Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Life with My Parents (Page 9 of 11)

My Father vs. Rudyard Kipling

June 18, 2006 / / 63 Comments

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Rudyard Kipling

Today is Father’s Day. This is the first Father’s Day since my father passed away in September.

Tomorrow is also my father’s birthday.

I’m hoping he’s celebrating Father’s Day and his birthday up in heaven. In fact, this is what I imagine is happening up there:

My father is in a Jewish deli in heaven, having a corned beef sandwich and Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda. He is at a table talking with four of his new friends — Cary Grant, Victor Mclaglen, Douglas Fairbanks Jr, and Sam Jaffe — the cast of his favorite movie, Gunga Din (1939). My father loves hearing the inside stories about the film’s production.

“Arthur, my dear friend,” says Cary Grant., dressed in the same casual white suit he would have worn to the Cocoanut Grove nightclub in 1940. “Did you know that Howard Hawks was the original director until he worked with me on “Bringing Up Baby.” It was such a box-office disaster, that RKO brought in poor Georgie Stevens!”

“RKO back then was run by a bunch of pussies!” insists Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

“F**k ’em all!” screams the drunk Victor Mclaglen.

“Hey, Vic, didn’t you say the same thing when we brought back those hot-to-trot “Wizard of Oz” Munchkins to our hotel that night?” jokes Sam Jaffe, the former Yiddish child actor who played Gunga Din, and was later blacklisted. “We certainly f**ked them all!”

Victor Mclaglen lets out a hearty laugh, and offers my father a beer — but my father is not much of a drinker. My father sticks with his Cel-Ray soda.

Douglas Fairbanks looks in the Arts section of the Heaven Times.

“Hey, Arthur, look at this. Citizen of the Month happens to be the new #1 blog in Heaven, having just knocked “Dooce” down to #2.”

“That’s my boy,” says my father.

“When’s he going to do another talking penis post?” asks Cary Grant. “Those are hilarious.”

“Do you think he and Sophia will ever get back together?” asks Sam Jaffe, using his Gunga Din voice for effect.

My father sighs.

“I remember telling him that he should marry an easy-going woman like Elaine, but did he listen?”

“Children never listen. I know mine never did,” adds Douglas Fairbanks.

“But I love that Sophia,” my father adds.  “She always takes care of my boy.”

Yes, this is what I imagine.

My father having a great time — celebrating with his new friends. But as a big movie fan, my father knows that every story needs a good villain… and some action…

So, into the deli walks the villain —

— British poet Rudyard Kipling, the original writer of Gunga Din. Everyone in Heaven hates Rudyard Kipling. He is the town grouch.

He ambles over to my father’s table and laughs at the sight of the actors.

“So, if it isn’t the four stooges of Hollywood, still talking about that inane Hollywood misinterpretation of my masterpiece.”

“Mr. Kipling, I’d appreciate it if you’d just leave us alone,” says Cary Grant. “We don’t need any of your negativity.”

“What is the matter with you bloody degenerates?” asks Kipling. “Don’t you realize we are all DEAD? Who care about we did on Earth? It was all one big waste of our energy.”

“Rudyard, you’re a real shmuck,” says Sam Jaffe. “You used to be such an inspirational writer. Now all you do is kvetch.”

“Shut up Sam.” seethes Kipling. “Or isn’t your real name Shalom? How in the world did they pick a Yid like you to play the 19th Century Indian Gunga Din?”

“Mr. Kipling, I’m a big fan of your work, but could you please watch your language,” says my father, a bit meekly.

“And who are you?!”

“My name is Arthur Kramer.”

“And why should I care about the opinion of you?”

Cary Grant taps Kipling’s shoulder.

“Arthur’s son, Neil, writes the blog “Citizen of the Month.”

“Am I supposed to be impressed? I’ve read that nonsense.” says Kipling. “The talking penis guy.”

Victor Mclaglen stands, angry at Kipling.

“Rudyard, don’t be a jerk.”

“I’m very proud of him.” says my father.

“Proud of him for what?” asks Kipling. “He’s a talentless piece of shit. The Jungle Book, Kim — what I wrote is pure genius. Your son is a lowly blogger who doesn’t deserve to kiss my shoes.”

“Oh, yeah?” says my father, furious. “Maybe you can kiss my shoes, Mr. Kipling, when you’re lying flat on the floor!”

My father gives Rudyard Kipling a wallop that sends him flying into a passing waiter carrying a tray of food. A bowl of matzoh ball soup falls on Kipling’s head and he is OUT COLD.

The entire deli stands up and cheers for my father. Not only did Rudyard Kipling get what he deserved, but my father showed everyone how much he loves his son.

Of course in real life, my father would never do that. I don’t think he ever hit anyone in his life. But he always loves his son. And I love him.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

Happy Birthday, Dad!

Spain is Cleaner than Portugal

June 5, 2006 / / 53 Comments

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Sunday began like many Sundays before.  I was over at Sophia’s.   We were sitting on the couch, the Los Angeles Time spread out before us like a buffet of information — fascinating articles on politics, culture, business, and books at at our fingertips.  We were deep in discussion on one of the day’s pressing issues:

Neil:  “So, you’re saying — there were times you were with me  — in bed — where you would choose a bowl of onion soup over an orgasm?”

Sophia:  “It’s really hard to find a good onion soup in Los Angeles…”

Neil:  “I’ve never heard anything so crazy in…”

The conversation was cut short by the phone ringing.  It was my mother calling from Queens, just back from her bus trip through Spain and Portugal!”

Sophia:  (to my mother)  “Hold on, Mom.  Neil’s getting the other line, so we can both talk to you.”

I ran to the kitchen and picked up the other phone.

Neil:  “Mom!  How are you doing?! 

Mom:  Fine.  Fine.  I just walked in.  I’m a little confused about the time.  I had breakfast this morning, then took a plane to Italy, where they served us breakfast.  Then on the plane from Italy to home, they served us breakfast again.  So, I had three breakfasts today!  Isn’t that hilarious?

Neil:  “Yeah, yeah.  So, how was the trip?!   Tell us everything!”

Mom:  “Oh, it was very nice.   The people on the bus were very nice.  We sat next to Joyce and Ed, a couple from Canada.  They were an Arab couple from Toronto, but very nice.  And then, behind them was this family from Mexico.  Very wealthy.  And they knew Spanish, so they were always helping everyone buy postcards and tschotchkes in the souvenir stores.  And then there were these two adorable girls, Jennifer and Tracy, who just graduated from high school and they got the trip as graduation presents. One of them even let me us her music Pod thing!” 

Sophia:  “What about Madrid?  Did you like…”

Mom:  “Hold on…hold on… and then there was Florence and Angela, this mother and daughter from Georgia.  At first, I thought they were sisters because the mother looked so young.   Black woman over fifty always look so young!  And then there was Tony and Hans. a gay couple from California.  They were so funny, always making jokes.  I gave them your phone number because they travel to Los Angeles a lot.   Oh, and then there was Roger and Anne, a very nice couple from London who were on their honeymoon.  It was a second marriage for both of them.  Roger’s first wife died.  It was very sad.  But Anne was their nurse, so it’s funny how life can bring people together.”

Neil:  “Did you go to Toledo?”

Mom:  “Wait…and there was another Jewish woman from Chicago, Shirley, my age, and she was very nice.  She knew a lot about Jewish history in Spain because she used to be a teacher.  And she really hit it off with this Indian man, Raj, who was travelling alone for the first time because his wife died in a car accident a few years ago.  We even think Shirley and Raj became boyfriend-girlfriend a bit during the trip.  You should see how nicely Raj was dressed all the time.  Always in a suit and tie…”

Sophia:  “Mom, OK, OK, we get it.  There were nice people on the bus.”

Neil:  “Yeah.  Tell us about Spain.  Portugal.  What did you see?  What did you like?”

Mom:  “Who remembers?   Every place is jumbled together.  But I did notice that Spain is a lot cleaner than Portugal.”
 

Diplomatic Mission

May 22, 2006 / / 24 Comments

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Today, eight months after the passing of my father, my mother takes on the important diplomatic mission of improving American relations with the European Union by taking a two-week bus tour of Spain and Portugal with another woman from Queens.

I bet you didn’t expect that, Dad?

And Mom, it’s a Tapas Bar, not a Topless Bar.

A mi madre, have fun!   I’m off to the gym!  (bloggers, there’s still time to sign the contract below)

A Year Ago in Citizen of the Month:  Handy Guide for Man Shopping

Seven Reasons to Abolish Mother’s Day

May 11, 2006 / / 60 Comments

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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

March 7, 2006 / / 77 Comments

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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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Mom, Don’t Forget to Wear Your Hat

February 12, 2006 / / 44 Comments

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At some point in every adult’s life, the "child" begins to worry about his parents.  This is a passage of life because before that, it was the parents who mostly worried about the child.  For some, this happens at an early age.  A parent could be sick, unattentive, or die early, making the child mature early. 

This was not my case.   My parents never wanted me to worry.  Instead they were the ones who constantly worried about me.

Today, there’s a blizzard in New York.  Tomorrow, my mother will schlep from Queens into Manhattan to go to work.  I called her tonight and told her "to dress warm" tomorrow — knowing she had a bout with pneumonia last year.  It reminded me of when I was a kid and she used to make me wear a hat. 

Are our roles reversing?

She enjoys working downtown, but at some point, she might want to retire.  Would she enjoy being in the nice weather during the winter?  She recently visited her friend Shirley in Florida. Shirley lives in one of those "retirement villages" in Boca Raton.  My mother says she "wasn’t crazy about Florida," mostly because it made her feel older than she actually feels inside.

My mother brought up an example:

"Shirley and I went to the clubhouse for "Movie Night."  They were showing "Bull Durham."  Halfway through the movie there was a fire alarm.  Everyone got up to exit the clubhouse, but there were so many older residents with walkers and canes, that it took everyone twenty minutes to exit the clubhouse.  It ended up being a false alarm — but we skipped the rest of the movie, not wanting to wait another twenty minutes while everyone sat down again."

After she retires, the logical next step would be for her to move out here  — maybe during the winter months — assuming I’m still living in Los Angeles.  After all, I’m the only child.  But where would she live?  My mother doesn’t know how to drive, despite having a New York State driver’s license, which is the funniest thing in the universe to me.  My mother said that if she moves here, she’ll take a refresher course in driving.  Little does she know that if she is going to drive around Los Angeles, that’s the time when I move somewhere else.

All in all, my mother seems to be doing pretty well since my father’s passing.  Although she says it is "too quiet" at night, she’s been going out to concerts and movies on weekends.  In May, she’s even going with two women friends on a bus trip through Spain and Portugal.  That’s something she could have never dragged my father to do.

I’m still such a kid myself — still unsettled with work and marriage.  I wish I could be more of help to her, instead of it always being the other way around.  But, let’s see — at least I have my blog to entertain her with during the day!   I know she reads it every day, because I see her in the stats — she is my most consistent reader.

Although, this weekend, we did have a little mother-son discussion about my blog:

"Neil, one of my friends who I play Mahjong with reads your blodge and she wanted me to tell you something important."

"Is this Suzanne we’re talking about?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Because she’s your only friend who would know how to find a blog online.  What did she say?"

"She said she likes the blodge  a lot.."

"Blog!  Blog!"

"OK, blodge… but she has one small complaint.  There’s too much of "that thing.""

"What "thing?""

"That "thing" you talk about too much."

"What are you talking about, Mom?"

"That "thing" you talk to."

"Oh… that "thing.""

"Yes.  She said to just "cut it out."   I mean, not the "thing."   Don’t cut off the "thing."  She meant to "cut it out" of the blodge… to stop talking about the "thing," not  to cut your "thing" itself, G-d forbid."

"I understand, Mom.  You didn’t raise an idiot."  

"And I agree…"

"About what?  Oh…"

"I… um… who in the world talks to their "thing?""

"Yeah…"

"So, anyway…"

"Uh…well, uh…so, Mom, (changing the subject)… are you watching the Olympics…?"

Be of Good Cheer

January 24, 2006 / / 69 Comments

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During the summer, my father passed away.  My father’s funeral was very beautiful and dignified.  But I was disappointed.  I don’t think it captured my father’s quirky personality. Don’t get me wrong.  Everything went perfect.  Everyone was moved.   It just seemed more for the guests than my father.

After someone dies, everything is very chaotic.  There’s people to call.  Arrangements to make.  The person who died can get lost in the shuffle.

Jewish comedians always make fun of bar mitzvahs, saying that American kids treat them like jokes.  Kids make elaborate parties for their bar mitzvahs, some with crass themes, like baseball teams or Star Trek.   I used to mock these parties myself, but my view is changing.  At least these kids throw a party that reflects themselves.  Why are funerals always so drab.  Why aren’t there any funerals with exotic themes?  

I know this sounds a bit tasteless.  But my father loved the movie "Lawrence of Arabia."  Wouldn’t it be have been cool to have decorated the funeral home like a Arab sheik’s home?  Or an oasis in the Sahara desert?  I’m sure many of the guests would find it tacky and uncomfortable.  But who cares?  My father would have loved it! 

In the Jewish religion, you don’t put up the stone until a year after the death.  Today, my mother called me at home:

"On the way home from work, I bought your father’s stone."

"You did?  It’s only been five months."

"Well, I was in Flushing and I was passing the store. 

"You never can wait, can you?

"It’s going to be a very nice one.   "Kramer" in the middle, and then, "Devoted husband, father, and brother.""

"That’s all?"

"What do you want it to say?"

"I don’t know.  It’s just so… bleh.  It’s like me writing a post that says "Have a Nice Day.""

"We’re not talking about your blodge on the computer.  We’re talking about a stone in a cemetery." 

"How about at least, "Devoted husband, excellent father, and really cool brother?"  I think we can up up with something better for Dad."

"You’re the writer.  You think about it."

I met Sophia at the Coffee Bean.  We sat down to think.  Within thirty seconds, we came up with the exact same solution:

"Be of Good Cheer!"

Be of Good Cheer.  For some reason, my father always ended every phone conversation with that bizarre saying.  I have no idea where he got it from.  I’ve never heard anyone else say it.  It also sounded very 19th Century, like something Sherlock Holmes might say to Dr. Watson.  Maybe my father first heard it in an old movie as a child.

Arthur Kramer, devoted husband, father, and brother.  Be of Good Cheer.

So far, we haven’t sold the idea to my mother.

I know this is a depressing thought, but should we all start thinking about our funerals?  Do you want a traditional  ceremony?  Or something exotic?   Do you care what is written on your stone?  Would you like a certain song to be played?

I always liked "American Pie" from Don McLean:

They were singing,
"bye-bye, miss american pie."
Drove my chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die."

The Toothbrush

January 15, 2006 / / 51 Comments

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Sometimes I feel a little frustrated with blogging, mostly because of you, my dear reader.  While I enjoy our interaction, try as I might, I still don’t feel I really know you.  Mathematically speaking, am I being too generous in saying that you only get to see about 15% of a person by reading their blog?

People are complicated in general.  It’s hard enough knowing yourself, so knowing someone else is especially difficult.  For all my time with Sophia, I suspect I only know 25% of her.  She’s always doing things that are surprising to me.   Last night, we played Texas Hold ’em poker with some friends, and she bluffed with a two of diamonds and three of spades.  That just wasn’t her!  It was shocking.

I love my mother, but having never seen her in her wild single days in Coney Island, I suspect I’ve only seen 35% of her true self. 

I don’t understand myself at all, especially with all my self-deception, so I gather I only know 60% of myself.

As a "writer," I’m supposed to understand characterization, but in truth, people are way too mysterious.  My interest in the human psyche started at an early age. 

When I was a kid, I remember my parents being involved in a  Jewish social group that met at our apartment every month.  There were about twenty members of this group.  On this night, my parents would let me stay up late.  Sometimes, I would come out in my pajamas and play a song on my clarinet,  or do a magic trick (I was a budding magician who did shows at childrens’ parties).  After doing a trick, Abe, a hefty optomotrist, would give me a quarter "tip."

I bring up this monthly event because something odd happened in my apartment every single month — something that became legendary in my household.  After all the guests left, we would find that one of the toothbrushes in the bathroom was missing, and we would then find it sitting in the bathroom hamper with the laundry.

The first time it happened, we assumed it was some weird accident.  But every month it would be the same — a toothbrush in the hamper after all the guests left.

My mother suggested that we hide all the toothbrushes, but my father, being an overly nice guy, didn’t want the culprit to know we were onto him — and make him feel bad.   My father worked in a hospital and was very understanding of all sorts of neurotic people.

One night, a year and 12 discarded toothbrushes later, my mother had had enough.  She gave me a secret assignment, something I wasn’t supposed to tell my father.  I would watch TV in my parents’ bedroom during the evening.  With the bedroom door slightly ajar, one could get a perfect view of the bathroom.  Each time someone went into the bathroom, I should make a note of the person, then run in to check the status of the toothbrushes as soon as they left.

I was on toothbrush patrol all night,  and I must have run into the bathroom at least 10 times for an examination, each time with my father’s handkerchief covering my face, protecting me from any smell and making me feel like a real sleuth. 

Then came the big moment.  

Abe had just left the bathroom.  As he passed from view, I ran inside — and there was the proof —  my father’s toothbrush was gone!  I opened the hamper and laundry scattered all over the floor.  On top of one of my t-shirts, was the toothbrush!

I rushed into the kitchen and told my mother.  It was Abe!  She said we should talk about it with my father later. 

After everyone left, I told my father about my investigative reporting.  He was not surprised, but insisted that we never bring it up and embarrass Abe.  The next day, my father and I went to our local dime store and bought a 12-pack of toothbrushes, enough to keep Abe happy for a year of throwing toothbrushes into the hamper.

My parents were friends with Abe for many years.  His weird toothbrush fetish was never brought up.  Why did Abe do this?  Did he have a bad experience with a dentist when he was a child?  Did he want us to launder the toothbrush?  And why only one?  Would he have remained friends with my parents if they confronted him? 

Did they ever really know more than 2% of the real Abe?

People are complicated and mysterious. 
  

Meet My Russian Bride

November 28, 2005 / / 56 Comments

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I felt bad not going home over Thanksgiving, especially since this was my mother’s first Thanksgiving without my father.  So, I’m excited that my mother is coming to LA in two weeks for Hanukkah-Christmas.

Even though Sophia lives in Redondo Beach and I live in Los Angeles (about 35 minutes away), we thought my mother might actually be more comfortable at Sophia’s.  Despite our marital problems, Sophia and my mother get along great.   I’ve learned that being friends with a member of an ex’s family is not uncommon for her.   In fact, one of Sophia’s good friends is the mother of her ex-boyfriend.

However, before they met Sophia, my parents were not very gung-ho about our relationship.  This was mostly because I called them in New York one day and told them that she was “Russian.”  All sort of scary scenarios went through their heads.

Dad:  “Is it possible… just possible… I mean she might be a very nice girl, but… can she be doing this to get a green card?”

Me:  “She’s been a citizen for years.  She doesn’t need a green card.”

Dad:  (whispering to my mother in the background)  “She’s Russian.”

Mom:  “Give me the phone.  Artie, give me the phone!”

Dad:  “I’m on the phone!”

Mom:  “Neil, listen to me.  She’s doing it for the money!”

Me:  “Tell Mom she’s acting crazy, Dad.”

Mom:  (grabbing the phone from my father)  “You can tell me yourself.  But you’re the one who’s crazy.  I read all about this in New York Magazine.  These Russian golddiggers in short skirts marry Americans for their money.”

Me:  “She must be a very stupid golddigger to pick me because I have no money.”

Dad:  “Neil, this is your father.  I’m on the other line.”

Mom:  “I’m talking, Artie.  Get off.”

Dad:  “Neil, some of these Russians, as pretty as they are, used to be prostitutes.  It’s a tragedy, really.  Such pretty girls.  Thank God we’ve been lucky to be in this country and make a decent living.”

Neil:  “Dad, I really doubt Sophia was ever a prostitute.”

Mom:  “How do you know what she was in Russia?’

Neil:  “She’s been out of Russia for years.  She was in Israel.”

Mom:  “There are prostitutes in Israel, too.  It breaks my heart.  Jewish prostitutes.  Who would ever think?

Dad:  “Maybe you can ask her about her past… in a nice way…”

Me:  “Dad, we’ve gone on two dates.  What do you want me to do?  “I had a great time tonight, Sophia.  By the way, were you ever a prostitute?”

Dad:  “Have you met her parents?  Is she Jewish?”

Neil:  “No, I haven’t.  Yes, she is.  Feel better now?”

Mom:  “A lot of these Russian Jews are different.”

Dad:   “That’s right.  A lot of these Russians Jews are involved with the Russian Mob.  Did you see that movie on HBO last night?”

Neil:  “They’re not Russian mobsters…”

Mom:  “Again… how do you know?!”

Neil:  “Well, I don’t really know, but…”

Mom:  “So this is my punishment for sending you to Columbia.  My in-laws are going to be members of the Russian Mafia!”

A few days later, my father sent me an article cut out of the Daily News about a beautiful Russian woman who married an American in the Upper West Side, then murdered him for the insurance money.

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Things settled down until a couple of months later when Sophia came down with a mysterious case of hives.  Sophia would get hives all over her body.  At times, she couldn’t walk.  We went to the emergency room three times.  She was hospitalized for a week.  The hives would disappear, then reappear again a day later.  It was painful.  It was awful for her.  Sophia went to several doctors, but none of them was ever able to figure out the cause.

Then one day she went to a “hives expert” in Santa Monica.  After the appointment, she called me up, sounding hopeful for the first time in weeks.

Sophia:  “Great news!”

Neil:  “What did he say?”

Sophia:  “At first the doctor said that chronic hives were unpredictable and usually untreatable.  But he was a doctor in Vietnam, and remembered seeing cases like mine.  He said they were able to treat it.  I am so excited!”

Neil:  “Wow.  That’s great.”

Sophia:  “Isn’t it?  I’ll be so happy if I can get rid of these hives.  Of course, it’s only treatable if… if…”

Neil:  “If what?”

Sophia:  “Well, if it’s a symptom of syphilis.”

Neil:  (gulping and choking) “Syphilis?”

Sophia:   “Oh, he said not to worry.  Syphilis is completely treatable nowadays.   I’m actually hoping to have syphilis!  I’m taking a test tomorrow.  Isn’t it the best news?”

Neil:  “Uh, yeah…well…syphilis, huh?”

Sophia:  “Of course, since we’ve had sex, you have to take a test, too.  I might have given it to you.”

Neil:  “I might have SYPHILIS?!”

Sophia:  “Don’t tell me you would rather I have these painful hives all over my body than have a completely cureable little ailment?”

Neil:  “But syphilis?  Didn’t people go crazy because of that?  Can’t my penis shrivel up and fall off?”

Sophia:  “You are such a baby.  You should be concerned about me and my health, not your precious cock.  No wonder you were a virgin until you were — !”

The next day, my father called.

Dad:  “Hello, Neil.  It’s your father.  How was your day?”

Neil:  “Actually, I had to go to the hospital.”

Dad:  “Oh my god, is something wrong?”

Mom:  (in background)  What’s wrong?  Is something wrong?  Is Neil in the hospital?!”

Neil:  “Tell Mom it’s nothing.  I just had a test.  It’s nothing to worry about.  There’s just a little tiny chance that… remember those hives Sophia had…”

Dad:  “Oh, no, is she very ill?  Do you want us to fly out?”

Neil:  “She’s fine.  She’s fine.  It’s just the hives she has… may be from…”

Dad:  “What?”

Neil:  “May be from… from, uh… syphilis.”

Dad:  “Syphilis?!”

Mom:  (in background)  “Syphilis!  Syphilis!  What are you talking about?!  Gvie me the phone, Artie.  Give me the phone!  Neil, don’t tell me you have syphilis?”

Neil:  “Well, right now, we don’t know…”

Mom:   “I knew it!  I knew it!  My son got an Ivy League education to date a Russian prostitute and now he has syphilis!” 

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Sophia ended up NOT having syphilis.   And can you believe she was UPSET at not having it?!  This would have meant that her problem could be cured.

Her hives continued on and off for a couple of years, then disappeared.  We never found out why she got them. 

My parents finally met Sophia when they visited Los Angeles, and fell in love with her.   

Sophia was never a prostitute.   My mother still thinks that some of Sophia’s relatives are part of the Russian Mafia.

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Today on Blogebrity:  Blogging for Cupcakes  (Cupcakes Take the Cake, Rachel, Nichelle)

My Mother is a Giving Person

November 2, 2005 / / 51 Comments

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Nick Douglas of Blogebrity’s kind mention of my mother made me think about how wonderful my mother is as a person.  She is probably the most giving person I know.

Maybe too giving. 

Mom, this is for you.

 

My Mother is a Giving Person
A Post in Three Chapters
by Neil Kramer

Chapter 1

My Mother Gives Away a Sweater

My mother owns an ugly plaid sweater.   When Sophia and I were in New York last month, Sophia politely told my mother that the sweater was nice.  When we returned back to Los Angeles, we discovered the god-awful sweater sitting in Sophia’s suitcase.  Sophia called my mother and asked why.

My mother answered, “Because you liked it so much.”

Chapter 2

My Mother Gives Away a Noodle Kugel

When we were sitting shiva for my father, people were supposed to follow the tradition of bringing food to the mourners.  Instead, we had constant guests and my mother was serving them.

The very sweet Adele Horowiz from Apartment 4D brought down some cookies for the guests and a “special” noodle kugel for us.   Sophia and I each had a piece and it was the best thing we ever ate.  We went downstairs to pick up some more soda for the visitors.  We then returned, eager for another piece of the kugel.  But when we walked in, we saw five new visitors, and my mother was serving them all OUR KUGEL.

Sophia and I surrounded my mother in the kitchen.  .

“What are you doing?” asked Sophia.  “That noodle kugel was for us, not them!”

“It was so good,” answered my mother.   “I wanted them to try it.”

I pointed to a huge pile of cakes, cookies, and candy sitting on the kitchen counter.

“Give them some of this crap!” I said.  “Not Adele Horowitz’s homemade noodle kugel!”

“That’s right,” added Sophia.  “We’re the mourners.  We deserve the kugel!”

I sniffed the air.  It smelled like kugel.

“I can still smell how good it is.”

Sophia peeked into the living room.

“You better keep on smelling.  Because I think your guests are finishing the last piece.”

Chapter 3

My Mother Gives Away My House in Malibu

A funeral, like a wedding, is a place to you see relatives you never see otherwise.  When we were sitting shiva, my cousin, Brian, came to visit.  He is twelve years younger than me.  He lives in upstate New York and I’ve seen him twice in my life.

While my mother talked with some visitors, Brian and I went into my room to talk and get to know each other better.  I  was flattered when I learned that I was a major influence on his life. 

“When I was little, you and your parents took me to my first Star Wars movie.  Remember?  You had these little R2D2 wind-up toys.  And your mother gave me one.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah.” I said, not really remembering these toys at all.  “That’s great, just great.”

He told me that after the movie, Star Wars became the center of his life.  He saw every movie and became a major collector of Star Wars memorabilia.  He said he made a good amount of money buying and selling these collectibles on Ebay. 

“I’m glad I got you started!” I said, laughing.

“Oh, I’ve had even better luck with your comic books and baseball cards,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly confused.

“Didn’t you know?  I once came visiting when you were in college.  Your mother gave me all of your comic books and baseball cards.”

“She did?”

I always wondered what happened to my comics and baseball cards.  Unlike my father, who kept every receipt since 1950, my mother threw out everything.  I always assumed my mother tossed out my childhood stuff when she cleaned out my closet.

“You had this one Archie comic…” Brian said, taking out an imaginary comic book and lovingly opening a page, “…that was in such excellent condition — I was able to sell it for $75!”

“$75?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve sold quite a few of the comic books and some of the baseball cards.  But I’m definitely holding on to that Roberto Clemente.”

“I had a Roberto Clemente?!”

“Oh, yeah.  Mint condition.”

“What else did my mother give you?”

“Well, I’ve added a lot to my Matchbox car collection…”

“I thought they were still in the closet.”

“No, I combined our collections and won some contest for ‘America’s Best Matchbox Car Collection.’  I got $5000 from the Mattel Company.”

“I loved my Matchbox collection.”

“They’re fun.  But they’re not worth as much as that Lionel train set you had.”

“My train set?”

“Your mother said you only used it once.  It wasn’t easy getting it into my Honda Civic”

“I completely forgot I had a train set.”

“That’s what your mother said.  She said you called it “boring'”

“It was boring.  Who wants to watch a train go round and round?”

“I think it’s boring also, but trust me, there are A LOT of collectors out there who don’t.  It did really well on Ebay when I sold it for… well, let’s just say it did VERY VERY well…”

“What do you do for a living?  I mean, besides selling my old stuff on Ebay?”

“I used to do sales for a lighting company, but I quit because I was making so much money with…”

“MOM!” 

I yelled it like I did when I was ten years old and wanted to rat on someone.

“MOM!”

“What?”  she called out from the kitchen.

“Mom, come here!”

I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to my my grieving mother.   All I could think about was the house in Malibu I could have bought with the money from my old baseball cards.

My mother entered.

“Did you call?”

She was carrying a plate of food, wrapped in aluminum foil.

“Oh,  hi, Brian.   There you are.  I was just saving you a piece of this delicious noodle kugel to take home.”

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