As a former New Yorker living in Los Angeles, I sometimes feel envious of all the advantages of living in New York. Although LA has Hollywood, and I’ve seen David Schwimmer buying brown rice in Whole Foods, it seems as if all the really cool actors, like Robert DeNiro, live in New York. New York has hip David Letterman. We have blah Jay Leno. New York has Woody Allen. We have Paris and Perez Hilton.

Now, New York is abuzz with all the attention from the President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad – Columbia University forum/publicity stunt. It’s not fair. Where are the civic leaders of Los Angeles? Where is our local tyrant? Get off your asses, UCLA and USC. Forget football. It is time for people to take Los Angeles seriously. We’re not just bad sitcoms and fake tits.

Here’s a suggestion. Invite Kim Jong-il of North Korea to speak here! Let him become our local tyrant.

Do it for UCLA or USC. Do it for Los Angeles!

I don’t believe in Jesus being resurrected. I don’t believe Muhammed was a prophet. Why should I believe in the validity of the stories that are told in synagogue?

I don’t.   Or I at least take most of what I hear with a grain of salt.  Or I explain away things as allegory.  I don’t consider myself religious (although Sophia says I am — why?).  I do, however, appreciate the fact that religion deals with the big issues of life, and by that I don’t mean which young actress is or isn’t anorexic or just out of rehab.  Religious or not, as a storyteller, I do like stories, especially fanciful ones, and religion is filled with tons of them.  I don’t see “fiction” as less real than “reality.”  It just is another version of reality.  As I’ve mentioned in other posts, I treat the posts where I talk to my Penis as seriously as I do any other.   It is both untrue and very true.  In religion, symbolism and rituals can speak a truth far more important than reality.   I think Judaism has some really great symbolism and ritual.   I would be bored being an atheist.  That “story” would flop at the box-office.

I also think it is important for the non-traditional and not-very-religious to take an active role in religion. Can you think of anything worse than the world’s religions being run by people who are seriously ultra-RELIGIOUS — those who are totally convinced of their own beliefs?  I’m pretty sure we all can come come up with plenty of examples of how religion — and religious intolerance —  has screwed up mankind throughout history.  If I meet someone who is positive that their religion is “the one and only true one” or if this person has absolutely NO DOUBTS about their faith, I run the other way. 

That said, I love Rosh Hashanah.  It is all about renewal and hope for a better new year, for “being inscribed favorably in the Book of Life”.  It is also about making amends, thinking over your wrongs, and about how everyone’s sins are inter-related; about taking upon yourself the “sins” of everyone in the community.

Yesterday, we went to South Coast Botanical Gardens rather than the ocean,  to observe the ancient tradition of Tashlich -”tossing away our sins”, but this being Los Angeles, the lake at the gardens was closed for some dull-looking Showtime TV show that was being shot at the location.

I was ready to leave but Sophia, being Sophia, schmoozed with the bored sound man and he showed us how we can get around to the other side of the lake for Tashlich.

Rabbinic tradition states that it was preferable to go to a body of water containing fish, since “man cannot escape God’s judgement any more than fish can escape being caught in a net; we are just as likely to be ensnared and trapped at any moment as is a fish”. Another rabbinic interpretation that also prefers a body of water containing fish to perform Tashlich states that “the fish’s dependence on water symbolizes the Jews’ dependence on God, as a fish’s eyes never close, God’s watchful eyes never cease”. However, since Tashlikh or Tashlich or Tashlik is merely a symbolic ceremony, any body of water will suffice, even if it is water that runs from a hose or from a water faucet.

On Rosh Hashanah, Jews also recognize that God is above Time, and the idea of “forgetting” does not apply to Him, nor is He limited in “understanding” the inner thoughts of His creatures. Nevertheless, we ask that He “remember” only the “good” in our behalf when He Judges us.

For the Jewish People in particular, we ask that He “remember” the early loyalty of our People, who followed Him as a bride, as He said “I remember your youthful devotion, the love of your bridal days, how you followed Me through the desert, in a barren land” (Yirmiyahu 2:2)

Judaism’s central prayer: Sh’ma Israel, Adonai Elohainu, Adonai Ehad. “Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.”

A blogger asked me why Jews wear yarmulkes, or kippahs in temple.

The uniqueness of a Jewish head covering is hinted at in the blessing we say every morning, thanking God for “crowning Israel with splendor” (Talmud – Brachot 60b)

Historically, in Eastern cultures, it is a sign of respect to cover the head (the custom in Western cultures is the opposite: it is a sign of respect to remove one’s hat). Thus, by covering the head during prayer, one showed respect for God. In addition, in ancient Rome, servants were required to cover their heads while free men did not; thus, Jews covered their heads to show that they were servants of God.

The Talmud says that the purpose of wearing a kippah is to remind us of God, who is the Higher Authority is “above us” (Kiddushin 31a). External actions create internal awareness; wearing a symbolic, tangible “something above us” reinforces that idea that God is always watching. The kippah is a means to draw out one’s inner sense of respect for God.

(sometimes, when you’re outside, Sophia’s hat will do, even if it looks totally dorky.  I must have to explain away wearing this hat as a “sin” next year, at least a fugly one.)

Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, but even if you’re not Jewish, September always feels like a new year, with school starting and fall approaching.    Hopefully it will be a “sweet” year for everyone.

Idea for Rosh Hashanah 2008 — To make going to temple more interactive, I suggest a new prayer book in which certain prayers have missing lyrics, and congregants have to guess the missing words to the prayers to win prizes such as bagels and lox at Canter’s Deli.

 
the original Playbill from the 70’s

Yesterday, Sophia and I went to the South Coast Rep in Orange County to see Stephen Sondheim’s “A Little Night Music.”  The musical, one of Sondheim’s more popular shows,  is based on “Smiles of a Summer Night” by Ingmar Bergman, who just died in July.   This was a first class theater production, something that usually doesn’t go hand-in-hand with the term “Orange County,” home of the Country Bear Jamboree and Medieval Times. ”  We really liked it and would recommend seeing it.

“A Little Night Music” is a beautiful musical from the 1970s, more of an operetta than a traditional song-and-dance show, and it is most famous for the song “Send in the Clowns.”  I really love Sondheim’s musicals.  I remember seeing “Sweeney Todd” when I was younger, and it still is the best Broadway show I ever saw.  Mamma Mia doesn’t deserve to appear on the same stage.  (read Billy Mernit’s take on Sondheim)

Before the show, Sophia and I met up with the super-talented Secret Agent Josephine and  her cute daughter, Baby Bug at a hipster vegetarian restaurant.   I had met SAJ at her recent art show, but Sophia couldn’t make it to the show, so I promised to introduce her eventually –

“You Must Meet My Wife” from A Little Night Music

There was another matter at our hand.  I had bought a print of SAJ’s work and she had promised to sign it for me.  

She even went one step further — she wrote a personal poem on the back of the picture frame. 

My Ode to Neilochka

To my dear Neilochka
What would I do without cha!
You IM’ed with speed
In my time of need
You said, “Don’t be scared!
Who cares about dog hair?!”
And you were right
The show was outta sight!
I’m glad you were there
Even if you just wanted to touch Whoorl’s hair
I can’t think of no other I’d want my art to go to
So, thank you, THANK YOU!

Cute, huh? 

SAJ and Sophia (photo completely stolen from SAJ’s site)

It was amazing watching a mother writing, eating, and entertaining her child all without missing a beat.   What a juggling act.  How do you new mothers find five minutes to even blog?   SAJ did ask me at one point to take a “walk” with her child while she finished writing her poem.   Baby Bug and I walked to the front counter together.  I have very little experience with young children, and I was terrified that I was going to do something wrong, like accidentally lose the baby in some soup vat.  Instead, Baby Bug pretty much ignored me until I leaned over and made a funny face at her, which immediately caused her to run over to her mother, crying.

All in all, it was a great day — meeting a blogger and baby AND seeing some theater.  There was only one bump in the road.  During intermission, Sophia and I had a heated discussion over an important piece of theater etiquette.  I open it for discussion:

Imagine your theater seats are in the middle of the row.  The row is filled with theater-goers at their seats.  You say, “Excuse me,” and start making your way to the center of the row.  Is it better to walk in facing the stage, with your ASS facing everyone in the row, or should you slide in, facing the row, sticking your groin under the nose of each seated patron?   Which is the proper etiquette? 

Friday was the second anniversary of my father’s death. I haven’t been very good at keeping the Jewish traditions that are there to honor the dead. I was supposed to have gone to temple every day for a whole year, and I never did. I’ve only been to the grave site twice, because the cemetery is in New York.

This year, I decided to light the Yarzheit (memorial) candle on the anniversary of the death. I was anxious about making the moment “spiritual,” something I’m not very good at doing, and I found myself feeling cranky as sunset approached. Sophia was planting flowers on the patio, and all I could think was:

“Why was she planting NOW — right before this important moment?! Couldn’t she show my father some respect?! There’s dirt everywhere outside”

Of course, I wasn’t really mad at her, but at myself. What am I supposed to say when I lit the candle? What am I supposed to think that’s meaningful? I didn’t just want to rush through the prayer, and I was dependent on Sophia to help me get through the candle lighting. And the whole moment just felt wrong. I wasn’t ready for it. I told Sophia I was leaving the house and heading for the beach. I thought the ocean would be inspirational. I left the house without lighting the candle.

At the beach, I watched some surfers. I thought less about my father, than about the closing days of “summer.” By next week, kids would be going back to school. Soon it would be Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. By October, the colorful knit sweaters would be reappearing. My local CVS Pharmacy even had their Halloween costumes already on display!

I wish I could tell you that the ocean caused me to become poetic about the moment. It wouldn’t have been difficult to make the connection between the changing of the seasons and the cycle of life itself — birth, death, and renewal — metaphors that have been used in everything from Shakespeare to “The Lion King.” But, for me –the beach was just the beach, although it was fun to see the surfers packing up their surfboards and heading home, the boards on the heads. My father would have gotten a kick out of watching them. He was stationed in Hawaii during his time in the Army, so I’m sure he’s seen some surfing himself (and would have been as unlikely to do any surfing as I am).

On the way home, some oldies station played, “I Want You Back,” by the Jackson Five.

Oh baby, give me one more chance
(To show you that I love you)
Won’t you please let me back in your heart
Oh darlin’, I was blind to let you go
(Let you go, baby)
But now since I’ve seen you it is on
(I want you back)
Oh I do now
(I want you back)
Ooh ooh baby
(I want you back)
Yeah yeah yeah yeah
(I want you back)
Na na na na

I know the song is about a boy wanting a girl, but it also made me think of my father.

“I Want You Back.”

Isn’t that exactly what I would say to him if I could speak to him in person?

After the song, I went back home and lit the candle.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Let’s Stop Ladies’ Night

It’s one of the oldest stories — a guy or gal has a big date that night, so she looks into the mirror, and sees a huge zit! Horrors!

I don’t have a zit, but it looks like I have a cold sore. But I DON’T HAVE A COLD SORE! It just looks like a cold sore. What I have is the aftermath of a coffee burn on my lip. Honestly!

Tonight, I’m going to see Secret Agent Josephine’s gallery show of dog paintings. She is a popular California blogger and many other bloggers will be there. And I mean glamorous female bloggers. I will be meeting most of them for the first time, and what will be the first thing they will notice — my coffee burn! And they will think it is a cold sore. And they will write about it in their blogs tomorrow:

“Secret Agent Josephine’s show was a big success. Many bloggers were there. Lovely Whoorl was there with her beautiful baby. Therapy-going Neilochka was there also, with his cold sore.”

It is NOT a cold sore. It is a coffee burn.

As a preventive measure, I think it is essential that I tell you how I got this coffee burn on my lip. After I tell you this story, you will realize that I am telling the truth:

A few weeks ago, a local independent filmmaker emailed me. He said he liked my blog and wanted to talk to me about possibly putting together some story pitches together for a producer. We met, liked each other, and decided to give it a try. After a week, we didn’t accomplish much more than coming up with a few titles stolen from other movies.

“Not from the makers of “Knocked Up,” It’s “Knocked Off!”

Yesterday, we decided to meet at his home and finally get to work. For eight hours we hashed out story ideas, in between drinking lots of coffee and playing Trivial Pursuit. By the end of the day, we were exhausted. On the way home, I felt my eyes closing as I was driving on the freeway (we live 45 minutes apart). I decided to pull off and get myself a cup of coffee. I was happy to notice an In-N-Out Burger down the block. If you are unfamiliar with this chain, it is because they are mostly on the West Coast. They are my favorite local burger joint. Unlike the bigger fast-food chains, they make their burgers fresh. Although it can take twice as long to get your burger than at McDonald’s, the hamburgers actually taste like meat.

I ordered a cheeseburger with onions, and a cup of coffee. I couldn’t wait to eat that burger! I don’t have fancy tastes. Although I enjoy all types of food, nothing is as comforting as a hamburger, a slice of pizza, a bagel, or a good tuna fish sandwich. I picked up my newly-made burger from the high school kid behind the counter, sat down at one of the faux 1950’s plastic booths and dove in!

Thank you Harry and Esther Snyder, creators of In-N-Out!

From Wikipedia:

In-N-Out’s first location was opened on October 22, 1948 by Harry and Esther Snyder at the northwest corner of what is now the intersection of Interstate 10 and Francisquito Avenue in the Los Angeles suburb of Baldwin Park, California.

All ethnic groups take pride in the accomplishments of their own. African-Americans are proud of Barack Obama. Asians appreciate that Daniel Dae Kim is considered a sex symbol on Lost. Jews are no different. Even my mother knows that Spock’s Vulcan sign is something he saw at an orthodox synagogue as a child.

“I knew Spock was Jewish,” my mother used to say. “He was the smart one.”

Unfortunately, the Jewish community is somewhat ashamed of William Shatner.

Harry and Esther Snyder: clearly mishpucha (Yiddish for family). To me, McDonald’s is Church of Scotland (McDonald’s), Wendy’s is Presbyterian, and Jack-in-the-Box is Roman Catholic, with “Jack” running the show from his Vatican-like headquarters.

In-N-Out is Jewish.  Harry and Esther Snyder?  I actually have an aunt and uncle named Harry and Esther.

I sometimes wondered if they know I’m Jewish, too, which would explain why their service people are so nice to me. Whenever I order a burger, the worker at the register always smiles at me with a knowing look and asks “Would you like some onions with that?” in the same caring tone that my mother uses when she asks if I would like an extra matzo ball in my soup during Passover.

In-N-Out hamburgers are very cleverly wrapped, with two pieces of waxed paper folded around the burger to prevent spillage. I quickly ate half of my burger and then started drinking my coffee, remembering that my original reason for stopping here was to get some coffee, not to eat a cholesterol heavy burger. As I took a sip from my coffee cup, I noticed something very unusual written on the bottom of the outer hamburger wrapper:

Revelations 3:10.

WTF? Revelations 3:10?! New Testament messages on my burger wrapper at my favorite Jewish burger chain?

My brain went into overload, unaware that I was about to take another sip of burning hot coffee, and mistakenly missed my mouth. Instead, I spilled the scalding liquid right on my lip, later causing a blister.

“Ouch!”

It turns out Harry and Esther Snyder are not mishpucha, but Christian fanatics who put weird Bible messages on their products and then purposely give extra hot coffee to their non-Christian customers.

Would I make this story up? It is a coffee burn that I have, not a cold sore!

From Wikipedia (why did I never notice this before?):

In-N-Out prints discreet references to Bible verses on their paper utensils. The print is small and out of the way, and only contains the book, chapter and verse numbers, not the actual text of the passages. The practice began in the 1980s during Rich Snyder’s presidency, a reflection of the Christian beliefs held by the Snyder family.

Burger and cheeseburger wrappers

Revelation 3:20—”Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me.”

Beverage cups and antenna toppers

John 3:16—”For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.”

Milkshake cups

Proverbs 3:5—”Trust in the LORD with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”

Double-Double wrapper

Nahum 1:7—”The LORD is good, a strong hold in the day of trouble; and he knoweth them that trust in him.”

Paper water cups, or “R-9’s”

John 14:6—”Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”

Next time, I’m going to Canter’s Jewish Deli for my coffee.

8AM –

Every morning, when I turn my IM on, I see Alissa online, probably from her office.  She can see me online at the same time.  For weeks, we just stared at each other, neither wanting to bother the other.  I knew she was there and she knew that I was there.  Eventually, it just made me feel uncomfortable.  It was time to take some action –

Neil (via IM):  “Alissa, we have to do something about this.  We both see each other.  We both know we’re online.  It just seems rude to not say anything.  Isn’t there some sort of IM etiquette that we can follow?”

Alissa:  “I don’t think so.”

We came up with a plan.  We decided it was OK to say “Hello… but now I’m going to ignore you,” the online equivalent of the friendly, but superficial “hello” you might get from someone in the office.

It works for us.  I think we should all use this technique when we go on IM.  Isn’t it better to say, “Hi, but I’m now going to ignore you,” rather than just ignoring someone in silence?

8:30AM –

While in Starbucks this morning, I sat next to two guys reading the sports section of the LA Times… about Barry Bonds.   Dodger Stadium has been sold out this week because the Giants are in town and Barry Bonds is just one home run away from tying the record of Hank Aaron.  But so far, Bonds hasn’t hit any home runs in Los Angeles.

Guy #1:   “I think the Dodgers are doing it on purpose… throwing bad pitches at him.”
Guy #2:   ”Yeah?”
Guy#1:    “It is Major League Baseball. The guys in power don’t want Barry Bonds to succeed. They don’t want him to hit a home run.”
Guy #2:   “The steroids thing?”
Guy#1:   “Nah. It’s because he’s black. And they don’t want to a black man to be the record-holder.”

9AM –

I think it is apparent that I’m a little down over my situation with Sophia.  I’ve been trying to think positive thoughts, like in “The Secret,” hoping that laws of attraction will bring me some good news.  When I came back from Starbucks, I heard Sophia calling to me from upstairs:

“Neil, you got a call from CBS!”

“CBS?!” I asked myself,  “What could this mean?  Is CBS reading my blog and now they want to offer me a sitcom based on my life?  Do they want to hire me to be a writer?  As a producer?  Do they want to sponsor BlogHim and make it into a reality show, with me as the host?

I ran upstairs, three steps at a time, reaching Sophia in five seconds flat. I was out of breath.

“CBS called?  What did they say?  What did they want?!”

“CBS called?” asked Sophia. “No.  I said CVS called.  Your cholesterol medicine is ready.”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Los Angeles: The Glamorous Life

Do you see how white I become after three days of not shaving?

Meet Bob. He lives in Redondo Beach. He’s a…uh… an accountant… but a loveable one. Imagine a cross between Tom Hanks, Luke Wilson, and Perez Hilton. One day, his girlfriend suggests he move out. He is distraught. He turns to his friends for help, but most of his friends are female and too busy getting ready to attend AccountantHer. When he asks if he can go to AccountantHer with them, they laugh at him. No man goes to AccountantHer! This makes Bob feel even more alone. He wanders the streets until he finds himself at a County Fair.

Bob may be alone, but this photo was taken by Sophia.

At the fair, he stumbles onto something he has never heard of — the table setting competition. Different “artists” compete by creating themes for their table settings. Bob is fascinated by this unique artform. He has found his calling. He decides that HE will become THE next table setting champion of America and regain his confidence.

He tells all his friends about his new dream, and they mock him, calling him “a dreamer.” Just when Bob is about to give up, he meets Mrs. Migashi, a mild-mannered health food store owner from Torrance, California, who just happens to be a famous table setter from Kyoto, and an expert in the Japanese form of this art. Mrs. Migashi does not have a son, and has always wanted to impart her wisdom to someone worthy of her knowledge.

“Teach me everything you know,” says Bob.

Bob immediately takes to the art, creating artistic table settings based on exotic locales and scenes from movies. He is especially proud of his dessert table titled “Lord of the Ring-Dings.”

Mrs. Migashi is not impressed.

“Table setting is not about throwing random paint around, like a Jackson Pollock painting.” she slowly says, educating him. “It requires discipline. Did you know that the dinner plate MUST be exactly one inch from the edge of the table? Or that points will be deducted if the knife does not perfectly align with the center of the water glass? Do you know the correct position and direction of the dessert spoon? Did you even know there WAS a dessert spoon?”

This one might have done better than 3rd Place if the artist didn’t use The Two Buck Chuck (the two dollar Trader Joe’s wine).

“But how will I ever learn all these things about table settings?” asks Bob. “How will I ever be ready for the National Championship in Tucson, Arizona?”

“You must focus.” says Mrs. Migashi. “You must wash my dishes every night, for two months, give me foot massages every other night, and take care of all my needs whenever I make a “booty call.”

“What does this have to do with table settings?” asks Bob.

“Do not question the master!” she shouts.

Two months and many booty calls later, Bob wins the National Tablesetting Championship, and regains his confidence.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Sex Advice for Men

It was inevitable. Our beautiful patio that I have been writing about for weeks, the beautiful locale that produced the lovely flowers and tasty tomatoes, had became a place that required “work” and produced “conflict.” All of a sudden, there were issues to be resolved:

Who is responsible for watering the plants?

Who should take care of the minutia of problems that crop up with live plants and flowers?

Who should get rid of the pigeons that have set up a permanent nest on our roof and no matter what we do, come back and crap on everything?

Who should rid the patio of the two wasp hives that have suddenly developed outside?

Who should spray the patio with scary pesticides after a quarter of of our plants have been eaten by pests? (I did — wearing a mask, goggles and winter hat to protect myself from the fumes!)

And who’s at fault for a broken pot — the one who tripped over it or the one who put it in the “wrong” place?

When I told Finn and Charming with Single about this, they suggested that the garden is a metaphor for marriage. What starts out all fun and romantic, falls apart if taken for granted. Like everything else, it NEEDS WORK to thrive.

All this drama has affected my blog writing. Have you ever been in a really bad mood or so upset at your wife that you couldn’t focus on writing a post, so you decided to ask someone to write a “guest post” for you?

Unfortunately, I had trouble deciding on who to ask to “substitute” for me at my blog. After all, who amongst you could maintain the usual high quality of “Citizen of the Month.” I certainly don’t want you plastering photos of your snot-filled babies or your LOLcats all over the place. (to my detractors — posting photos of Sophia holding out tomatoes is a completely different thing. Great writers and poets have been writing about gardens and the symbolism of vegetation since the beginning of time).

I walked to my local Starbucks, hoping to be inspired by all the conversation around me, but all I could think about was the same thing that had been on mind all day — why would Sophia (expurgated) when I told her that (expurgated), since — tell me if I’m wrong — isn’t marriage supposed to be (expurgated)?

“Screw it, ” I told myself. I don’t want to write anything today. If I had my druthers, I would just throw in another photo of Sophia in a dress, but then those literary NY bloggers will stop reading me, thinking me too superficial and “LA.”

So, I still needed a post, but I was dry. I had no one to turn to. So, I had an idea. Why not just pass my laptop to the Asian guy sitting next to me in Starbucks? I’m sure he can write a decent post for “Citizen of the Month.” It certainly couldn’t be worse than letting ONE OF YOU do a guest post!

Neil:   “Hey, what’s your name?”

Matt:   ”Matt.”

Neil:   “What do you do, Matt?”

Matt:   “I’m a graduate student in economics at UCLA.”

Neil:   “Great. Here’s the laptop. Write about anything you want. My readers are curious to hear your views.”

The Love of a Woman by Matt (guest-blogging for Citizen of the Month)

Love sucks. Love is like a virus that first attacks the brain, then the heart. It destroy everything inside of you, until you are left dead and decaying on the hot pavement, the only sound that you can hear coming from your old apartment, as your ex-girlfriend screws that new guy she met, screaming his name like a wild coyote.

Matt suddenly started to sob.

Matt:   ”I hate her… and love her.”

Neil:   “Uh, very interesting, Matt, but not really what I was looking for. I usually try for more “upbeat” posts. Your post is too depressing. But thanks for trying…. (under my breath)… nutcase.”

I grabbed my laptop and searched for another guest poster. On the opposite side of Starbucks, I saw another guy — a blond, beach boy type — sitting with his friend and laughing. He seemed to be in a great mood. I immediately ran over to him.

Neil:   “Hi, there. Would you like to guest post on my blog today?”

Pete:   “Sure.”

Neil:   “What’s your name?”

Pete:   “Pete.”

Neil:   “Go for it, Pete. Write for “Citizen of the Month.”

My Weekend by Pete (guest blogging for Citizen of the Month)

I had a great weekend. I love my life. On Saturday, I played some beach volleyball, then met this new girl on the beach. She looked great in her bikini. At night we went to see Transformers, and then she came back to my place. We must have f***ed all night. She was amazing in bed. She was insatiable. On Sunday, I went to church, as usual. When I came back, this chick was waiting for me with a homemade breakfast. She’s a great cook. We f***ed some more and then went out for some fish tacos. I was so hungry after all that glorious f***ing. At the Mexican joint, she told me how great I was in bed and that I was the best f*** in Redondo Beach…

Neil:   ”Wait… wait… hold on… this post is way too upbeat for my taste. Your weekend sounds 1000x better than mine. And I really don’t like that last line about you in bed, because I’ve been trying to give my readers a different impression of what’s best in Redondo Beach.”

Pete:   “Hey, I’m sorry, dude. I’m just telling the facts.”

Neil:   “Well, like I said, the post is too happy. Just like the other guy’s post was too depressing. I’m looking for a post that’s JUST RIGHT.

The first guest poster, Matt came over, tears still in his eyes.

Matt:   “Hey, did I hear you say that this girl told you that you were the best f*** in Redondo Beach?”

Pete:   ”That’s right.”

Matt:   “That’s bullshit. That’s what my girlfriend use to say to me.”

Pete:   “Well, sorry, dude.”

Matt:   “Wait a minute… is this girl’s name Meg?”

Pete:   “That’s right. Meg.”

Matt:   “That’s my girlfriend. You were doing my ex-girlfriend. You son of a…”

Matt grabbed Pete and wrestled with him in the middle of Starbucks.

The barista, a burly guy with a goatee, ran out from behind the counter.

Barista:   “Hey, stop it, you asses! Neither of you know what you are talking about. Meg told me that I was the best f*** in Redondo Beach!”

Matt:   “You too? You bastard.”

Matt threw a punch at the barista. Pete threw a punch at Matt, who went flying against the the glass of the pastry display. CRASH! The espresso machines became unhinged and blasted hot water upwards, blowing holes in the ceiling.

Neil:   “Yes!!!! I finally have a post to write. This is not too depressing. This is not too happy. This is JUST RIGHT!”

Update later:  I apologize for letting you read this crazy post, which really makes no sense at all.    Substitute this instead:

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:   Her Real Name   (I asked bloggers to tell me their REAL names, not their phony blog names. Feel free to add to the list)

Some say the blogosphere is like high school. I don’t think it is anything like high school. In high school, the geeks and the beauty queens do not hang out with each other EVERY DAY, making jokes and flirting with each other. The internet is really the ultimate “Beauty and the Geek” social experiment. Have you seen some of the beautiful female bloggers out there?

Whoorl has the best hair on the internet.

Do you really think she would be talking with a geek like ME in high school?!

If the blogosphere is like high school, it is like one of those Hollywood high schools that Alicia Silverstone went to in Clueless. The blogosphere is an institution of unlikely friendships, where the dorks and the fashion plates become the best of friends because there is so much to LEARN from each other. I read the blog of the glamorous La Coquette all the time, trying to learn something about fashion. Some other fashion blogger might read a computer geek who wears broken glasses, hoping to learn some code for her blog template. The final result: all sorts of bizarre online friendships.

On Saturday night, Sophia and I had dinner with Tamar and Danny. This was an exciting event, because it was the first time I’ve met Tamar since she “won” me in a charity auction. I really loved meeting her. She has a wild sense humor, not at all like the stereotypical brainy professor you see in movies.

Danny, Tamar, and I have something else in common: we are all dorky when it comes to fashion. Unlike Sophia, who always has a certain je ne sais quoi about her, and has her own sense of style, the three of us see “style” as a low priority in our lives.

Danny is a writer and editor who buttons his shirt incorrectly. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wearing a tie or non-khaki pants.

Tamar is a writer and educator, with little interest in “girlish” things. She admits that she doesn’t like to go shopping or spend time picking out clothes.

I’m completely fashion-hopeless, worse than both of them, usually wearing two different style socks. My only saving grace is that I have Sophia to force me to dress nicer on occasion.

But luckily, the three of us dorkier bloggers are blessed to have bloggers like YOU — the more socialized and fashion-conscious bloggers of the world, the ones who actually know how to match your purse with your shoes, those who use blogging less as a way to escape from the real world, but to talk about the latest dress style for Fall or how you bought some new avocado-scented hair conditioner online.

On Saturday, we finally listened to you — our dear stylish blogging friends, you Alicia Silverstones of the blogosphere — and we each took a giant step in joining the world of glamour.

A few weeks ago, I received an IM from Charming, but Single, with an important message: she had grown tired of my hairstyle. She had seen a photo of me on Flickr and was downright disgusted.

“Don’t you realize that long hair is out of fashion?” she said.

I mentioned this to Sophia, who absolutely agreed.

“You should get your hair cut short.” said Sophia. “Short… and pointed at the top… like Jonathan on “All My Children.”"

former psychotic killer, now nice-guy Jonathan from “All My Children”

I spent a week doing my own research. Almost every male character had short hair on All My Children, some with even a buzzcut. Most of the men in my local Starbucks also wore their hair very short. My longish, graying, hair made me look like an aging rock star on VH1.

I was fearful of change. I’ve always asked for my hair to be cut so it is “over my ears.” As some may have noticed from my childhood photo, there was a good reason I wanted my ears covered.

Even when my head grew into my ears, I feared showing my “Dumbo”-sized ears to the world, even when Scandinavian research revealed a direct correlation between ear size and the size of other male body parts.

Two days ago, Sophia sat me on the toilet seat and said, “That’s it. I’m cutting your hair short… like Jonathan in “All My Children.”

“Do you know how to cut hair?” I asked.

“No,” she replied, and then went ahead and started cutting it anyway.

Did I lose all my powers, like Samson? Not really.

Thank you, blogosphere, for giving me enough nerve to cut my hair short.

I like Danny a lot. Even though he is from Chicago and I’m from New York, we are both nebbishy Jewish men who walk around with sneakers like Jerry Seinfeld ALL THE TIME. Of course, I’ve been lucky to have a lot of female readers, which means one thing — I’ve already been shamed into wearing shoes. As I’ve heard over and over from my female readers, women care less about a man’s wallet or “package” than what type of SHOES he is wearing. I told this to Danny, but being stubborn, he refused to accept this as a universal truth, thinking it was brains or literary skills that made a man successful in life. Thousands of dollars he spent on therapy, when the answers were right at his feet… literally.

Two weeks ago, after the LA Bloggers reading, Sophia and I went out for dinner with Danny and Deezee. When I saw that Danny was wearing sneakers, I decided to create some trouble for him. I brought up this issue to Sophia and Deezee, and the two women immediately lectured Danny on the evils of grown-up men wearing sneakers, trying to convince him that he would improve his sexiness quotient 500% if he wore a nice pair of shoes. I just sat there and laughed, glad to see women attacking some other hopeless man other than me for a change.

On Saturday night, as I showed up with my new short haircut, Danny showed up wearing shoes. Was it the first time he had ever worn shoes since his wedding?

Thank you, blogosphere, for making Danny become a man who wears shoes.

Tamar is a beautiful and sexy woman, but she is a bit of a throw-back to the 1960s. She still believes in hippy-ish ideals like peace, love, socialism, and caring for one another. She does important research on educational matters. All these “Age of Aquarius” beliefs are wonderful, but I was shocked to learn that Tamar had never EVER worn MAKEUP! Is that a collective gasp I just heard from every mommyblogger on my blogroll? Not mascara, not blush, not lipstick — NOTHING! This is a woman who originally moved from Rhodesia to Israel and actually enjoyed working in the mud on a kibbutz! Sophia also moved to Israel from Odessa, but when she saw that her job was to pile crap on the field, and eat dinner at an appointed time, she said bye-bye socialists, shalom Tel Aviv. But Tamar loved the simple life of a socialist kibbutz babe. Today, Tamar is a woman in her 50’s — and is still stuck in her kibbutz, natural-look, bra-less days.

But Tamar is not afraid of taking risks. After all, this is a woman who bid good money to go on out on a date with ME, a blogger 3000 miles away (she lives in Philadelphia). And frankly, the blogosphere has opened her up to new experiences. She is on Twitter and Facebook, sending gifts and acting as silly as the rest of us. She has read your blogs and been intrigued by your discussions about Sephora and MAC and all these exotic lotions that you “girlie-girls” talk about. And really — is it SO BAD for a socialist to wear a bit of hot pink lipstick when she goes out with her husband?

To the rescue was — Danny’s twelve year old daughter, Leah. Like most Los Angeles teenagers, Leah learned about make-up in the womb. She gave Tamar the full treatment — makeup, lipstick, etc., in the way that only a twelve year old girl can!

Tamar showed up to dinner wearing lipstick for the first time in her life.

Thank you, blogosphere, for teaching Tamar to become a fashion model!

The four of us had a great meal downtown. After dinner, we went to an art gallery to see Ellen Bloom’s fabulous artwork. None of us had ever met her before. It was an exciting moment as we walked into the gallery. We all looked fabulous. I had my new haircut, Danny had his new shoes, and Tamar had her new make-up.

Ellen Bloom looked our way and immediately ran over to us — well, to be honest: she ran over to Sophia.

“Sophia! Sophia is here!” she yelled. “I’d recognize you anywhere!”

Well, I guess the three of us still have some work to do on that glamour part. (the hair looks better when Sophia puts some gel in it to make it “spiky.” I think it is a little TOO short.)

photo at the gallery by Larry Underhill

A Year Ago On Citizen of the Month: What Do You Mean By That?

(the new banner, created by Sween. thanks, brother!)

It was a devious plan, devised by the head honchos at BlogHer to destroy BlogHim, and they used their most seductive Mata Haris to tempt me… and the plan almost worked.

Last night, I went to a reading of Leahpeah’s other group, LA Angst, where writers read from their childhood and teenage year journals. I participated in her blog reading night, but this sounded even more interesting. It was fascinating stuff because it was so raw and “real.” These pieces of writing, hidden away in sock drawers for years, were never meant to be seen by anyone other than the author. For some reason, all of the readers were female, and most of the readings were about boys, weddings, and food.

So, not much has changed!

I really enjoyed the evening. Thank you:

Leah from Leahpeah

Kelly from Mocha Mama

Erin from Queen of Spain

Lara from Katronika

Ruth from Redleather

Kelly from West Coast Grrlie Blather

Heather from Heathervescent

I sat next to LA blogger, Jay, and we talked a bit about “journaling” from a male perspective. We decided that keeping a diary as a teenager was more of a “girl thing.” I never kept a diary. Maybe boys aren’t very introspective at that age. Now I understand why women take to blogging so easily — you gals have been writing about yourselves for years! Honestly, if I knew that no one was reading my blog, I would stop writing it tomorrow. More power to you!

After the reading, a few of us walked to a nearby Mexican restaurant. I had a chance to speak with four of the readers: Leah, Mocha Mommy, Queen of Spain, and Katronika. They were all such funny, cool, and sexy women, that I mostly shut up and listened to what they had to say. I learned so much from them (for instance, if you are a woman, you should run out and buy The Cone immediately. Your vibrator is like a child’s toy compared to this!)

Men definitely need to listen to women more. That’s how you find out all their secrets (because they love to blab!)

At some point, someone brought up my BlogHim idea. I was a little worried about the reaction from these prominent blogging women because Mocha Mommy is attending the conference, Leah is a speaker at BlogHer, and the Queen of Spain is creating a online version of the conference on Second Life.

At first, I was surprised how polite everyone was about my idea for BlogHim and the way I was making fun of BlogHer. There was no arguing at all. Queen of Spain politely told me about the importance of BlogHer and how it is empowering women as bloggers. The discussion started out completely friendly. But, then the mood changed. The others insisted that I change my combative stance against BlogHer. When I still had questions about the increasingly corporate sponsorship of the organization, the women chose another method of getting their point across. One by one, they took me into the women’s restroom, and had their way with me against the baby-diaper changing table, bringing me to the point of no return, but then pulling back and forcing me to repeat these words before they finished, “I love and respect BlogHer and will never say anything bad about the group again.” Clearly, the BlogHer organizers have prepared their “troops” to use whatever means possible to gain dominion over the blogosphere, and to silence the dissenters.

I was very tired when I returned home. Drunk and tired.

“You’re home late,” said Sophia.

“Oh, yeah. Boys night out.”

“You received this email while you were gone.”

The email was from the illustrator whose image I used for the bare-chested BlogHim icon on the banner. Even though, I gave him credit, I never asked his permission, and he wanted me to stop using it for promotional purposes. I know… I know… I suck and I was a thief. I should have asked him first. The illustrator was totally right and I don’t blame him at all.

But don’t you think it was a LITTLE coincidental that my BlogHim icon was “sabotaged” at the same time I was out with the BlogHer “spies?” I did think it was a little unusual that Leah invited me to join the women for drinks? Was this part of the plan? Was Sophia involved? Was it the male illustrator’s own decision to not let me use his drawing, or was HE taken into some restroom in his own city and “brainwashed” in the way only a well-trained BlogHer woman can do it. How far do the tentacles of this organization reach?

Well, I will not be brought down by some nice smelling Mata Haris with nice cleavage and comfortable shoes. I will NOT sell out my fellow men for some cheap sex in the restroom of a overpriced Mexican restaurant. BlogHim will survive! Uh, nice female mommyblogger, can you make me a new banner?

P.S. — By the way, I think what Queen of Spain is doing with BlogHer is really cool. She is helping them put the conference on Second Life, which is a virtual world online, so women can participate without having to go to Chicago. Check it out!