scientific, and included questions such as, “What do you fantasize about when you make love to your husband?” and ”What visual stimuli gives you the most intense orgasm?”

OK, I’m not going to lie.  I read about this website today that is called “a YouTube for pornography,” so I took a little “peek” to see what it was all about.  Believe it or not, I try to avoid pornography, not out of prudishness, but from a belief in feminism.  I was educated by intelligent teachers who taught me that pornography was anti-women, a patriarchal tool that turned capable women into mere sex objects.

I was sitting at my laptop watching Big Boob Woman and Muscle Chest Guy go at it on a kitchen table, doing it every way possible, including positions hat would require me to do a lot more exercise than the hula hoop on the wii-fit. The woman in the video was making so much noise that I turned down the speakers.  I didn’t want my Orthodox Jewish neighbors to think I was a freak.

During this bland sex scene, I had thoughts.  Not sexy thoughts.  Not thoughts about feminism and how women are objectified.  No.   I felt that the video was anti-MALE.

Let’s look at the female character.  It was only a clip, so I don’t really know how she met the guy, but - for argument’s sake — let’s go with the old story that he is a plumber coming over to fix her sink.  One thing leads to another and soon they are f**king on the kitchen counter.  Typical.   We’ve all seen it.   I’m sure this exact situation has happened to most of the mommybloggers who read this blog.

If you look at the woman during the sex, she is having the time of her life.  She is yelling at him to “do it harder,” throwing her head back and forth, and rolling around like an Energizer bunny. She is as demanding of him and his time, like a wife who wants to spend all Sunday shopping at the mall and buying shoes.

The guy seems unhappy, as if he isn’t even present.  He is a robotic Terminator of sex.

You can almost hear him say, “I must pound her.  I must pound her.  I must show no emotion.  I must pound her.  Harder.”

At some point during the sex, he turns her over, face down like a fried egg in the skillet.  I thought that during this brief intermission, their might be some conversation, or a joke told.  Nope.  The woman doesn’t even give the guy a “nice going” or some kind encouragement.  She just wants MORE!

He quickly goes back into robot mode. 

“I must pound her from the rear.  I must pound her from this rear.  It does not matter what side she is.  I must pound her again and again.”

While the woman seems in heaven from all the thrusting, the guy looks like he is stuck on a hot subway in August.  His face is as sour as a dill pickle. 

As I watched the video, I felt bad for the dude.  While he didn’t look very bright, he obviously spends a great deal of time at the gym, making his body buff.  He is proud of his body, but when he jumps out of his clothes in one quick swoop, she hardly looks at him.   If anything, she goes straight for his penis, the one muscle he didn’t work on in the gym.  Is that what we are to women?  A penis?

“I must pound her.  I must pound her.”

I wanted to reach into my laptop and comfort the fellow. 

“Relax, big guy.  It is noble of you to want to give this nice lady several orgasms before you finish fixing the water pipes, but why not enjoy it yourself?  I know what it is like to be a people pleaser, but sometimes you have to be a little selfish — to take care of yourself, too.  Who knows?  Maybe she might even enjoy seeing you having a little fun. It’s not all about her, you know?”

“Pound.   Pound.   Pound.’

My advice would fall on deaf ears.   The filmmakers want him to be a robot.  And the woman, despite being an educated woman (she wore glasses that she takes off early in the scene), is presented as self-absorbed and uncaring about the man’s pleasure.  She WANTS him to be a machine.  How else can you explain the constant cry for “Harder! Harder!” like she is a drill sergeant at Fort Bragg.

Men, let’s talk privately for a second.  Seriously, how many of us can make love to a woman for three hours straight, in fifteen different positions, without… you know… having to come…

Is it any wonder this guy looks like he is constipated.  He’s been pounding her for three hours, still waiting for her to have her fifth orgasm.  He is a SAINT!

Ladies, is this fair?  I have no idea why women complain about these types of pornographic films. The female character gets all the attention and has all the fun!  The man is practically her love slave.  He is expected to act like a soldier in combat, refusing to enjoy himself - just so he can bring the woman to sexual ecstasy and have her nearly pass out!

Sure, at the end, the guy comes too, but by then, he is so exhausted, numb, and out of it, I bet you he doesn’t know what is going on. 

“Uh, wait a minute.  Did I just come OR was that my foot falling asleep?”

And even after his orgasm, he still isn’t smiling.  Of course not.  He’s thinking, “Holy shit, tomorrow morning I have to f*ck this woman for another three hours!”

These movies do more harm to men than women.  These ridiculous lovemaking scenes screw up the minds of men.  Think about the messages being sent to your own sons, brothers, and husbands:

1)  You have to keep it up for three hours and never orgasm until the woman faints from intense pleasure.

2)  Every time you make love, you are expected to do it in several complicated standing positions which can give you knee problems later in life.

3)  Sex is not really sex without giving her oral sex for an hour, no matter how uncomfortable it is for those with weaker jaws.

4)  Lovemaking is all about getting the woman to come.  The man must never enjoy himself or smile.  The man’s role is to be a human sledgehammer and repeatedly hitting her in the correct spot, like those Whack-a-Mole games.

5)  And the most pathetic thing, is after all this work — and I mean hard, physical labor — the man isn’t even allowed to have his orgasm INSIDE the woman.  No, he has to quickly pull himself out, so he comes all over the place, ruining the good sheets he just bought at Target.   What the hell is that all about? Men like to have clean sheets too!

Seeing these porno films has made me lose interest in sex.  I  can understand why women want sex, but what man really wants to go through all that effort, especially when he has HBO? 

And god forbid, a guy has sex and doesn’t make it all the way through the three hour/twenty position love-fest!  He feels all guilty and inadequate.

“Oh, you were fine,” the woman says. 

Yeah, sure.  We know the truth.  You really want the robotic guy in the porno film.

My problem started when I was eleven years old.  Our Hebrew school had a decent basketball team and we made it to the New York State Hebrew School championship in Albany.  As a fundraising stunt, we were supposed to sell boxes of Peanut Brittle to our neighbors in order to pay for transportation.   I hated selling things to other people.  I felt like I was imposing on them.  Chances are, most of neighbors would have bought a box from me, just because they know my parents, and my mother usually bought Girl Scout cookies from their kids.  I just felt guilty asking people to buy things they really didn’t need or want. 

Even then, I was a realist.

“Who in the world REALLY wants a box of peanut brittle?!” I asked myself. “That stuff is nasty and can crack your tooth!”

I sold two boxes.  One to my mother and one to my grandmother.

Fast forward to today.  I’m pretty much the same.  There is no way you could get me to walk around my apartment building and ask neighbors to shell over their hard-earned money for some peanut brittle. 

Rule #1 in therapy.  A person will never overcome his fear until he fights it.

This is where YOU come in.

I would like you to buy some boxes of peanut brittle. 

There is no cost per box because you will never actually get any of this peanut brittle.  It is all theoretical, the aim being that I overcome my fear by asking you to buy it from me. 

Please buy as many boxes as you want.  Buy some for yourself.  Buy for you co-workers.   They also make excellent birthday and wedding gifts for family members.

I am pretty confident that most of you will buy a few boxes of peanut brittle from me.  You seem to be a caring bunch and you realize that this will be a tremendous boost to my self-esteem.  After all, I am in this limbo-land with Sophia and living here with my mother.  I’m not feeling very manly and I really need a BIG BOOST!

Recently, Firefox promoted it’s new Firefox 3 browser by announcing a “Download Day.”  They attempted to create a Guinness Book of World Record for the “most downloaded software” in one day.  I’m not sure they achieved their ultimate goal, but they had 8 million downloads in 24 hours.

Imagine how cool it would be to brag to the women at BlogHer that I am a Guinness Book of World Record Holder!  Talk about a line that will definitely get me laid!

So here’s the deal.  I’m going to show you how much my cojones have grown since I have come to New York.  I don’t want you to simply buy a few imaginary boxes of peanut brittle from me.  I want you to buy SO MANY BOXES OF IMAGINARY PEANUT BRITTLE that I will become the undeniable GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORD HOLDER of selling imaginary peanut brittle in a single 24-hour day!

How many boxes of peanut brittle would you like?

No credit cards accepted for purchases under ten boxes.

Important Update: Monday 1:15PM — Before you read any further, I have been reminded by a friendly caller from the Los Angeles area that I have called HER as much as she has called ME, and that this post is completely one-sided.    She is right.   OK, now continue:

Important Update 2:  When Sophia called about the lizard in the garage, she just wanted to tell the story.  She never asked me for advice on how to capture it or to insinuate that I should do anything to help her — other than look on the internet and google “lizards.”

I am going to get in so much trouble for this post, so be nice and don’t take sides.  These are more philosophical questions than anything else.

When a married couple separates and moves 3000 miles away from each other to “get some space,” is it really appropriate for the female party to call twice a day and then get upset if the male party would rather chat with some blogger than play online backgammon with her?

If a man is walking in Manhattan enjoying the sites and he gets a call from his separated wife 3000 miles away that there is a “lizard” in the garage, what the hell is he supposed to do?  Take a flight home to kill it?

If a man buys a webcam at Radio Shack (on sale!) thinking he might “communicate” with his separated wife 3000 miles away on Saturday night, is that wrong?

Other than that, I’m doing pretty good.  I forgot what being with myself all the time was all about.  Well, myself… with my mother cooking dinner.   OK, I know that is hurting my sexy quotient with some of you, so let’s just keep the information about me living here with my mother for the summer very quiet… at least until BlogHer is over.   From now on, I will refer to her as “the older hipster/roommate who was written about in the New Yorker magazine.”

On Saturday night, I went into “the city” and met a group of really cool bloggers — Miss Britt, Karl, NYC Watchdog, Poppy Cedes, Cissa Fireheart, and hellohahanarf, as well as some strange overly-friendly guy we met walking on the street who ended up coming to dinner with us and hitting on both Karl and hellohahanarf!

I always find it so much fun to meet bloggers for the first time.    Sometimes, they are more shy than their online personality.  Other times, it is the complete opposite.  It is always the one who writes the knitting blog who ends up standing on the bar stool, waving her blouse in the air.  Unfortunately, nothing that dramatic happened on Saturday night, other than someone kissing that strange guy we met on the street.   The New York heat was oppressive, so we didn’t want to walk too much (Note to visitors:  come to New York in the fall, spring, and winter.   Avoid the summer!   This is when everyone leaves.)   We ended up in a karaoke bar.  It was a decent place, but the contigent from Florida was insulted that they charged two dollars just to sing a song.

Welcome to New York City!

special to the New York Times:

Elvis.  The Beatles.  Prince.   In every generation, a new musical artist comes on the scene who so energizes his audience during his straight-from-the-heart performance that whoever was lucky enough to be in attendance is riveted to his every word.  Such was the case last night during the ground-breaking act of rapper Master Crazy Dude on the MTA Queens 23 bus at 2AM.

Using his unique beatbox technique, Master Crazy Dude repeated his raw, intense, lyrics over and over again until everyone on the bus, passengers of all colors and creeds, were united in moving t0 the front of the bus, in fear for their lives.

I may be funny
But I’m no Ben Stiller
I did my time
For being a killer
Parker Lewis… he just can’t Lose
But not when I hit him with a bottle of booze
F**k you!
F**k you!
F**k you!
F**k you everyone on the bus!

The vibrant musical energy of the street is alive in New York City, which makes this the greatest city in the world (just keep it away from the condos on the Upper East Side).

Be careful when making love to a French chick cause their tits could poke your eye out.

The latest from Paris:  the doily draped over the ass.

Hey lady, take off the blindfold.  You forgot to put your clothes on!

The Wii-fit has arrived in France!

Nothing says sexy as much as a French babe peeing into a vase.

For the last few days, we’ve had guests in the house — my cousin Alan and his wife, Beth, came in from Cleveland.  I don’t know them well.  I only met them once before, during my bar mitzvah.  Both of them are in their fifties, and former hippies. 

“I’ve been to all three Woodstocks” Alan told me. 

I had no idea that there were three Woodstocks. 

During the last one, Alan camped out near the concert site with a friend.  On the second day of the concert, they decided to take a hike.

“Should we take the tent with us?”  asked his friend.

“Nah.  This is Woodstock, man!” he answered.

When they returned, their tent was stolen and they had to sleep in the van during a rainstorm.

Alan is also an obsessive baseball fan.  His main reason for coming to New York was to attend games at Shea Stadium and Yankee Stadium before both teams moved to their new homes.

Alan and Beth are nice enough, but the hippy shtick, which was probably once cute, is now annoying to anyone with a real life.  I hope I don’t sound too anti-family, but you just don’t walk around naked in the morning unless you are VERY close relatives.  And it wasn’t like they were coming here to build homes for the poor… or to even visit us.  They just drove to New York to see some baseball games. 

They also provided bad luck for our New York teams.  Both teams lost.  The Mets lost 11-0.

Ex-hippies may have XM radio nowadays, but they apparently don’t believe in suitcases.  I met my cousins by their car when they pulled in.  Their luggage was in twenty-five shopping bags.  Since they were vegans, three of the shopping bags contained food.  Two of the shopping bags were vitamins.  The rest were clothes.  What a pain in the ass.  It took a half hour to carry everything upstairs.  Alan also brought a guitar.

“Do you play?” I asked.

“No,” he answered.  “But I always wanted to learn.”

I carried the guitar upstairs and it sat unopened in the hallway until I carried it back to the car several days later, when they left.

Alan took a bit interest in me when he saw me in the kitchen with my laptop, and I told him that I was “writing a screenplay.”  He said that he believed in past lives, and that in a past life, he was “a successful New York playwright living in the late 1950’s.”  I told him that even though I am skeptical about “past lives,” I respected his belief.  I didn’t tell him that since he was alive in the late 1950’s, he could not possibly have had a past life as a successful New York playwright in the late 1950’s.  But who needs logic?

I hate to go for the stereotype, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this couple had, at one time in the past, consumed immense quantities of marijuana.  They had the worst sense of direction.  When hey wanted to go somewhere on their own, I gave them explicit instructions printed from MapQuest. 

They want to visit a local bakery.  They walked several miles the wrong way. 

They wanted to visit the Museum of Natural History.  They got lost on the subway and visited “The Museum of Sex” instead.  They loved it!

My apartment complex consists of two buildings.  Although the buildngs look alike, their entrance ways are located on opposite streets.  Each building has a different address, which is clearly printed over the entrance.   I’ve never heard of anyone mistaking one building for the other. 

On the way home from “The Museum of Sex,” Alan and Beth walked into the wrong apartment building.  They took the elevator to the first floor and walked to Apartment 1H, where is our apartment number, although the one in the other building.  Alan and Beth tried to open the front door with the house keys that I gave to him on the first day.  Neither of them could open the door.  They started arguing and jiggling the knob in frustration. 

Suddenly, Mary Fanelli, the tenant of the other Apartment 1H, opened the door, the doorchain still firmly attached, brandishing a steak knife and screaming for the police. 

Alan explained who he was, and luckily, Mary knew my mother from the weekly mah jonng game.

I can’t wait to hear the gossip at the next game.

The internet is one big vat of useless advice given by experts who know sh*t.   You would think a guy could learn something useful from being online.  After all, I don’t just want to spend all my time online reading the sob stories that you call “your blogs.”

Today, I was thinking of something much more important — ways to improve my sex life.  I figured I would do the logical thing: search Google with the phrase “How to Improve Your Sex Life.”  I immediately came across this article titled “How to Improve Your Sex Life with Sexy Emails.” Hmm… sexy emails.  I can do that. I already write a blog.  Maybe I can actually use my writing skills and my English degree for some practical purpose.

So I spent some time lookng over “the six steps to spicing up my sex life by writing sexy emails,” as outlined by the eHow Relationships Editor.

None of it made much sense.

Step 1 -

Identify how you want to improve your sex life with sexy emails.

This is a really dumb step.  Isn’t it obvious?  I hope to improve my sex life with sexy emails by actually have sex with someone.  Duh.

Step 2 -

Meet people in your area by posting personal ads or responding to posts in adult forums.  Start corresponding with people in whom you are interested, moving straight into sexual chat or taking things slowly at first and elevating them as the situation warrants.

Hmm… go straight into the sexual chat OR take things slowly?  Let’s see.  You say I should go on an ADULT FORUM, and then you want me to take things slowly?  How slowly should I go?  I’m on an ADULT FORUM!  I realize I may look desperate by jumping right in with the dirty talk, but should I really be disguising the fact that I am on an ADULT FORUM lookng to chat about sex?

“You mean this isn’t the “Celebrity Circus” Forum?  Whoops!  What is this forum about anyway?  Women who love men with c*ck rings?  How intriguing?!  I never would have guessed.  This is so unlike me to be on this forum.  Are you wearing a bra?”

Step 3 -

Allow the situation time to evolve naturally.  Once you’ve maintained an ongoing correspondence with a partner you like, you can suggest a real-life rendezvous over dinner or drinks.  From there, there’s no telling where things might lead.

From there, there’s no telling where things might lead?  What are you saying…that she may end up stabbing me in the subway station and leaving me for dead?  I don’t want surprises.  I WANT to BE TOLD where this might lead!  I want this to end in SEX.  Period.

Step 4 -

Improve your sex life with an existing partner by using sexy email to explore your desires. Surprise your partner with a sexy note, taking it easy at first until you test the waters out, and pay attention to how your partner replies to your move.  If she’s game, she’ll respond in kind.

This step was an utter failure. I tried it tonight.

Yahoo IM: “Sophia, are you wearing a bra?”

Yahoo IM: “Neilochka, no, I’m not.  Hey, do you want to play a game of online backgammon?”

Step 5 -

Use sexy emails to describe scenes you’d like to play out with your partner or to drop hints about sexual tricks you want to try out.

Scenes?  Tricks?  What are you talking about?  I don’t want to put on a Broadway play or a magic show! I want to have sex.  Sheesh.

Step 6 -

Post ads seeking people to join you and your partner if you’re looking to add some group fun to your sex life.  Then, you and your partner can act as a team to seduce a third (or fourth or fifth) party to take part in your bedroom fun.

Huh?  Five people in one bed?  Is that supposed to be fun?  What size bed do most people have?  I thought five people in one bed was the reason most people escape from third world poverty-stricken regimes?

The internet sucks.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  The Pigeon on the Patio