Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Los Angeles (Page 4 of 16)

California Politics

January 31, 2008 / / 22 Comments

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A woman with a display table was standing outside of Ralph’s Supermarket today, asking for signatures.  As Super Tuesday approaches, the wheels start turning for the next election’s California propositions.  Every year, there are a whole group of new propositions on the California ballot.  They are always as confusing as possible, and half of them get stuck in costly court battles.  The big proposition for this month has something to do with Indian Casinos and their right to add more slot machines to feed their tribes, or something like that, or at least giving the tribes better odds in blackjack.  Most of these propositions have to do with money and taxes, or where the money should go.  I have a feeling the money never goes anywhere other than into the advertising campaigns of new propositions.

As I passed the political display table outside of the supermarket, I was shocked to read the poster posted in front of it.  “Let’s Keep Marriage Between a Man and a Woman.”  Redondo Beach may not be West Hollywood, but it is still a “liberal” area.  There were at least four people adding their signatures to put this issue on the ballot.  I was dismayed and angry.  Redondo Beach?

I’m not extremely political.  Sophia is Republican.  I respect some of the Republican views on international relations, even taxes.   I have a “conservative” side to myself.  However, religious-tinged issues such as gay marriage, right to life, and putting “God” back into our culture JUST DRIVE me nuts!   Is this what we really want to spend all our time talking about?  It’s as if a married couple is living in a home where the toilet is flooding the entire house and their car is on fire, and they are arguing over who should do the dishes tonight?  

I think it is cool if gays want to get married or take up juggling.   What’s the big deal?

Anyway, that’s as political as I get, for now.

I went into the store and bought some tomatoes, Cheerios, turkey slices, tomato sauce, and green tea.  I paid for my items, then left through the “other” front door, hoping to avoid the woman with the political display and getting upset again.   But it didn’t work.  The minute she saw me, she ran over to me with her clipboard, asking me to sign it. 

“Would you like to… blah blah… about renewable energy?”

“Huh?” I wondered.

I looked over to her display.  Her poster had two sides.  One side said “Keep Marriage Between a Man and a Woman.”  The flip side contained something about renewable energy.  Everyone that I saw signing their names was adding their name to the renewable energy clipboard, and I just didn’t realize it.

Rather than being relieved, I just felt annoyed at the political system.  I didn’t add my name for this proposition either.  Sophia had once told me how it works.  This woman is paid to get signatures.  So, she was working on behalf of “Keep Marriage Between  Man and a Woman” AND “renewable energy.”  I’m sure she would be handing out Al-Queda propaganda videos if they paid her too.  It’s as if all the issues are interchangeable.  Just get them on the ballot, and it helps someone… someone who isn’t the California voter.

Now, that’s what modern American politics is all about.  

OK, now I’m off to watch the Democratic debate.  Snore.   Then, Lost.

Man vs. Boy

January 22, 2008 / / 21 Comments

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Later today, I’ll be walking into therapy with my head held high.   Yesterday, I took an important step towards being assertive.   I spoke up for myself.  I stood my ground, despite the aggressiveness of my opponent.

It all started when I entered my local coffee shop, a business named Hawaii Coffee or Aloha Coffee — I’m not entirely sure, because although the coffee shop has been opened for a year and a half, they still haven’t placed a sign outside.  Inside, the walls are brightly decorated with photos of surfers and real ukuleles, all there to remind you that the shop is Hawaiian-themed.  It is a decent-looking place, but they should have saved some of the money they spent on the kitschy ukuleles, and bought a sign instead.

The “Hawaiian” coffee shop have several different types of coffee, including their “famous” Hawaiian Kona coffee which, ironically, is their worst-tasting coffee.  But there are free re-fills and free wi-fi, so I can’t complain too much.

Usually the shop is empty when I come in, but today it was packed — with mothers and kids.  It was Martin Luther King Day, so the schools were closed, and all the mothers were schlepping their kids around as they did their shopping.  All the tables were already taken.  The only available seating was in the corner — two cushioned chairs with a large table in front.  An eleven year old boy was kneeling in front of the table, playing with a toy construction set, similar to the Erector Set I had when I was a boy.   There were dozens of metal pieces strewn all over the table.  His mother was seated elsewhere, gossiping with her friends.

I bought a cup of coffee and headed over to the chairs.

“Are you using this chair?” I asked the Kid, smiling at him.

“Yes,” he quickly answered.

I made note that he was kneeling on the floor.

“How about this other chair?”  I asked.

“I need that chair, too.”

“Why’s that?”

“I need a lot of SPACE!” he announced.  He went back to playing with his metal, a Donald Trump in the making.  He smashed the pieces together as if he was building a Transformer.

“Screw it,” I said to myself, and decided to go outside.  I would drink my coffee while sitting on top of my car.  Then I stopped.  What the hell was I doing?  This was an eleven year old kid!  I retraced my steps back to the Kid.  I leaned down to face him.

“You’re not using these chairs right now, and you can’t use both of them, so I’m going to take one of them, OK?”

I probably shouldn’t have asked his permission because it just made him more adamant.

“I need the space!”

Let me remind you that during this entire exchange, his mother didn’t even look over once.

“You can have your space,” I told the annoying Kid.  “But I’m going to take this empty chair and move it over HERE, so I can sit.”

“Fine!”

I slid the chair several feet away from the kid.   I sat and enjoyed my coffee.  The Kid went back to destroying his metallic city.  The mother kept on gabbing.

I was proud of myself.  I didn’t back down against my young, but worthy, nemesis.

It was a moment to remember.

Now, who’s going to take me on next?!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:   Why I Write

Vote for Me… Or Else

January 12, 2008 / / 20 Comments

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I woke up this morning and saw a large manila package outside our door.  I opened the door, still in my underwear, and took it.  It was for Sophia.  Since she was still sleeping,  I took the initiative to open the package myself.  Out came a huge brochure, a press kit, and a free movie pass for a Paul Thomas Anderson-directed movie for Miramax.  I laughed to myself. It was for the SAG awards.  It was that time a year again, despite the Writers’ Strike. The Weinsteins must really want to win and Oscar this year.   Did they really send this to each and every SAG member?

I heard Sophia rustling in bed upstairs.

“You got a package!”

“A package? From whom?” she asked, half asleep.

“Someone really wants you to vote for them! — “There Will Be Blood“.”

“Oh my God.” she replied, her voice cracking nervously. “What did you say?!”

“Someone really wants you to vote for them! — “There Will Be Blood”.”

“Who would do such a thing? Is this a threat?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Sophia stepped out of the bedroom, looking like she spent a little bit too much time on Facebook last night, particularly the US politics application. She heard me say: ” Someone really wants you to vote for them or there will be blood!”

I assured her that Hilary Clinton would never send her a manila package with a threatening message.   She would put a horse’s head in the bed.

The 99 Cent Shoelaces

December 16, 2007 / / 24 Comments

Welcome, readers.  Today is another example of a post gone wrong.

To set up the story, we need to go back in time, back to a brisk morning many years ago in Queens, New York, when Neilochka was born.  After a few months of baby shoes, Neil’s mother bought him a pair of baby sneakers, and he was smitten with the smell and feel of this canvas footwear.  For years and years, whenever you looked at his feet, he was wearing a pair of sneakers… or nothing at all.

The year is now 2007.  For the last year and half, Neil has been wearing a size eleven New Balance 713.  He has been wearing these sneakers practically every single day.  They’re not the best sneakers, but he has grown attached to them. 

On Tuesday, Sophia and Neil are flying to New York to spend some time with Neil’s mother, Elaine, a good-natured woman with gray hair, known for her hearty laugh and her excellent brisket.   Sophia and Neil will be in New York for 2 1/2 weeks.  Whenever they travel to New York in the winter, there is always a bit of tension before they go.  Neil wants to know why Sophia needs to take so much luggage.  Sophia gets worried about being cold in the street, but hot in the over-heated New York stores and subways.  Remember, they are both wimpy Californians.  It is an “effort” for them to walk a block to the supermarket, especially if there is a forecast for a drizzle. Scary!

As Neil and Sophia packed their gloves and hats and scarfs and turtlenecks, Sophia looked at Neil’s New Balance 713s and said, “Those sneakers look like shit.”

“No, they don’t.” Neil said in protest.  “They’re just a little lived-in.”

“The white shoelaces are all black, and they are shredded.”

That was true.

“Simple.” said Neil “I’ll go to the 99 Cent Only Store and buy some new shoelaces.”

Of he went to the 99 Cent Store.  He could have gone to Macy’s or Target, like Sophia told him to, or countless other stores, but as a man who loves a bargain, why pay more than 99 cents for white shoelaces?

Neil quickly found the shoelaces in aisle five of the 99 cent store, next to the polyester dress socks.  There were two displays of “Athletic” shoelaces.   One display consisted of packages of white athletic shoelaces.  The other, of the same “Coachman” brand,  was identical, except for the addition of a special “bonus pack.”  Along with the pair of white shoelaces, this package included ONE wrapped black shoelace.

I’ve already mentioned that Neil liked a bargain.  Why would he buy the first package, when he could get the “bonus pack” for free?

As he drove home, he started to chuckle.  Something struck him as very very funny about these black shoelaces.  He laughed as hard as he did when he found the typo in the New Yorker.  When Sophia met him at the door, he was still laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she asked.

“I have a great blog post for today.  Look at this.” he said.  He opened the 99 Cent Store bag and showed her the shoelace package.  “They give you a pair of white shoelaces, and then they throw in an extra bonus of a black shoelace.  But think about it.  What the hell are you supposed to do with ONE black shoelace?  Just tie one shoe?  Ha Ha Ha!”

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Neil explained how he went back and bought another package of the shoelaces, just so he could have a pair of black shoelaces.  Still laughing, he ran upstairs and hunched over the keyboard, pounding out his latest humor masterpiece, wondering how many women will fantasize about having sex with him after they read his latest hilarious post about the bizarre package with one black shoelace.

Sophia entered.

“Whatever it is, not now.” Neil said.  “I’m in the groove.”

“Maybe you should ungroove for a second because I opened the package — and you were wrong.   It isn’t a pair of white shoelaces and one black shoelace.  It is two pairs of very poor quality white shoelaces and one pair of equally bad black shoelaces.  There are TWO black shoelaces, not one.  You’re such a dumbbell”.

“Oh.”  he said, Neil’s spirit falling like a weight.  “So that means my whole blog post is dead.”

“Well,  you could lie.”

“Lie?  On a blog?  Never?  Would Dooce lie?  Of course not!”

“Well then, I guess you need to come up with something else.”

Neil struggled for a while, but couldn’t come up with anything quite as good as the hilarious tale of the single black shoelace.  He procrastinated and found some busywork.  Neil even decided to lace up his New Balance 713s with the new white shoelaces.   As you can see, not only were the 99 cent shoelaces of poor quality, but Neil screwed up in another way — they were shoelaces for CHILDREN, and barely laced half of the sneaker.

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Neil didn’t really find this turn of events very funny.  In fact, he thought it was quite sad.  Since he bought two packages of the shoelaces, he now had six pairs of useless shoelaces, four pairs of white and two pairs of black ones.  Still, a blog post is a blog post, and this is what he was stuck with. 

A Screenwriter’s Life

December 3, 2007 / / 28 Comments

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Health stuff, marital ups and downs, the sarcastic wit of the gods, and especially — my own poor mental focus, have not been kind to my writing. Except for blogging, of course, which flourishes in times of chaos, I haven’t been working on any projects lately that could advance my career.  One blogger once suggested I combine some of the better posts into a book, but for the life of me, I have no idea what type of book that would be or WHO would buy it.  Even my own mother would probably wait until it was half-price at the Strand Bookstore in Manhattan.  Still, lately, I have been feeling inspired, half from therapy and half from seeing the tenacity of others, like Laurie, who accomplished her life-long goal of getting published.

Hmm… what could my book be about? —

“Me and My Penis” by Neilochka

“Separated but Unequal: My Marriage to Sophia.” by Neilochka

“One Man’s Spiritual Search for ABBA” by Neilochka

“Payola and the Promoter: The True Story Behind the Chrismahanukwanzaakah Concert” by Neilochka

 Eh, I’m more of a fiction person, anyway.

However, since this is Hollywood, I’m going to first start on another screenplay (bleh!). I was hoping to dump the Hollywood scene because I’m not much of a schmoozer. I know some of you are grumbling about the Writer’s Guild Strike and all these selfish multi-millionaire writers, but be assured — they are not the norm. I’m sympathetic to the crew members who are losing their jobs, but I don’t consider them “small guys.” These are well paid craftspeople who make a good living because of THEIR own unions! The strike is not just about the big-time writers. This strike opens the door for everyone in Hollywood to share in whatever profits are made from new outlets. Both Sophia and I supplement our incomes from residuals from projects completed years ago.

About two months ago, I received an email from an independent director in town (he made one film that did well at a film festival). He liked some of my posts and wanted to know if I wanted to work on some pitches with him. A well-known producer had seen his film and was anxious to hear some ideas — something comedic and Apatow-ish. We met a few times and we got along pretty well. We’re not officially “partners” as of yet, but we decide to join forces. We each offered something different — he was more “artsy” and I wrote better sex gags. The producer was looking specifically for certain types of projects, including scripts that might appeal to single men (you know, films about a bunch of guys looking to get laid — not that I would know anything about this subject!) However, since I’m not currently on the dating scene (and never actually picked up any women EVER), I had to do a little research to get ready. I had never even heard of the term “Wingman” before this year. Now, after watching the full “Pick-up Artist” and every Maxim magazine of 2007, I have an intimate understanding of the horny 24 year-old male (and his lingo, dude!)

My writing “partner” and I were supposed to meet with the producer two weeks ago — but just our luck, the Writer’s Strike! We certainly didn’t want to meet with him, even informally, during a strike, or we would be as bad as Jay Leno not paying his laid-off staff. So, we wait… and wait..

There is an art to pitching in Hollywood. You get together a couple of good stories and tell them verbally to the producer or development person, trying to get him excited enough to pay you to go on to the next step — writing something! If this fails for us, we might actually just write the script on spec — like real men. I actually prefer to write the script first, but since we have this opportunity to pitch it and make a few bucks, we might as well go for it. I have a habit of getting down on myself, so I’m trying to remain positive. It’s THE SECRET!

There are some writers who are known as brilliant pitchers. They stand in front of their listener, looking all confident, and spin sentences like “This story is “Harry Meets Sally” meets ‘Pirates of the Caribben” — neurotic New York couple travel to the past and become pirates!

Producer: “I want that! It’s a deal. Here’s a million dollars!”

We still don’t know when we will get a chance to pitch. It depends on the strike. I’m also supposed to go to New York for two weeks very soon. I hope this doesn’t screw up my plans.

Today, I called up my partner and said we should practice our verbal pitches over and over, just to be ready. The trouble is that both of us get distracted by life at home. The solution — we’re going to hole up in a hotel for two days and just work undistracted (yeah, right)! So later on today, I’m going to kiss Sophia, say Happy Hanukkah, and disappear for a day or so and room with some guy I hardly know. I hope we get two beds. So if I don’t blog, you know where I am. Well, you actually won’t — but it will probably be at some dumpy Comfort Inn in Torrance without wireless.

Dancing with the Stars – Live!

November 28, 2007 / / 31 Comments

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“Dance is the hidden language of the soul.” — dancer and choreographer Martha Graham

“The television, that insidious beast, that Medusa which freezes a billion people to stone every night, staring fixedly, that Siren which called and sang and promised so much and gave, after all, so little.”  — writer Ray Bradbury

Sophia and I showed up at CBS Television City, where, ironically, they shoot ABC’s “Dancing with the Stars.”   It was the final dance-off of the season, and we were excited to see the show live.   The two of us were decked out in our finest clothes, as if we were going to a reception for Queen Elizabeth.   An email explicitly told us to “dress up” as if it were an elegant affair.  There were others waiting to get in, dressed in the same manner — glamorous and beautiful. 

Then reality struck us in the face like a bead flung off Mel B’s sequined dress.  This was not a fancy event.  We were not a paying audience.  We were going to see the taping of a TV show, which means being treated like sheep. 

First up — figuring out which line you are on. 

There was the line for the “celebrities” like the Spice Girls and Ryan from All My Children (yes, Danny, we saw him!).   They went in first.

There was another line for VIPs, mostly agent-looking dudes. 

There was the pseudo-VIP line.  These were the assistants to the agent-looking dudes. 

There was the I-know-someone-but-someone-not-very-important line.  This is where you would stand if your former roommate’s sister is now the makeup person on the show. 

There was a “priority” line for those who didn’t get in last time, and were given a special pass this time, putting them on a line one step before the total nobodies with tickets.  You see, the networks, like Southwest Airlines, overbook — even if you have a ticket — and then leave those unlucky enough standing on the street with a “priority ticket,” and walking back to the bus stop in their dresses and suits with dashed dreams of sitting next to Donny Osmond. 

Everyone, except the Spice Girls, waited… and waited.   A college-age production assistant with a clipboard, humorlessly checked our tickets.  A homeless guy wandered along the line, looking for cans of soda left behind by ticket-holders. 

Hey, ABC — why not send a warm-up guy OUTSIDE and entertain us why we wait forever?   It took almost three hours from arrival to getting inside the studio.  Think about how they do things at Disneyland!  Sure you moved us from spot to spot like you do at the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, but where’s the music?  The fun?  The audience was half asleep by the time we took our seats (crammed in so you can hardly move. I’ve never seen such tiny chairs.)

Most of the public guests were women, and Sophia thought since I was a man, this would help us get a better seat, especially since I was looking good in my blue suit.  She pushed me to be at the outside of the line, so the show ushers would notice me and put us in a visible spot.  On TV, it looks as if the audience is filled with distinguished-looking men.  In reality, the audience was 3/4 women, mostly drooling over Maxim.  Some of these fans are fanatics.  These are women who remember every single judge’s score since season one.

Sophia and I actually got decent seats in the second-tier VIP section, but later we realized that it is probably better to be in the balcony with the average Joes.    The camera was constantly blocking our view.  We were also on the wrong side of the stage.  Later, when we came home, we searched for ourselves on the screen, and all we can find was a one second shot of the back of my head.  We didn’t even bother to call my mother to tell her. 

The real star of the show is — the editing.   Everything is low-key on the set.   The excitement only begins when the warm-up guy jumps up and down, giving us the Pavlovian sign to stand and cheer as if Jesus had just walked in.   The minute it was commercial time, all became silent.  Then, boom — screams of ecstasy!  No wonder so many women in Los Angeles fake their orgasms. They must all work on TV shows, and get in the habit of showing false enthusiasm. 

We cheered, we stood, we booed — everything on cue.   Why did we give everyone a standing ovation, even the bad routines?  Because we were told to!  Why did we boo the judges when they made some intelligent, but constructive comment?  I didn’t boo once.  How impolite!  And why does the audience have to be the toadies for the dancers?  

Tom Bergeron looked pretty sullen and unfriendly during the commercial breaks, and only smiled and became witty when the camera turned on.

Finally, I had enough.  I stood up and spoke my mind.

“Hey, Tom!  What is this with all the fake frivolity?  It’s so much more fun on TV.  Here you all look bored!”

“Yes.  That’s TV.   Boring to make.  At least this a better gig than that dumb “America’s Favorite Videos.”  And  since we’re shooting at CBS, we’re closer to the Farmer’s Market.   I love those donuts at Bob’s.”

“And wait a minute.  Who’s writing this show anyway?  Don’t tell me that Bruno is coming up with those witty comments by himself?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.  We are “ad-libbing” everything during the Writer’s Strike.  Why?  Are you a writer?”

“Well, actually I am.” I said.

“Hmmm… because I really could use someone to help me ad-libbing tonight’s lame jokes.”

“Well, I would, but I don’t want to be a scab.”

“Well, I couldn’t pay you union scale, but I could introduce you to Cheryl Burke.”

“Cheryl Burke, the hottest dancer on the show?  Call me scab.  You got a deal!”

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Well, of course that never happened, but thinking about it kept me amused while waiting in line.

On the way home, Sophia and I stopped at the 99 cent only store to pick up some batteries.  I wish we had taken pictures.  It must have looked funny as we walked down the aisles of cheap detergent in our best clothing.   When we went to pay, the checkout girl gave us the once over, and asked us if we are coming back from “our prom.”  That was the best part of the night.

We’re Dancing with the Stars

November 26, 2007 / / 27 Comments

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Sophia got us the hottest tickets in town — today’s taping of the finale of “Dancing With the Stars.”  We need to dress up, first, because they make you, and second, because we notice that only the good-looking people get the seats next to Donny Osmond.    I’m still deciding between wearing a suit or going barechested with suspenders, like Maxim Chmerkovskiy.   Either way, keep your eye out for a banner that reads “Go Marie” on one side, and “2007 Blogger Chrismahanukwanzaakah Holiday Concert — December 10th, on the other.”  Hey, they’re always plugging ABC’s shows, why not me?  You notice that “The Bachelor” just happens to be in the audience the week before the show’s finale? 

Look for us in the audience.

Rock Me, Franz Schubert

November 19, 2007 / / 50 Comments

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I enjoy Beethoven, Mozart, and Bartok, but there is some classical music that knocks me out faster than a twelve pack of codeine. Like Schubert. I wasn’t pleased to go the Philharmonic this weekend and see his infamous name in the program: Mr. Sandman himself, Franz Peter Schubert.

“Well, no problem,” I said to myself as we entered the symphony hall. “Since I’m such a cheapskate, I got tickets in Row X of the orchestra, so no one will even notice when I’m snoring and drooling all over the button-down shirt Sophia bought me at Ross Dress-for-Less.”

Unfortunately, Sophia had plans of her own. Yes, I’ve mentioned this several hundred times on this very blog: Sophia does not like sitting in the crappy seats I buy.

“It’s going to be half empty,” she said. “Let’s wait in the back until five minutes before the performance, and then take some empty seats near the front.”

“But it’s Schubert!” I protested. Why didn’t you tell me they were playing Schubert?!”

“Don’t worry. I’ll kick you in the shin if you snore.”

We had ten minutes to kill before the concert. An attractive blond stood next to us in the back of the auditorium. She had the same idea as we did — to wait for better seats. Sophia struck up a conversation with her, seeing that they were soulmates. The woman turned out to be the newly-married wife of one of the symphony’s cellists, and her seat was at the end of row S, giving her a mere glimpse of her beloved husband’s back.  She wanted to see the expression on his face as he played.  How romantic.

When Sophia noticed the ushers closing the doors, we picked out two center seats with our eyes, then grabbed them greedily.  Finders Keepers.  I’m much better at switching seats than I was when I first met Sophia. I used to be terribly anxious about doing this, fearful that the real ticket-holders will come in late and make an angry scene, the performance would end abruptly, the conductor would walk out in protest, a spotlight would shine on me, and then the disgusted mob would belt me with opera glasses.  However, after ten years of the “real” ticket-holders NEVER showing up, I’ve grown into a hardened criminal.  I’m only anxious for the first five minutes of our stealing the seats, rather than the rest of the week.

Today my anxiety was not about the seats.  It would come from another source.  You see, there wasn’t just two open seats in this row. There were THREE.  As I settled in my seat, the cellist’s wife slid right next to me. The cellist’s wife!

“Oh no,” I thought. “How can I fall asleep during Schubert when one of the orchestra member’s WIVES was sitting next to me.  It would be as if I’m insulting his musical talent!”

“This is his first performance with the orchestra,” she told Sophia.

Ugh.  Sophia kicked me… and I wasn’t even sleeping yet.

I don’t remember who the first piece was by, but it was sufficiently bombastic to keep me awake.  I never have problems with musical pieces about cannon fire, like the 1812 Overture.

Then, there was a hush over the land.  The condutor lifted his baton, and the orchestra started to play Schubert, the early 18th Century’s equivalent of John Tesh.  I could feel my eyes start to close.

(sidenote – I promised myself that I wasn’t going to write about sex this week, since I went a little overboard last week, but I’m going to break that promise.  You’ll see where I’m going in a second)

Men, remember when you were first starting have sex? And just seeing a bra strap was enough to send you over the edge, and the girl would be all disappointed because you lasted about three seconds? And your friend who knew everything from reading his father’s Penthouse magazines told you to think about something boring, like Geometry, while you were with a girl, so then you can last three hours, like the guys do in those sex movies that you used to try to watch, even though they were scrambled on your parents’ cable?

I thought about the good ol’ days while I was sitting there listening to Schubert. It was so boring and my eyes were closing. I just didn’t want to hurt this woman’s feeling.  Disappointing a woman in sex is one thing, but to make her feel bad about her husband’s cello playing — that’s just cruel.  I would distract myself like I had done so many times before, not to keep the love going, but to keep myself awake!  I tried to remember some Geometry.  I stepped on my own foot.  I tried writing a blog post in my head.  I pushed my thumbnail into my arm.  I bit my tongue.  I even thought of poking myself in the eyes. When the Schubert was over, I patted myself on the back, proud of my restraint and accomplishment.

It was then when Sophia woke me up, shaking her head in embarrassment, telling me that it was time for intermission. I  noticed that the cellist’s wife had just darted off, not saying good-bye.  Apparently, my head was bobbing up and down during the whole piece, the snoring only beginning during the cello solos.

The cellist’s wife sat elsewhere for the rest of the concert.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: “If I Did It,” by John Wilkes Booth

Peace Offering to the Lovers of The Olive Garden

November 13, 2007 / / 44 Comments

If you’ve been blogging for a period of time, you are bound to write a post that rubs people the wrong way.  You will receive angry emails or insulting comments.  I’ve seen bloggers quit because of all the conflict.   I’ve been lucky, mostly because no one really cares about my opinion.   There are a few times I thought I wrote something “controversial,” about race, for instance, and I was up all night, biting my nails, wondering if someone was going to write a comment like:

“You’re a racist pig.  You suck.  Your blog sucks.  And your penis sucks.  I’m never reading this blog again, and I’m telling everyone to never read it again, too.”

Of course, these comments rarely show up when I expect them to.   As much as I try to be a loud-mouth Bill O’Reilly type, nobody ever seems to want to take me on.  The posts that attract the most negative attention are the dumbest posts possible, the ones I wrote in ten minutes while wearing my underwear at 1 AM.  

On December 5, 2005, I described my first experience eating at The Olive Garden.  It was a relatively minor post in my oeuvre.  The “plot” revolved around a moral discussion I had with Sophia over “sharing” some of the salad she was going to order of the chain’s all-you-can-eat soup and salad, since she wasn’t going to eat too much of it herself:

“Sounds good,” said Sophia. We can get one unlimited soup and one unlimited salad, and we can share it. They even give you unlimited breadsticks. I think I’m beginning to like this place.”

“Sophia, I don’t think you understand. Each unlimited soup and each unlimited salad is for one person only.”

“What do they care if we share it?”

“Because then what’s to stop ten people from coming in here and ordering one unlimited soup and one unlimited salad and just sharing it all together.”

“That’s ridiculous. Besides, it doesn’t say anywhere, “no sharing.””

“Olive Garden cannot stay in business if everyone shares the same unlimited soup.”

As you may notice, I was the “good cop” in this story, defending the sacred rights of The Olive Garden to limit sharing.   In the course of the post, I made a few jabs at the restaurant, mostly about the “authenticity” of the chain restaurant’s food and ambiance — but nothing very threatening.  At the time of the post, the restaurant chain had a commercial on TV where some Italian-American family brings their grandma straight off the plane from Italy — to Olive Garden — and Grandma feels right at home, even though I doubt her local trattoria in Sicily gives a guest one of those grimy “buzzers” that vibrate when your table is ready.

Despite it all, I rated the Olive Garden soup and salad as “pretty good.”  I even made a list ranking chain restaurants, and Olive Garden came in as my #2 chain restaurant!

The Cheesecake Factory
Olive Garden
Denny’s
Coco’s
El Torito
TGI Friday’s
Chili’s
Souplantation
Bennigan’s
Outback Steakhouse
Fuddrucker’s
Benihana
Applebee’s
Red Lobster
Pizza Hut

So, the question remains – why all the hate?  For two years now, I’ve been getting comments and emails angry about my opinion of Olive Garden, as if I attacked Jesus himself.  I don’t know who these people are, or WHY they are so passionate about the Olive Garden.

Is it possible that people are finding my post on Google?  It does come in as #8 when you search “Olive Garden.”   But why all the insults?   Are these frustrated servers?  Or is it management doing ego searching?  There seems to be a lot of pent up anger about everything to do with the Olive Garden… and it is all being taken out on me.

This is a comment from TX OG server –

Supposedly we make the rest in tips… but cheap asses come in and run us into the ground with soup and salad refills and then leave a dollar… so we really don’t make enough to live on.   Thanks, it’s assholes like you that don’t tip, that perpetuate poverty among single mothers who can not do anything but wait tables for a living because they didn’t learn any useful skills before the man who lied to them and told them to have kids, up and left and never has to pay child support because the government doesn’t pursue deadbeat fathers if it’s too difficult because he’s out of state and doesn’t work but commits crime and sells drugs for a living. Shitheads!   Why don’t you think about that, and leave a decent tip.   It’s customary and YOU FUCKING KNOW IT.

Good point, TX OG server, but I don’t ever remember saying anything about the tip.

From “Jeff Kennedy” –

Are you serious? You went to the Olive Garden and expected..what?  Anyone with half a brain knows what to expect from a corporate giant in the food industry.   Too many of your cynical observations gave you away as to what kind of critical pessimistic, nitpicker you seem to be.   For instance, how did you know the birthday boy was “bratty”?  And as for the hostess, do you honestly think that a teenager who’s working for minimum wage at the OG is really putting that much thought into table availability times for the HORDES of people who inundate those places daily?  99.9% of the people who go to the OG regularly (who are incidentally NOT on a fact-finding mission) just want to hear that they will be seated “soon” and then they take their place with the other cattle and wait patiently (or sometimes not) until they are called.  What’s going to be your next revelation?  Maybe the fact that NOT EVERYTHING IS A DOLLAR AT THE DOLLAR STORE??  Horrors!!!

You are right.  I cannot know for sure whether that annoying boy was “bratty,” other than my observation.  But what makes you so sure that I am a critical, pessimistic, nitpicker with half a brain? 

From “Fred D” –

This is the Hotel Reality – Check In Please!

I don’t know what people expect when they go to a restaurant.  I expect to eat and have a drink with my meal.  I realize that if you go at a peak time, you will have to wait.  I get the impression that those who are down on a place because they try to make a profit, would be better off at McDonald’s (they make loads of money) and they would probably want to bring their own bottle of Skrew Kappa or Riunite in a brown paper bag and pour it into their water glass – no servers to oversee the sneaky deed. 

Can someone please tell me what Skrew Kappa is?  Do they serve this at The Olive Garden?

From Josh –

sigh @ you… first of all… if you’re going to write a blog, at least attempt to be responsible and don’t lie or exagerate to make a point.   The soup is not more than 3.95 by itself in any price bracket throughout the country and the salad is 4.95.   The soup & salad is 6.95 at the most for lunch, lower when on promotion.  The OG has tried hard to maintain this extremely low price because it knows its guests value it and it wants something for everyone. and do you go to buffets and pay for one person… grab a plate and give it to your friends? cheap ass….

“If you’re going to write a blog… don’t lie or exaggerate to make a point.”  HA HA HA, that made me laugh for ten minutes!

And this one, from two days ago, I deleted because I wasn’t sure if it was anti-Semitic or just crazy.

From Jose “Jerkoff” –

Olive Garden is great. At least the employees are forced to be clean and presentable.  I ate at a Kosher Italian restaurant in Los Angeles.  It was filthy, weird and they made me buy an extra cup to share a pot of hot tea.  So all restaurants are about selling, wake up.

I know that restaurant, Jose.  Your problem is that the weird staff probably put you in the “non-Jewish” section of the restaurant.   We get free tea flowing constantly at our table!

Let me just come out and say it — I don’t hate the Olive Garden.  There are plenty of targets that are closer to my heart.  Have you ever actually eaten dinner at IHOP?  Now that is disgusting!  The sausages at Denny’s?  Taste like metal!  The burgers at Carl’s Jr.?  Greasy and the buns are flaccid!

I’m sorry if you hate working at Olive Garden so much.  I try to always leave a 15% tip, even 20% if you bring me a second basket of breadsticks.

Since 2005, I’ve been to Olive Garden a few more times.  We have one nearby, at the mall.  It’s decent enough for a quick meal before the movie.  Let’s be honest, their Italian food is as authentic as the “bagel breakfast sandwiches” at Burger King are Jewish.  Italian food is my favorite cuisine, and Queens has some of the best Italian restaurants around, so I am a harsh critic of Italian food.  I have spent years complaining about the mediocre food at most REAL Italian restaurants in Los Angeles.   I DO NOT go to Olive Garden for a real Italian meal. 

However, if I have insulted you, Mr. Olive Garden, please accept my apology.   I hope that these emails are coming from frustrated servers and not from your main office.  I’ll save my rant about your overcooked pasta for another post.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  The Final Chapter of the Closet Trilogy

Two Years Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Neilochka Girls

Sunday Brunch

November 6, 2007 / / 42 Comments

Sunday was Hilly’s birthday. We met Hilly and SJ for Sunday Brunch.

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Here Sophia is teaching Hilly how they drink mimosas in Europe, Bruderschaft style. (photo by SJ)

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SJ and I in a competitive smiling match. (photo by Sophia)

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Hilly and Sophia after two mimosas. (photo SJ)

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More mimosas. (photo by SJ)

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After one mimosa, I became a little dizzy as I fantasized about being with three women at once. (photo by Sophia)

It never happened the way I had hoped — but I did bring all three women back to the house. Most of the action came from SJ, who decided to take photos of our living room. Here are a couple of her photos. I figured I might as well show you where Sophia and I do it every day — and by “do it every day” I mean watch “All My Children.” (photos by SJ)

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Hilly, may this year be your best!

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