the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Month: November 2006 (Page 2 of 4)

The Second Annual Thanksgiving “Thank Your First Commenter” Day

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Tommy the Turkey hated that Americans ate turkey on Thanksgiving Day. It really pissed him off. He wrote letters to conservative blogs like Michelle Malkin, but they just ignored him. He ranted and raved to the liberals on The Huffington Post until the editors blocked him from their site.

At last, Tommy the Turkey decided to start his OWN BLOG, The Daily Cackle. For weeks, he clucked his heart out daily for an audience of one — himself. Then, one morning, Tommy the Turkey logged on to his blog and saw that he had a comment:

“Tough luck, you stupid turkey! I can’t wait until Thanksgiving to stuff you with stuffing and eat you with mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce!”

Cranky Blogster

“Oh my god,” Tommy the Turkey gobbled happily, “I have my FIRST COMMENT!”

This proves that it doesn’t really matter who your first commenter is — someone friendly or an absolute idiot. It’s still a comment! It is what you’ve been waiting for as a newbie blogger. Getting a comment means that you have been accepted into the community. You are officially a BLOGGER.

Thanksgiving is a day of thanks, so why not thank other bloggers? If you spend as much time as me online, you know more about other bloggers than some of your co-workers. I’ve met so many great people online. I want to thank all of you for making blogging such a wonderful experience.

I thank everyone who has found his or her way to Citizen of the Month.

And since this is “Thank Your First Commenter Day,” I thank you, Terry Finley for the very first comment on my blog:

Nice blog. Thank you.

Our health is really important.

Check out my blog.

Terry Finley

Simple, but direct.

Sadly, we lost touch after that first comment, so I’d like to also thank the first commenter that still reads me and that I consider a blogging friend — the former TWM, now at Not So Confidential.

At first glance, NSC and I have little in common. He is a Southerner, a former Air Force Officer who served with the Air Force Office of Special Investigations. But blogging can make strange bedfellows, and despite our differences in political views at times, we immediately bonded over our love for buxom brunettes. Now, THAT is what the true meaning of the blogosphere is all about. So, thank you NSC!

And a Happy Thanksgiving to all my blogging friends!

(other Thanskgiving blogging fun)

Thank You, Heather Anne

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Until today, I have only received one trophy.  One year, I was on the winning Little League team.  It was an undeserved trophy.  I played right field, and only one ball came to me all season, which I dropped.  My batting average was .100, which I remember because I thought it was good, like getting a 100 in a test.

Today in the mail, I received the most beautiful trophy I’ve ever seen.   Thank you, Heather Anne and voters of the 2006 Hoagie Blog Awards.   Whenever I have doubts about why I am wasting so much time blogging with a bunch of strangers, I can look at this trophy and understand what it all means.

Along with the trophy, Heather sent me a package of delicious jelly beans, which Sophia and I ate in three minutes, and a crisp one dollar bill.  With that one dollar, I will buy a California lottery ticket later today.  If I win, I will share it with everyone on my blogroll — a group I care so deeply about — (after taking off a 10% handling fee, taxes, and a 20% penalty from anyone who has gotten on my nerves recently).

Thanks!  Remember, tomorrow is the Second Annual “Thank Your First Commenter Day.”

A Charlie Brown Blog Post

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Every once in a while I like to share my enthusiasm for some old-fashioned American pop culture with Sophia, who didn’t move to this country until she was an adult, and missed out on such important bonding experiences, like watching reruns of The Brady Bunch after school.  Unfortunately, my attempts at getting her to love what I loved usually strike out.  She thought Star Wars was ridiculous.  She found the Wizard of Oz — get this — a little boring. 

Last night, it was time to introduce her to the Peanuts gang.  A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving was on TV.  Even though it is one of the gang’s lesser holiday specials (the Christmas one is the best), how can anyone resist Charlie Brown?   Uh… well…

First of all, I forgot how SLOOOOOWWWLY these cartoons are paced.   Even I was hoping for Homer Simpson to jump into the frame and create some drama.  I cannot imagine today’s hyper kids watching these gentle, rather unfunny holiday shows.

Sophia was confused with the characters from the start.

Scene 1 — Charlie Brown is being tempted to kick the football by Lucy.

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Sophia:  What’s going on?

Neil:  Charlie Brown will try to kick the football and Lucy, the girl, will take it away.  It’s a running gag.

Charlie Brown falls on his ass.

Sophia:  That wasn’t very funny.

Neil:  Well, it used to be. 

Sophia:  Really?

Neil:  Well, I guess it was never really that funny.

Scene 2 — Linus enters Charlie Brown’s home.

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Sophia:  You know, I was wondering — why is Charlie Brown bald?

Neil:  I have no idea.

Sophia:  Are you sure he isn’t an old man?

Neil:  He’s a kid.

Sophia:  And what about this guy —  his friend?

Neil:  Linus?

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Sophia:  He looks like he has hairplugs.

Neil:  That’s just how he was drawn.  He’s a kid also.  Look, he carries around a blanket.

Sophia:  Why?

Neil:  Uh, it’s a security blanket.  It’s complicated.  He’s intelligent, but he’s anxious.

Sophia:  Like you?

Neil:  No.  Not really.

Sophia:  Is this also supposed to be funny?

Neil:  Sort of.  Not ha-ha funny.  Gentle funny.

Sophia:  These are just weird characters.

Scene 3 — Snoopy enters Charlie Brown’s home.

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Neil:  That’s Snoopy.  You’ve heard of him, of course.

Sophia:  No.

Neil:  You’ve NEVER heard of Snoopy?

Sophia:  Is he a spy?

Neil:  A spy?

Sophia:  Why is he called Snoopy?

Neil:  I don’t know.  But he’s like the most popular character.  He was on t-shirts and things!

Sophia:  Does he talk?

Neil:  No, he doesn’t talk.

Sophia:  So, what makes him so popular?

Neil:  He’s cool.

Sophia:  ?

Scene 4 — Peppermint Patty calls Charlie Brown on the phone and invites herself over for Thanksgiving dinner.  She says she is bringing Marcie and Franklin.

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Sophia:  Is that a man?

Neil:  No, that’s Peppermint Patty.  She’s a tomboy.

Sophia:  No way, that’s a man. 

Neil:  No, it’s a girl.

Sophia:  Wow, she is so butch.

Marcie enters.

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Sophia:  And there’s her girlfriend.

Neil: It is not her girlfriend! That’s Marcie.  I don’t remember much about her.

Marcie calls Peppermint Patty “Sir.”

Sophia:  You see!  She is a man!

Neil:  She’s not.  Marcie just calls her “Sir.”

Sophia:   This is one freaky show!

Franklin enters.

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Sophia:  Is he the one black character?

Neil:  Yes.

After A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, there was the “world premiere” of a new Charlie Brown cartoon, but I shut it off the minute I saw Snoopy doing Tony Hawk stunts on his skateboard.  Charles Schultz would NOT have Snoopy on a skateboard.

Sophia:  So, you really watched these cartoons all the time?

Neil:  I used to love the Peanuts.

Sophia:  What did you love about it?

Neil:  I think I related to Charlie Brown.

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Peanuts characters by Charles Schultz/United Media

 

The Second Annual “Thank Your First Commenter Day” Coming This Wednesday

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Of all of the blogging friends I’ve made, I am particularly fond of the several wonderful bloggers who either live in France or are of French heritage. I have no idea how I connected with all these Frenchies and Francophiles, considering I’ve mostly either made fun of the French or called France anti-Semitic for their knee-jerk anti-Israel politics. Just last week I needled Elisabeth about the fact that the peace-loving French are now bigger arms dealers to the developing world than the United States.  Who’s eating the freedom fries now, huh? 

But my French readers know I am more bark than bite.  They know that secretly, I would like nothing more than to stroll up and down Boulevard St. Germain flirting with a beautiful Parisian woman, charming her blouse Decoupe off with my one semester college French.

Voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)?

French is so classy!

Last night, I reached into my inner-Gallic and went with Sophia to the 23rd Annual Beaujolais and Beyond Festival in Los Angeles, sponsored by the French-American Chamber of Commerce. The event was basically a wine-tasting of “le Beaujolais Nouveau 2006.” While I like wine as much as the next guy, I cannot tell the difference between the $2.99 stuff at Trader Joe’s and a $300 dollar bottle of wine. But I’m sure it just takes experience, and I was willing to learn. I mean, I can taste the difference between Coke and Diet Coke with my eyes closed, so why not wine? It was interesting hearing knowledgeable French people talk about the differences between Chiroubles and Fleurie. When the server asked me what I wanted to try next, I answered, “red wine.”

So, there I was, getting drunk, listening to people speaking French, which is always sexy, and watching beautiful women walking to and fro, and I started fantasizing about living in Paris, sitting in a little cafe, surrounded by Alison, Elisabeth, Blue Poppy, La Coquette, Lauren, Maitresse, Paris Parfait, Rue Rude, Michele, Anne, as they all took turns singing Edith Piaf songs to me while I played my accordion, wrote a novel, and painted a nude all at the same time.

Ah, what a life!

But then I splashed some Volvic on my face and woke up to reality. I stood up, and shouted, “I love all you French people. You are beautiful and cultured. But I am an American. A proud American. France might have culture, high fashion, and orange flavored water, but America has — THANKSGIVING!

Yes, that’s right. What is more American than stuffing your face with turkey and celebrating some religious fanatic pilgrims? Who needs the Louvre when we have the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade? I watch it every year hoping that the Underdog balloon finally gets punctured and falls on top of the unsuspecting crowd huddling in the freezing cold. Now that would be funny!

Americans are innovators and are not afraid of adding new traditions to their old favorites. For instance, last year, the blogosphere went wild over my Thanksgiving meme “Thank Your First Commenter Day.”

That’s why the TRADITION MUST CONTINUE:

ANNOUNCING:

THE SECOND ANNUAL “THANK YOUR FIRST COMMENTER DAY” — this Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving.

(the following is reprinted from last year because I know many of you are lazy and hate clicking on links to old posts)

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Many years ago the Pilgrims came to these Shores, and couldn’t figure out what the hell to eat. They were unfamiliar with the weird-looking animals and crops of this New World, the winter was coming, and frankly, these future Mayflower WASPS just weren’t that bright.

(This was years before the Africans, the Chinese, the Germans, the Irish, the Jews, and the Italians came and actually built this country for them.)

But, back to the story of Thanksgiving.

The Pilgrims were saved by the kind Native Americans, who showed them how to eat corn, potatoes, wild turkey, and canned Ocean Spray cranberry sauce. Because of these kind Indians, today we celebrate Thanksgiving.

(The fact that we later killed these Native Americans, took their land, and forced them to run casino operations is something we can deal with on another day.)

Today, it is all about GIVING THANKS.

How can we thank our fellow BLOGGERS?

We read each other, we help each other with our designs and templates, and we cry on each other’s shoulder when a “blog crush” goes sour.

On Thanskgiving, we should THANK our fellow bloggers.

When I first started blogging, I was like a Pilgrim who just landed on Plymouth Rock. I was isolated and alone. For weeks, I wrote this blog without any direction or confidence in my ability. And then he appeared — like the Native American with his corn — my first commenter!

Although I appreciate all of my lovely readers, today I want to give a special shout-out to TERRY FINLEY. He wrote the first comment on “Citizen of the Month” back in April:

Nice blog. Thank you.

Our health is really important.

Check out my blog.

Terry Finley

It may not be poetry, but it touched my heart. Afterwards, I commented on his site, and then we lost touch, which so frequently happens in our busy blogging lives. I tried to click on his link today, but he seems to have stopped blogging. I sincerely hope my comment wasn’t the cause of him losing interest in blogging.

Terry, if you’re out there, I’d like to thank you and say hello. I hope that you are happy, healthy, and having a lot of sex!

If YOU would like to participate in this “THANKSGIVING DAY THANK YOUR FIRST COMMENTER DAY,” it is simple:

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Go into your archives and find the first person who ever commented on your blog.

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Copy the URL and a special thank-you message on Wednesday– and post it either in my comments OR on your own site.

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If you don’t have any comments yet, don’t feel like a loser. Did the Pilgrims give up? Of course not. They just stole from the Indians. Just write a comment here at “Citizen of the Month” about how much of a loser you are and pretty soon, everyone will come to you, showing pity. In this competitive blogging world, you have to use whatever works.

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See you here on Wednesday for “Thank Your First Commenter Day!”

And stay tuned for more information about another holiday tradition, the First Annual Blogger’s Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert. I need to start making an official list of who is singing/playing what song, just to make sure that two bloggers don’t fight over who gets to sing “Little Drummer Boy.”

Of course, everyone is invited to participate, even the French.

Every Day is Men’s Day

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When I was a child, I used to ask my mother on Mother’s Day, “When is Children’s Day?” and she would give the tried-and-true answer, “Every day is Children’s Day.”

I was perusing through some blogs this morning, and noting all the buttons and links, and how so many of them are female-centric, like BlogHer and Blogging Chicks. I once wrote a silly post about what I thought BlogHim would be like, but today I thought about the subject in a more serious manner. Why do women feel so comfortable teaming up together, while men like to go it alone (or at least fake that they do)? For a second, I thought of starting a Blogging Guys group, but then I realized — I would be the last person to want to join it.

Is it because “Every day is Men’s Day” in this “patriarchal society” and men don’t need to join together — or are men just uncomfortable with each other and fear looking unmanly?  Is it any wonder that women can talk for hours together, complimenting each other on their shoes, hair, and bodies, while men are more comfortable talking with their penises than talking with other men?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Neilochka’s Favorite Things 2005

Cry Me a Trainwreck

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Trainwrecks“ is a site that makes fun of blogs.  The site describes a trainwreck as:

“an online journal or blog that is so bad, or so filled with self-delusion, that you just can’t look away.”

Once a week, they have an open thread night, and some blogger mentioned one of my posts as a trainwreck:

“Khate said, 

“Somebody call the waaahmbulance, because blogging is so incredibly taxing.  I can only hope this person is a SAH blogger; because if your body goes into sensory overload from having too many blogs to read, imagine if your job involved actually, y’know, affecting people’s lives.”

post from Citizen of the Month

“This is embarrassing to admit, but I actually started crying yesterday as I was making my way down my blogroll, my body going into sensory overload from caring about the lives and dreams of so many people, and feeling as if I were ‘falling behind.’ Has anyone ever had a nervous breakdown from blogging?”

The next commenter added her two cents.

“Elizabeth said,

“Khate: OMG! I hear you about the SAH thing. If you feel so deeply about a bunch of someones that you *fuckin’ cry when you read your blogroll*, then you have WAY too much time on your hands.”

These comments didn’t bother me at all, because they are both absolutely right.   (and waaahmbulance is sort of clever)

The truth be told — I come from a weird crying family.  We cry at odd moments.  I have cried while reading blog posts, having sex, even watching a really good episode of the Simpsons. 

My father had this habit of crying when he would see homeless women in the street.   He would become so distraught over the idea of a “woman” living in the streets.  His weepiness used to embarrass the hell out of me.

My mother can cry while watching the Oscars. 

My grandmother used to cry playing gin rummy.   Don’t ask me why.  I have no idea.

Ironically, you will rarely see a Kramer family member cry at a funeral. 

Last night, Sophia and I went with Danny, to the Improv, where we saw several comedians, including Sarah Silverman.  On the way home, I had a sudden urge for chocolate milk.  Sophia and I stopped at the supermarket.  Sophia bought her POM and I bought a small container of chocolate milk, the one with the bunny rabbit that is made mostly for kids.  Shit, was that too sweet!  Yuch.  But it brought back happy memories of childhood and I cried. 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:   Feel the Bra

“If I Did It” by John Wilkes Booth

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If I Did It” by John Wilkes Booth (ReganBooks, 2007) 

Let me first state that I did not assassinate President Lincoln, 16th President of the United States, on April 14, 1865.  But let’s make believe, just for the hell of it, that I was responsible for his death, even though this is entirely hypothetical.  How would I do it?  Although I would never do such an act of violence, I might possibly use my role as actor to gain entrance to the Ford Theater while the President is attending a play.  Not a bad idea, huh?   I guess, if I really think about it, I could conceivably enter Ford’s lobby at about 10:07 P.M., walk up the stairs to the dress circle, and open the white door to Lincoln’s State Box…

Although I know nothing about guns,  I might consider using .44 caliber Deringer that is 6 inches long, with a 2 1/2 inch barrel.  Although I’m an actor, not a killer, I probably wouldn’t know where to shoot the President, but I guess, just from acting experience, I would go for his head near the left ear.   I’m a little bit of a ham, so I might even yell out something pretentious, like “Sic semper tyrannis!” (Latin for “Thus always to tyrants”).  OK, I know that it is overacting, but audiences love those melodramatic moments!

But then again, I don’t really know anything about how Lincoln was assassinated.  The purpose of this exciting new book I’m writing is to approach the event as how “I” would have done it, which of course, I know absolutely nothing about AT ALL.

Buy this book!  And watch for my interview on FOX.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  On the Radio

Season Tickets

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So let’s see, the Pet Shop Boys, Vince Gill, and a chamber concert all in one week? Dude, my life is so boring. We’ve done Girl Scouts, Boy Scouts, the Book Fair, and Drama Club this week. Sigh.

V-Grrrl, commenting on yesterday’s post

When I was a teenager, my father gave me two pieces of advice on how to deal with women:

1)  Never hurt a woman.

I still don’t really know if he meant physically, emotionally, or spiritually.

2)  Take your wife out on weekends.

This completely went over my head when he first told me this piece of wisdom.  Tickets for the weekend was a central concept to my father’s vision of marriage.  My father was always getting theater and concert tickets “for Elaine” (my mother).   Even though he always said he was getting it “for her,”  I think he got them equally for himself.  My  father was the type of person who could never admit doing anything for himself.  It always had to be for someone else. 

My father was also obsessive-compulsive, so he had a huge bulletin board in his bedroom where he would micro-organize all his tickets to concerts, shows, and events.  He believed that if you bought tickets ahead of time, this would force you to go out, even if you got lazy at the last moment.  He would sometimes subscribe to a theater season a year ahead of time, so he always knew he had something to go to every weekend, and didn’t have to worry about it.  Box offices throughout New York City would know his name when he called up, because he would send his check in the mail before the season actually began.  He subscribed to the Roundabout Theater, Circle in the Square, Lincoln Center, Queens College Concert Series, Theater in the Park, and several others, including discount Broadway show tickets from the Theater Development Fund. 

My parents would go out practically every weekend, frequently taking me along.  There were times when it was clear that no one wanted to go, but we went anyway because we “had the tickets.”   It was my family’s version of being forced to go to church on Sunday morning.  We would travel two hours into Manhattan during a snow storm to see a poorly-reviewed version of an Ibsen play (awkwardly updated to 1920’s Chicago) just because the tickets hung on the bulletin board and the date was penciled in on the large calendar my father kept next to the bulletin board.  My friends would be drinking beer outside on Saturday night while I would be dragged to hear Chopin with my parents.  I  frequently fell asleep during these concerts and my mother would elbow me so I wouldn’t snore.

I realize that when I described my parents on this blog in the past, I created a picture akin to the parents of Seinfeld — real Jewish outer borough types.  That IS an accurate description of them.  But there was one big difference,  My father had an obsession with high culture.  Where did it come from? — I have NO IDEA, but it was important that we immersed ourselves in it. If my mother didn’t have a sense of humor about some of the boring stuff we saw, I would have turned into a hopeless prig.

Years later, though, much of my father’s wisdom has started to make sense — especially about the importance of going out.  In the two weeks since she came back from New York, Sophia and I have gone to three concerts, a Broadway musical, and a movie.  Like my father, we bought the tickets early enough to force ourselves to go out.  We knew that if we waited until the last minute, one of us (usually me) would start copping out, wanting to watch “Dancing with the Stars” instead.  But to be honest, going out is pretty tiring, especially to someone like me, who is happy enough just sitting at the computer, blogging.   Tonight we didn’t go anywhere, which was pretty nice.   After we watched — what else? — “Dancing with the Stars” (dancer Cheryl Burke is so cute!), Sophia turned to me and said, “Remember, tomorrow we’re going to the Improv with Danny.”

“Do we have to?” I sighed.

“Yes,” she answered.  We already have the tickets.”

Some things never change.

Play it Again, Samantha

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As a pimply-faced teenager, I dreamt of being a rock star, because even the ugliest musician had a beautiful model at his side. It is almost a cliche to have the scrawny dog-faced male singer arm in arm with America’s newest Top Female Model. Here’s a little secret that most women don’t know — this phenomenon works for men also.

Last night, I went to a chamber concert with Sophia. The soloist was a a stunning young violinist. She was beautiful. She had perfect features and her hair was tied back in a bow like a French movie star. Her arms were as slender and tan as the violin she cradled in her arms. Her posture was like of a ballerina or a royal princess, even in her expensive high heeled shoes. The audience was swooning over her.

She was accompanied by a female pianist. The pianist was not pretty. She was dressed rather frumpish in a shapeless black dress.

But I have a particular fancy for female pianists. The piano is very sexy. I can’t really explain it other than go back to early childhood favorites — Elton John, Billy Joel, George Gershwin, and my all time favorite — Vince Guaraldi’s Charlie Brown’s Christmas.

While everyone was mesmerized by the violinist, my eyes were glued on the pianist. Her fingers would slide over the keys and she hunched over, totally into the Mozart, not giving a care to how she looked to the audience. When she would get to a dramatic musical section, she would move up and down on the piano bench, up and down — sometimes violently, as if she was straddling the piano and giving herself an orgasm as her playing became more intense.

At the end of the concert, the audience gave a standing ovation for the violinist. My penis and I stood for the frumpy, average-looking pianist with the fast fingers. In a bar, I might totally ignore her, but at the concert, she was a Goddess.

MUSICAL NOTE: Christmas-Hanukkah is coming up. I had this idea while driving home last night, but I’m not sure if it would work — a Blogger’s Holiday Concert. I know some of you are actually talented musicians (Scarlet, Psychotoddler, Fictional Rockstar) or singers (Lizardek, others). What if you each made a recording of some holiday song and we’ll post it here next month like one of those Holiday Concerts they have around the country? Would anyone do this?

I promise: I WON’T SING!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Staying Jiggy With It

A Pro-Snarky Counterpoint to My Last Post

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Philip Mirvis, Cynicism Researcher

As a counterpoint to the last post, I include this, also from this month’s Psychology Today:

“Though cynicism may not be healthy in the long run, it can serve as an emotional coat of armor tht blunts everday indignities.  Philip Mirvis, a cynicism researcher at Boston College, says cynics’ caustic, detached outlook on life, also known as defensive pessimism, helps “protect them from what they imagine to be the slings and arrows of hustlers and higher-ups.”  If they assume from the outset that a client can’t be trusted, or that a new mother-in-law will be a witch, they’ll be well-prepared in the event these fears come true.  Casting a cynical eye on situations you can’t control reduces your emotional attachment to a particular outcome actually lowers your vulnerability to depression.”

“Unfortunately, too much time studying cynicism can also cause male pattern baldness.” says cynicism researcher Philip Mirvis.

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