Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

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Mama’s Boy

My mother was in her yoga class in Boca Raton last week, doing one of her chair exercise, when another woman accidentally moved the chair that my mother was leaning against for support.  My mother fell back, hit the floor, and when she stood up, the teacher noticed blood.  The paramedics quickly came and she received three stitches in the back of her head.   She’s OK now, or “Perfectly fine,” as she always says, and already back in the exercise class.

I was anxious that day, naturally worried about her.

I read this article in the Wall Street Journal titled, “Who Are You Calling a Mama’s Boy?”   The writer, a mother of a son,  poses the thought, “A strong mother-son bond is crucial, but heaven help the mom who admits being emotionally close to her son.”

So much of who we are comes from our parents.

Have you noticed that I rarely write about sports?  My father never watched any sporting events. We never watched a baseball game together or played any games.  That doesn’t mean I didn’t do things with him, but they were always cultural events, like the theater or concerts.   He always treated me as a little adult.   Because of that, I never clicked with him in the emotional way as I did with my mother.   I played board games with my mother.   I wrote silly stories for her to read.   I did magic and puppet shows for her.   As an only child, I turned to my mother for companionship.

As a teenage boy, my relationship shifted.  All of a sudden, I didn’t want to be seen with my mother.   How “gay!”

Nowadays, I laugh when I read my mom blogging friends complain about how their adorable little boys — now teenagers — don’t want to be hugged anymore!   Of course they don’t.   I still remember the horror of being in the supermarket WITH YOUR MOTHER, and being SEEN doing it!

Over the last year, I lived with my mother in Queens.  I found the whole experience somewhat embarrassing, even if the reason was related to my separation.   What type of adult man should not be living with his mother?  I joked about it online, but it did hurt my self-esteem.   But it was a positive experience.  I experienced a relationship with my mother as if we were roommates — as two adults.

Well, not all the time.

“Wear a hat!” she would yell at me as I left the house in December, in the exact same tone as when I was in third grade.

But we found common interests, and discovered that we could even watch an R-rated movie together without needing therapy.

I would not feel so comfortable with my father.

I do have some qualities of a “mama’s boy.”   At the same time, I don’t, thanks to my mother herself.    She never hovered over me, and even went back to work when I started school.  I was never her entire life.

I still think about my father, who passed away in 2005, a few months after I started my blog.   I’m still unsure how to process his death, and what it means to me. It is odd to have someone just disappear from your life — forever.

All these emotions are flying through my nerves, because talking about my parents is talking about myself.   And there is no more difficult subject to write about than yourself.

Mama’s Boy

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Dear Mom,

I think it’s great that you coming to visit on Wednesday.  I know you think you’re coming for Passover, but before we have any seder, we have one with little matter to discuss —

You see, on Friday, I went to my very first therapy session.   The doctor seemed like a nice enough guy, although all his Peruvian and Asian vases gave off a pretentious vibe.  I would have felt more at ease chatting with him if his office was decorated like a Denny’s coffee shop. 

The doctor asked me several questions while reading from a little red book and making notes on his computer.

“Do you ever feel anxious?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Do you wake up in the middle of the night, feeling anxious?”

“No.”

“Do you ever wake up wanting to harm yourself?”

“No.   Uh, unless you’re using that as a euphemism for “playing with yourself?””

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Just joking.”

“Do you feel depressed?”

“Right now?”

“No.  In general.”

“Not really.”

“Do you sometimes not want to get out of bed in the morning?”

“That’s depression?!  I thought that was normal?”

After forty five minutes, he told me that I should see someone else, mostly because he was a psychiatrist who dealt primarily in medications, while what I really needed was THERAPY.  And, yes, he did say “really needed.”  He offered me some Prozac and said I should look for a good cognitive behaviorist therapist.

“So, no Thai massage therapists?” I asked.

“No.”

Therapy = not funny. 

Oh, and what does he think is wrong with me?   Well, he didn’t give me a definitive diagnosis, but he thinks I have a “dependent personality structure,” or as Sophia immediately called it – Mama’s Boy Ailment (M.B.A.)

In other words, IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT, MOM!

So, Mom, I thought of buying the Streit’s matzo for the seder before you show up, but it just tastes so much better when YOU buy it.   See you soon…

P.S. — 

Sophia’s funny tagline of the day:

“Finally, I got a husband with an M.B.A!”

A Year Ago On Citizen of the MonthThe Racist Cabbie

Can Men and Women (Bloggers) Just Be Friends?

I recently wrote a recent post titled, “How to Get Hot Chicks to Read Your Blog.”   It was a response to an email from a male blogger who was in awe of all my female readers.

But there’s a negative side to having a blog that women like to read.   I’m not a woman.  And they are.  And flirting can only go so far.  The big question is, “Can I actually be friends with any of these women?” 

Believe it or not, it can be lonely hanging around blogs that are so heavily geared for women.  Sometimes I wonder if I belong.  I’m even beginning to question my decision to go to BlogHer.  In what way does BlogHer represent anything about me? 

I think the only solution for me is to finally get my cojones — and interact with more men.  What am I afraid of?  I know I’ve mentioned this before in the past, but each time I took the journey into male blogging, I promptly ran back to the soft and ample bosoms of the female bloggers.  Believe me, I’m dragging myself kicking and screaming.  Most men are pretty dull.  I certainly don’t look at THEIR photos on Flickr, in amazement that such gorgeous individuals could actually care about me!  But it is time to expand my horizons. 

I get jealous of the comaraderie of female bloggers.  You act like sisters.   You write blogs for each other.  Mommybloggers, in particular, seem to consider themselves to be born in the image of Good Housekeeping magazine, and even address their readers as “fellow mothers.”  More power to you.  This is about me…. and my identity.  For better or worse, I’m not a parent, so it makes sense that I’m not on the same page as the mommybloggers, or even the daddybloggers, of the world, who clearly have specific interests that are important to them, like celebrity strollers.

I know several female bloggers here in California. It would be cool to be their “friends.”  These female bloggers fall into two groups — those in a steady relationship or married and those who are not.  Both types have built-in obstacles for any real friendship.

Let’s take the married mommyblogger, for example.  How the hell am I ever going to be friends with her?   Let’s use the imaginary BloggerMama, for example.

Imagine I email BloggerMama right now and say, “Hey, BloggerMama, leave the husband and child at home, and let’s go check out the new Keanu Reeves flick together?” 

It’s just not going to work. 

First of all, she would probably want to bring the baby, and I just don’t deal well with babies at the movie theater.  And despite me being the perfect gentleman, sooner or later, if I email her every week, asking her to go to the movies, Mr. BloggerMama is gonna hate my guts.  The only way we could make this work is if we went out as married couples.  And that means, we have two non-bloggers in the group  — Mr. BloggerMama and Ms. Neilochka, which means we have to talk about real life, and BloggerMama and I only know and care about blogging crap.

The situation is even more dangerous with the unattached female blogger.  Right from the beginning, she is going to wonder about my intentions:

“Hmmm… I know things are rocky with Sophia.   Is he really asking me to see that Keanu Reeves film or does he… Hmmm… he’s always writing about his penis.  I wonder if he is a sex-crazed nutcase who just wants to…  Hmmm… I actually like sex-crazed nutcases, but what if we do something, and he blogs about it?  He’s the type of jerk who blogs about anything on his stupid blog.  Hmmm…  he does write about his mother a lot.  He must be a real mama’s boy.  Hmmm… I wonder if he just wants to sleep with a shiksa and then say he can only marry someone Jewish.  Hmmm… I bet you he is!  What an asshole!  What type of slut does he think I am.  F**k him!  I think it is safer that we never meet…”

Ok, make believe we DO go to see this Keanu Reeves movie together.  Just as friends.  We split the bill.  We each buy our own popcorn.   We have a great time.   But trouble is looming.  We’ve all seen “When Harry Meets Sally.”  How long is it going to be before one of us is checking out the other’s ass? 

Let me rephrase that.  How long before I’m checking out her ass? 

Let me rephrase AND answer that.  At what point during our first meeting will I be thinking about her naked?  Answer:  Probably during the first ten minutes.

What can I do?  I’m a man.  I’m sorry.  It’s horrible, I know. 

Can you see how it actually sucks to have so many female readers and so few male readers?  It’s like some bizarre Twilight Zone episode where I am surrounded by hundreds of desirable and intelligent women, but when I reach out to them, they fade into nothingness, and the only place to go for companionship is into the smoky room in the back with the men, along with their smelly cigars, Beer Nuts, and poker chips.

 

Old People Who Do It

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After yesterday’s post about being honest with my readers, I’ve decided to come clean about another subject: my growing reputation as a Don Juan. The truth is that, unlike my online persona, I’m exceedingly dull and unadventurous. I inherit this from my father. Although he was a loving and caring man, his attitudes towards women and sex were straight out of “Leave it to Beaver.” (not an intentional joke) About the only “birds and bees” advice he ever gave me was to “never hurt a woman.” He actually sat me down and said:

“Neil, you should never hurt a woman.”

If I could bring my father back to life, my first question would be:

“Dad, what the hell are you talking about? What do you mean? Do you mean hurt physically? Or emotionally? Can you be any more vague?”

My grandmother considered herself prim and proper. And my father was a bit of a mama’s boy, so he grew up with her attitudes.

My grandfather was not like my father, or anyone else in my family. He went dancing every weekend at “Roseland” in Manhattan — without my grandmother. We think he had affairs. Even when he was seventy years old, he was incredibly built and had beautiful curly hair. I’m convinced that after my grandmother passed away, he had sex with every widowed Jewish woman over sixty-five in the tri-state area. When he was done, he moved to Miami to begin again. Half of my family refused to speak to him when he married some flashy woman from Miami Beach.

I always liked him. He wasn’t very smart, like my grandmother, but he was way more interesting. He would take me to Jewish delis for pastrami sandwiches, and he would always bring over jelly donuts. He would sneak into Broadway shows during intermission, so he saw every top musical’s second act. He flirted with every waitress.

After my father died, I met many of his co-workers from Queens General Hospital. I was surprised to hear all these stories about my father flirting with all the nurses. Was he just prim and proper at home, and completely different at work? Maybe he was influenced by his father more than he let on.

I think my grandfather would love blogging, especially with all the hot women online.

My memories of my grandfather came up after I read this on a post at Alexandra’s blog:

I woke up this morning to a news story that sexually transmitted diseases are on a rapid rise among the elderly, and for some reason that made me happy! I mean, not that they are catching STDs, but that they are still out there hugging, squeezing, well, a lot more than that, if they are getting STD’s! I hate that we live in a society that so isolates them from the rest of society, treats them as if they still don’t have needs, longings physical and otherwise, and so very much to pass on.

This was my comment:

I don’t know why it is so surprising to hear this news. Our vision of a senior is very outdated. Mick Jagger is a senior. Soon, all of the kids dancing around at Woodstock will be seniors. And since we are living longer, (and with drugs like Viagra to help), why shouldn’t there be activity? The fact that we are “shocked” just shows how we still stereotype senior citizens as sitting around playing gin rummy.

Two weeks ago, I wrote about how the FAT are stereotyped as the OTHER. Many of us fear getting fat. But if there’s one thing we fear even more, it is getting OLD. Just like we see the FAT as the OTHER — and that’s why we don’t women over size 4 in magazines — we consider the elderly the OTHER as well, especially in a youth-oriented society.  We see OTHERS as a group, rather than individuals.  And this group frequently becomes a metaphor for something we fear:

Fat = lazy.

Old = decay.

Many of want to separate the elderly into being an OTHER. That’s why it is shocking to some that seniors are doing “it” with other seniors. What’s the big deal? I hope to be doing it when I’m eighty.

Most of the comments on Alexandra’s post were very supportive of older people finding love and comfort. But, even there, it felt that some were uncomfortable talking about the elderly and sex. Why do think of young people as f**king, but the elderly “finding comfort in each others’ arms?”  Do people immediately lose their mojo when they get Social Security?  And why do we still think of seniors as “nice old ladies” or “wise old men?” It almost seems condescending.  In my family, the relatives who were assholes at 30 are now assholes at 80. Only nice young ladies become nice old ladies. Are we so afraid of getting old that we push the elderly into some sort of one-dimensional world? While someone who’s lived many years has more life experience and deserves respect for that, I would think that a senior wants to be thought of a living, complex being with urges and desires.

In fact, I would be glad to hear that my mother, who is currently touring Spain and Portugal, found some hunky retired matador, and is f**king him every night.

Of course, Mom, assuming he is Jewish.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: A Night Without a Phone Call

Seven Reasons to Abolish Mother’s Day

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History is filled with frauds: the Trojan Horse, Rasputin’s psychic act, Chris Daughtry being voted off American Idol — but nothing compares to the biggest fraud of them all — Mother’s Day!

What are we celebrating with this made-up holiday? And do mothers really deserve a holiday?

Yeah, I know these are dangerous questions. I know all about the “Mommy Bloggers” and how they pretty much run the Blogosphere. Listen, if you don’t hear from me after tomorrow, it’s because my computer and I are buried beneath some Babies-R-Us in Culver City, CA. Good luck getting any information from Jimmy “Dooce” Hoffa.

But let’s think about this “Mother Issue” calmly and rationally. Hear me out, then you can agree or disagree with my thesis that Moms have caused ALL of society’s woes.

1) Mothers are big nags.

Who can disagree with this? “Wear your hat!” “Wear your gloves!” “Wear your galoshes!” “You’re not going out wearing those jeans!” “You’re not getting a nose ring!” “Did you write that thank you note for that bar mitvah gift?” “Did you call Aunt Betsy and say Happy Birthday?” “Why not go on a second date with her?” “When are you having children?” “Why don’t you call me?”

Had enough?

Mothers say they nag because “they care.” I say, “Take some Prozac and get off our backs!”

2) Mothers prevent their daughters from having a healthy romantic relationship.

Think about your boyfriend or husband. Remind you of anyone? Yeah, that’s right. He’s just like that crazy guy your mother married — your father! For years, she complained about him. And now she’s brainwashed you into marrying the exact same type of man! If that’s not passive-aggressive, I don’t know what is.

3) Mothers prevent their sons from having a healthy romantic relationship.

Men, have you ever seen a photo of your mother when she was twenty-one and vacationing at the beach, and said to yourself, “Holy crap, she’s hot!” and then you look both ways to make sure no one saw you salivating over your own mother?

Admit it, there’s no one like your mother. And you know why? Because that’s the way she WANTS IT.

She’s like a devil woman! She sucks you into her web — well, actually you’re sucking milk from her breast, creating a bond that is unbreakable. When you’re feeling down, like when you dropped the fly ball to right field during the big Little League game and the rest of the team beat you up, she feeds you with your favorite — Kraft macaroni and cheese. When you’re sick, she brings you Spiderman comics and Mad Magazine. All the while, she is “setting you up” so you can never be happy with another woman! Can your wife really cook as well as your mother? Of course not. When you had a hard day at work, would your mother really bug you about fixing the leaky toilet in the upstairs bathroom? No way!

Like it or not, we are ALL Mama’s Boys.

Ladies, here’s a little secret, when your man is making love to you and screaming, “Oh, mama! Oh, mama!” — there’s a reason for that.

4) Mothers poison you.

Yes, Mom, that margarine you used to spread on my toast “instead of butter” is now known as Trans-Fatty Acids. The same with that Entenmann’s “Low-Fat” Chocolate Cake. All stuff that could kill you! Coincidence? And why did I never — EVER — see you once eat those Spaghetti-O’s you used to give me at lunch? Curious, isn’t it? How about next time you come visit me, I feed you some of those “Lucky Charms” cereal for breakfast? Huh?

5) Mothers make their children neurotic.

I used to believe “guilt” was a Jewish trait, but through blogging I have learned that this is a universal problem. Catholics, Hindus, Muslims, everyone feels guilty all the time. And everyone is miserable. And when we go to our therapists, what is the first thing we learn? Who is the real villain? Yes, “sweet” ol’ Mom!

6) Mothers ruin any chance of you having a happy family.

First of all, we all know about mother-in-laws and all the trouble they cause in a marriage. But your own mother is even more dangerous because she hides behind her innocent AARP smile.

Ask her some time, “What exactly is the grandmother’s role?”

“To spoil the grandchild.”

“I see. And why would a grandmother want to do that?”

“Simple. Because I want your kids to turn into annoying brats and make your life a living hell!”

It’s revenge! Revenge for the pains of childbirth. For the terrible twos! For those awful teenage years! For getting caught with that college boy in your bedroom! For you smoking pot! For the eighty thousand dollars she spent on you for college without even getting a thank-you!

It’s no wonder mothers just turn plain nasty!

Now I’m sure there are some new mothers out there saying, “Not me! Never me!”

I know who you are. I’ve seen your blogs. Here’s my one year old Melinda smiling. Here’s Melinda trying to say “DaDa.” Here’s Melinda playing with the dog. Here’s Melinda drooling. Sure, you’re proud of your child now. It’s a novelty. But wait until you’re a grandmother and Melinda has tattoos all over her body and is living with her Republican lesbian lover in Portland.

Payback time. That’s why they call it “the Golden Years.”

7) Mothers destroy your free will.

How many times are you doing something — fighting with your spouse or scolding your child — and you suddenly realize that you are acting just like your mother?

Have you ever seen The Manchurian Candidate?  Brainwashing!

There is no hope for you. You are the puppet and your mother is the puppetmaster.

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Of course, my Mom has a good sense of humor and makes a damn good brisket. She’s kind-hearted and doesn’t get too mad at me when I forget to mail her a Mother’s Day card. As mothers go, I could have done worse. So, I guess I will forgive her for serving me those Spaghetti-Os.

And she’s still as hot as when she was twenty-one and at Coney Island!

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

Two Birthdays and Blogiversary

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Neil is asleep in bed. 

Neil’s Penis:  Neil, Neil, get up already.

Neil:  I’m sleeping.

Neil’s Penis:  Time to get up.  Don’t you know what today is?  It’s our birthday!

Neil:  Happy birthday, Penis.

Neil’s Penis:   You too, Neilochka.  We’ve certainly been together a long time.  I even consider you a friend.

Neil:  Wow, Penis, I didn’t figure you to be the sentimental type.

Neil’s Penis:   Sentimental?   Bullshit.  I sometimes wish I was attached to someone else.  Someone who actually fucked a woman a little more often.

Neil:  I love you, too.

Neil’s Penis:   Aw, shit.  You see right through me, don’t you?  You’ll always be my best friend. 

Neil:  Thanks, pal.

Neil’s Penis:  Just try to work with me more, like a partnership.

Neil:  What do you mean?

Neil’s Penis:   Are you a numskull, Neil? 

Neil:  You don’t have to get nasty.

Neil’s Penis:  Let me see if I can explain this to you so you can understand.  Imagine all you ever eat is pizza.    All you want every minute of the day is pizza.  And everywhere, 51% of the population is walking around with pizza.  Beautiful pizzas. some with mushrooms, some with anchovies, some with green peppers.  And all you can think about is all that pizza, with all that cheese and spicy tomato sauce, and the pizza dough that’s cooked to perfection.  You getting it now?

Neil:  Not really.

Neil’s Penis:   Get me some fucking pizza!

The doorbell RINGS.

Neil’s Penis:   That better be Domino’s!

Neil:  Do you really want pizza?

Neil’s Penis:  It’s a euphemism, moron!  A euphemism for some pussy! 

Neil:  Oh!

Neil opens the door.  It is Sophia and Neil’s mother.

Neil:  Mom?  Sophia?  What are you doing here?

Neil’s Penis:   Aw, jeez, your mother is here.   Talk about a mood-killer…

Sophia:  We wouldn’t miss your birthday, Neilochka. 

Neil’s Mother:  Look at you.  All grown up.  A real mensch. 

Sophia:  And we brought you a birthday cake.  It’s giant pink Hostess Sno Ball.

Neil’s Penis:   Oh great.  How about giving him a hostess with real giant pink Sno balls….

Neil:  Huh?

Neil’s Penis:  Tits, you imbecile!  It’s another euphemism… for a woman with a nice pair of tits that you can just…

Neil’s Mother:  Neil, are you still talking to that "thing" on your blodge?

Neil’s Penis:   Penis, Elaine!  Penis!  I have a name!

Neil’s Mother:  Who’s that talking?  Do I hear someone else talking?

Neil:  Uh, it’s the TV.  "American Idol."

Sophia:  No more TV watching today.  We’re taking you out for you birthday.

Neil:  I’m not in a very celebratory mood. 

Sophia:  C’mon, it’s your birthday!

Neil:  It just hasn’t been a great year.  Things are still unresolved with us.  I’m still looking for a good job.  I just found out I may be kicked out of my apartment for illegally subletting it.  And the saddest thing, of course — Dad passing away in September. 

Sophia:  Yeah, we all miss him.

Neil’s Mother:  Especially me.

Neil:  This is my first ever birthday without him around.  When I moved to Los Angeles, he was always the first one to call me up — always seven in the morning LA time because he couldn’t wait any longer to sing "Happy Birthday."  He always made such a big deal over my birthday.

Neil’s Mother:  It certainly hasn’t been a good year for any of us.  

Sophia:  But you’re forgetting one good thing about this year. 

Neil:  What’s that?

The doorbell RINGS again.   Ther are a few hundred bloggers standing outside.  It’s every single blogger Neil has interacted with this year, from Akaky to Xtessa.   

Sophia:  It was exactly one year ago — on your birthday, that you set up your WordPress template.  And you published your first post on March 8th.    Here’s what you wrote:

"What’s on my mind this evening — the night of my first post?   It’s the future.   My future. 

I see it so clearly.

I’m a very spry 100 year old man, thanks to medical advances and the ability of the medical establishment to take chances with modern patient care.  Who knew that the diet supplement Trimspa would end up eradicating most illnesses from the world?  

I’m in my home of the future.  My grandson, Bar Code #466408736664, sits at my side, browsing the internet in eye-scan mode  (using the latest upgraded Intel mini-chip in his brain — the PC having disappeared decades earlier)..  Suddenly, he tells me that he’s at the Coca-Cola digi-Archives site (formerly the Library of Congress) and viewing this very first post that you are currently reading.

At that moment, I will be an old man remembering the early days of the Internet.  The 56K modem.  Netscape.  Those AOL disks falling out of every magazine.  That first illegal MP3.  That first post on the blog.

"Grandpa," #466 says with a twinkle in his eye.  "Man, grandpa, this post really sucks."

And just then, I realize that it isn’t a twinkle in his eye, but a reaction to one of those synthetic drugs he’s been taking at school.   I laugh, remembering how I was drunk while writing that first post.  

"He’d grown up just like me.
My boy was just like me.""

Neil:  Wow.  I did forget that. 

Neil’s Mother:  I think your blodge really helped you going all year.  I know it helped me, except when you write about that "thing."  I can do without that.

Neil’s Penis:  (Robert De Niro voice)   You talkin’ to me? 

Neil:  You know — originally I was going to wrte about movies and TV, but then I saw how Hilary wrote about her dating life.  So, I started writing about Sophia.    And I saw how Pauly would write every single day, so I was inspired to do the same.   I was encouraged by the support of 2 Blowhards and Nick Douglas at Blogebrity, now at Valleyrag.  And I began to look forward to blogging every day.  Especially when I had the help of Sophia, editing me and telling me when a post was too shitty to post.  And when I needed comfort, like when my father passed away, I got it not only from Sophia, but from bloggers themselves — strangers who weren’t really strangers anymore.   And during this year, I’ve made some great friends.

Neil’s Penis:  If you had some balls, you could have had some action, too. 

Neil:  And what about now?

Neil’s Penis:  Now it’s too late.  Six months ago, female bloggers might have slept with you .  Now you’re like the gay cousin who they talk about shoes with.  

Neil:  Damn it.  I knew I should have made the move on ****** when I had the chance.

Neil’s Mother:  I think you and Sophia need to sit down, discuss things about your marriage, like two adults, and get back together.

Sophia:  I think you need to stop writing about me without asking my permission first.   Or if you do, at least start giving me some good lines.

Neil’s Penis:   I think you need to get laid.  And soon.  And your best shot right now is with —  Tatyana.  She seems to get turned on by liberals.  I think she’s married, but I think if you buy her some expensive flowers, not the cheap ones you usually get for Sophia —

Man’s Voice:  I think your blog is just fine!

Everyone turns around towards the open window.  It is the Spirit of Neil’s Father — Arthur Kramer himself.

Neil:  Dad?  You’re here!

Neil’s Father:  Of course I am.  I wouldn’t miss your birthday.  Even if I am in heaven.

Neil:  This makes me so happy.  Hey, everyone.  This is my father.

All the bloggers greet my father.

Neil’s Father:  Taking care of my boy, Sophia?

Sophia:  I promised, didn’t I?

Neil’s Father:  Hello, Elaine.

Neil’s Mother:  Hi, Artie.

Neil’s Father:  I hear you’re going to put "Be of Good Cheer" on the stone.

Neil’s Mother:  You like it?

Neil’s Father:  Very much.  Is it possible to have it play the theme from "Gunga Din" every time someone approaches the plot?

Neil’s Mother:  That’s just ridiculous.

Neil’s Father:  I think it would be funny.

Neil’s Mother:  No.

Neil’s Father:  Just like a woman.  Even when I’m dead, I still can’t get what I want.

Neil:  So, Dad, how’s it going up there?

Neil’s Father:  Eh… surviving.  It’s comfortable.  Relaxing.   Good entertainment at night.  It’s a little bit like how Grossinger’s used to be in the Catskills.  The food is good.  But I don’t like the way they cut the corn beef.  It’s too thick —

Neil:  Yeah, you never liked it like that —

Neil’s Father:  You’d think in heaven they can do better, but frankly Pastrami King on Queens Boulevard made a better corned beef sandwich than they do in heaven —

Sophia:  So, Dad, can you explain to us how heaven works?   I’ve always been curious.

Neil:  Yeah, do you watch me all the time from above?

Neil’s Father:  No, no, no.  That’s only in the movies.  But don’t worry, Neil.  I follow everything about your life.

Neil:  How?

Neil’s Father:  I read your blog.  Everyone reads "Citizen of the Month" up here in heaven.

Neil:  They do?

Neil’s Father:  Oh, we love it.  A few days ago, we were all laughing so hard!

Neil:  You mean people in heaven really appreciate my sense of humor?

Neil’s Father:  Not really.  We were laughing at you because you still wear those tighty-whiteys.   Even in heaven, no one would be caught dead wearing those.  In heaven, we all wear boxer-briefs with microfiber material.   C’mon, son, get with it!   Stop embarrassing me in heaven with this mama’s boy underwear!

Thank you all for one year of great blogging.  

Be of good cheer… until tomorrow…

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NEIL

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SOPHIA

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MOM AND DAD

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NEIL’S PENIS

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Russian Porn: First We Shovel Snow

Every once in a while, I accidentally find myself on a website where there are photos of women undressing.  Normally, I would quickly click away, but sometimes I stay for the articles, oops, I meant – for sociological reasons.  You can learn a lot about other cultures.

For instance, here in America, women frequently fantasize about the sexy “pool boy” or gardener, such as the character played by Jesse Metcalf in Desperate Housewives.

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In the upper regions of Siberia, men must be fantasizing about the sexy female snow shoveler.

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(“Can I shovel your driveway?”)

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(“It’s freezing in here…  you mean
there’s no heat?)

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(“No problem.  I’m already hot from all
that snow shoveling”)

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(“The smell of this fake leather chair
makes me hungry for Mama’s borscht.”

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(“But first let me change into a pair of
snowpants and shovel some more
snow.”)

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