– starring Neil, Sophia, Neil’s Mom, several half-naked girls from Queens, and introducing Moondog, as Neil’s surfer dude buddy.

FADE IN:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS - REDONDO BEACH - DAY

Neil and Moondog have just finished hanging ten at Redondo and are now chilling at Don Carlos’, the sweetest joint in town for fish tacos. Hot girls in bikinis are constantly walking by. All the girls seem to know Neilochka (his surfer name) and Moondog.

Neil: “I think it is time, Moondog. I’m gonna find me my own place and move out.”

Moondog: “About time, dude. My ear was burning like the hot sand hearing this every week after week… for three years…”

Neil: “Maybe I’ll first go to New York for a few weeks cause I still don’t have any digs. Just feeling as down as GeekDude without his Red Bull. I’m feeling major wipeout over my babe.”

Moondog: “Sure, man. We’re all bummed about you and Sophia. But maybe it’s time to move on. Time to ride the next big wave. Definitely go to New York for a trip.”

Neil: “Yeah, I can go see some of that, what do you call it, art. At that museum from that movie. That museum rocks. They got the stuff from the posters… but they’re real!”

Moondog: “Hell no, forget the old dead white dudes. You need to get over Sophia. You got to start schtupping everything is sight. There’s some pretty hot skirt over there in New York.”

Neil: “Sweet. But can’t I do the same here in LA?”

Neil looks over at a buxom beauty in a tight bikini as she rollerblades by, her breasts a bouncin’!

Moondog: “Dude, surfer dudes like us are a dime a dozen at the SoCal surf and turf. In Gotham City, we’re exotic. They hear your LA accent and your Hollywood style, and they’re already getting wet from the tide. It’s time for you to get on that plane, and shine off your own Big Apple hidden away down there…”

Neil: “And where do I meet this chicks? I don’t have the Benjamins for those Samanthas and Mirandas.”

Moondog: “LOL, dude. NYC is P***y Grand Central. They’re everywhere. East side, west side, all around town! Just look at a map of Manhattan. It’s shaped like a giant breast with the nipple pointing out to Brooklyn.”

Neil: “That’s no nipple. That’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Moondog: “I’ve felt up two girls from Brooklyn and there must be something in the water there because Brooklyn nipples could slice a pizza pie. No wonder the Dodgers had to move to LA. They couldn’t concentrate on the game. All those Brooklyn nipples.”

Neil: “Well, I won’t be in Brooklyn. I’ll be in Queens. And I’ll be staying with my mother. That’s not a very good spot for a little romance.”

Moondog: “Hey, I met your mother. She’s cool. The babes won’t even know she’s there. But be strong. This is for you… to live it up… don’t call Sophia… for anything…”

CUT TO:

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - NIGHT

Neil is making passionate love to Freya Aaronson, the once Orthodox, now Reform, Jewish girl he loved in high school but never looked his way, but is now a an assistant editor at Random House and currently submitting her fiction to the New Yorker Magazine.

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me harder, Neilochka! Nothing could feel as good as you f**king me, Neilochka… maybe except getting published in the New Yorker! F**k me, Neilochka!”

Neil: “Could you just be a little quieter? My mother is sleeping next door. She has to go to work tomorrow early.”

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! Wasn’t your mother written about in the New Yorker because she’s been working forever at Farrar, Straus, and Giroux? Would she mind if I left behind a few of my stories, Neilochka? They’re perfect for the New Yorker. F**k me, Neilochka! Your mother is amazing. F**k me, Neilochka!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed, being ridden by Yvonne, the flirtatious black girl from the local stationary store, a brainy grad student at Fordham. The bed is pounding against the wall.

Yvonne: (as she rides him) “Oh my god, dinner was amazing, Neilochka. So good. And my friends consider me a foodie! I can’t believe your mother’s secret ingredient for her brisket is… ketchup. I never would have guessed. How long does she cook the brisket for? It was so tender. So soft.”

Neil: “Can we talk about this later? A conversation about soft, tender meat is not something a man wants to hear when…”

Yvonne: “Do you think she would mind if we went for seconds of the brisket? I can’t stop thinking about it! That brisket was so good. I need to get the recipe. Will she be serving this brisket for Passover?”

Neil: “Passover was last week.”

Yvonne: “Too bad. Try to come fast so we can go have some more brisket.”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed with the petite Emily Ning, a divorced mommyblogger. She lives on the third floor of the same building as Neil’s mother. She works in PR for a Hong Kong-based bank downtown. She is an ardent blogger and loves reading Citizen of the Month. She is giving oral sex to Neil.

Emily: “Do you like how that feels? Do you like that? Am I making you dizzy? You didn’t expect me to know how to do that, did you? How about if I use BOTH hands on your?”

THE CAMERA PULLS BACK

to show that Emily not only giving oral sex, but is also throwing punches in the boxing ring on Neil’s Wii-connected TV, and talking to her opponent, another mommyblogger, via cell phone.

Emily: (into phone) “You didn’t expect to go right, left, did you? You’re going down!”

Emily continues on with her oral sex, looking bored, then leans over to her laptop and sends a quick message to her opponent via Twitter.

Emily: “Knockout, sucker!!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil’s head is between the thighs of Anna Castro, his long-time friend from elementary school, who he has liked ever since they danced the Tarantella together at the fourth grade dance festival. Anna is lying in the bed, her legs apart, waiting impatiently for Neil to take some action. Now, Neil is on the phone, looking frantic:

Neil: (into phone) “I know what I said, Sophia. I said I wouldn’t call you. But I’m telling you… it’s not in the right place with her. I can’t find the spot. Yes, I have my glasses on. Isn’t it in the same place on every woman?… You don’t have to be sarcastic! I didn’t complain when you called me with that stupid computer problem about Photoshop Elements… Yes, she’s nice… It’s none of your business… OK, her name is Anna. .. Yes, the one from the fourth grade dance festival. .. No, I didn’t step on her feet… Yes… yes… Yes, I’m taking the damn cholesterol medicine… Listen, I didn’t call you to chat…”

Neil’s mother opens then door to Neil’s room, carrying a tray of Oreo cookies and low-fat milk.

Neil’s Mother: “Would anyone like a snack?”

Anna quickly jumps out of bed.

Anna: “Thank God. Yes!”

Neil’s Mother: “I’m watching “Dancing with the Stars” on Tivo, Anna. Would you like to join me?”

Anna: “Absolutely!”

Anna exits with Neil’s mother.

CUT TO:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS - REDONDO BEACH - TWO WEEKS LATER - DAY

Neil and Moondog are chilling at Don Carlos’, chowing on fish tacos and drinking Coronas. Moondog is shaking his head in disbelief.

Moondog: “Dude… never tell this story to… anyone.”

The End

Note:  Sophia suggested that I take this post down since it wasn’t in the spirit of the Holidays, especially since it is the post right after the big Holiday concert.   I did take it down, and then I remembered, from past experience, that everyone will just see it on Bloglines and Google Reader anyway, and I’ll just look like a wimp.  So, I put it back up.   Proud of me?

Unlike the Queen of Spain, who enjoys a little religious controversy now and then (see her current post), I’m a lover more than a fighter.  My point here isn’t to attack any religion, especially all you nice religious Christians and Jews who just sang your hearts out for everyone to hear, but to acknowledge that everyone’s religion is sort of weird if you really sit down and think about it.   That’s why it is called “faith.”  So, I’m not sure what Mitt Romney’s Mormon religion has to do with anything.   If I’m not going to vote for him, it’s because he’s a lousy candidate, not a Mormon.

OK, here’s the mediocre post.  It was difficult coming up with a topic after the concert, because everything I came up with seemed anti-climactic.

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - Republican presidential candidate Mike Huckabee said he considers his rival Mitt Romney’s Mormon faith a religion, not a cult, but questioned whether Mormons believe “Jesus and the devil are brothers.”

Huckabee raised the question on his own in an interview to appear in The New York Times magazine on Sunday, and ignited a new flap in the up-for-grabs race to be the Republican Party’s nominee in the November 2008 presidential election.

Clearly, Mike Huckabee, needing to jumpstart his campaign, is insinuating that Romney is not fit to be President because of Romney’s religious background. He’s just not one of us!

Am I Republican? No.

Will I vote for Mitt Romney? No.

Do I agree with Mike Huckabee? Absolutely.

The President of the United States is the most important position in the Free World. We want a rational leader, one is is not swayed by “odd” beliefs or cultish stories masquerading as the truth. Do we want a religious “Mormon” running our country, his finger on the “button.” Of course not! Just take a “tour” of the Mormon temple in Salt Lake City on the way to Park City, like I did, and you’ll know what I’m talking about. Our country requires someone logical, someone we can trust, like a Christian or Jew, a person of religion who believes in FACT — proven historical events like immaculate conception, individuals getting resurrected, angels, and entire seas magically splitting open to let thousands of people walk through to safety.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Why a Pillow is No Substitute for a Woman

Two days ago, I was feeling very Grinch-like. 

“Why am I hosting this stupid holiday online concert?” I asked myself as I shuffled along Wilshire Boulevard, spitting on the floor.  “I don’t even like Christmas.  I don’t even celebrate the holiday.” 

I walked by a make-shift Christmas tree lot, set-up in the parking lot of a Chinese restaurant.  There was fake snow on the floor and tinny Christmas music was playing on a lonely speaker on the ground.  

“Bah, Humbug!” I said.  “I’m going to cancel the damn concert.  I don’t care about holidays and I don’t give a s**t about other bloggers anyway.  All they care about is advertising and links and NaBloPoMo and Facebook.  And their so-called “Holiday cheer” is fakery!  After the holiday, they just go back to stabbing each other in the back.”

That night, I started writing a blog post explaining why I was canceling the contest, and basically insulting every blogger I’ve ever met as a narcissistic loser or nutcase. 

“Why I should even write this blog for free when they all should be paying me $100 dollar a day each for the honor to read one of my posts.   Let Dooce entertain the masses.  I’m better than that!”

All the anxiety must have made me very sleepy, because I fell asleep on the couch before I had a chance to press “Publish.”

I was awaken suddenly by the presence of a shadowy figure.

“Sophia?”  I asked.  “Is that you?”

“No, Neil.  It is your father.”

It was the ghost of my late father.

“Dad?  What do you want?”

“What is this bulls**t about you cancelling the concert this year?”

“Eh, what’s it all for?  Hanukkah is already half over.  And we’re Jewish.  We don’t even celebrate Christmas.”

“But don’t you remember how much I loved Christmas?”

My father reminded me about how he dressed-up like Santa every year in the hospital he worked at.

“Well, you’re a more caring man than I am.  I’m selfish.  I ask you, “What’s in it for ME?”

My father’s ghost started to fade.

“Dad, where are you going?”

“Neilochka, my son, your heart has turned to stone.  I’m unable to change your ways.  Now the BIG GUN will come for you.”

“The big gun?  What are you talking about?  Who are you talking about? Are you talking about God himself?”

The entire living room shook like the Northridge Earthquake.   Smoke filled the room and another ghost walked towards me.  He was an older man, short, and smoked a cigar.  He was dressed in a brown suit and had bushy eyebrows.

“Neilochka… Neilochka…” he spoke…

“Who are YOU?!   You’re not God?

“Of course I’m not God, you schmuck.  I’m Irving Berlin.”

“Irving Berlin?  You’re the big gun?”

“Irving Berlin.  Born Israel Isidore Baline.  A nice Jewish boy like you.  My father was a cantor who certified kosher meat.”

“So what?  What do YOU want from me?”

“I also had my doubts about Christmas when I was your age.  What do I know about Jesus?  But then I said to myself, “What do these goyishe shmendricks know about writing a good Christmas song?  It takes a Yiddishe mind to come up with “White Christmas.”  You let some white bread in a cardigan like Bing Crosby sing it.  He gets the credit, but you get the dames.”

“The dames?  You got the dames from writing a Christmas song?”

“Come, Neilochka, let me take you to my Christmas past.”

Irving Berlin took my hand and we flew out the window.  We flew from Redondo Beach to Hollywood… and then into the past.  The Hotel Roosevelt on Hollywood Boulevard dissolved from 2007 to the time of the Golden Age of Hollywood.   It looked pretty much the same, just more glamorous.  We found ourselves in a penthouse room.   In front of the two of us was a scene from the past –  a younger Irving Berlin in bed with four Hollwood starlets.  

“You see, Neilochka.  Shiksas just love Jewish men who can write a good Christmas song…”

My eyed widened in astonishment.

“You mean if I put on the Christmahanukwanzaakah concert this year with all these female bloggers around… I will…?”  I asked.

“First… let me show you what will happen if you DON’T put on the Christmahanukwanzaakah concert this year.”

I grabbed the composer’s hand and back we flew to Redondo Beach, into the future — to MY FUTURE.  Time blew away like the wind and we found ourselves  in my  living room, watching the future Neilochka.  It was Christmas eve 2007 and I was sitting by myself, the laptop in front of me… my pants down…

“My God, what am I… am I looking at online photos of Penelope Cruz and playing with myself?!”

“That’s what it looks like!”  said Irving Berlin.  “Ha Ha!  The best part is that in a second, Sophia is going to enter the house with friends she invited over for some coffee and cake, and everyone is going to be shocked, especially the couple’s young daughter.”

“This is horrible.  I can’t stand it.  Stop it!  Stop the future!”

“What about the concert…”

“OK, OK, I’ll have the Christmahanukwanzaakah concert.  Just take me from this future.  Take me away.”  I screamed, sobbing…

I grabbed the arm of the ghost’s jacket and we flew out the window and into the night sky.  I was still crying.

“I understand now.  Thank you!  Thank you for letting me see what could happen.  I am a changed man!  I’ll never badmouth the Christmahanukwanzaakah concert again.  It is my duty to host the concert.  I want to be that inspiration, like you.  I want to make people happy.  I want to please those female bloggers so much that I get four shiksas in my bed, just like you did!  Please, Mr. Berlin.  Show me the alternative future.  Show me my REAL Christmas eve this year after I host the Christmahanukwanzaakah concert.

Time swirled around us like a  tornado and we were suddenly back in my living room on Christmas Eve 2007.

“Here is your REAL future, Neilochka.”

I was sitting on the couch, still leering at photos of Penelope Cruz, playing with myself.  Sophia was about to open the front door, her friends behind her.

“WTF?!” I yelled. ”It’s the exact same future as before!  What about the concert?  What happened to me shtupping MY four shiksas?!”

“The concert was great.  But you with four women?  What the hell do you want from me, you nudnik?  A miracle?   I’m only Irving Berlin, not God!” 

The 2007 Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert –

– is Monday, December 10th.  If you want to participate, send me an audio file or a link by Sunday, December 9th.  The songs I’ve already received are absolutely terrific, a great combination of fun and heartfelt!  If you are unable (or too wimpy) to sing, you can help “decorate” the set by sending me a Holiday photo of your family, your tree, your menorah, or something seasonal.   Or recite a poem.   Or make a video of you juggling snowballs.  If you are still having trouble recording your song, email me.

So far, we already have versions of Have Yourself a Very Merry Christmas, Sleigh Ride, and Silent Night.  You are welcome to do another version if you would like.  Remember to say what song you are working on in the comments so we won’t have too many duplicates.

Have fun making music!

Blogging, Facebook, Twitter, E-mail.  Sometimes your online life can be so overwhelming. The biggest productivity killer of them all is IM.  How many conversations can you have in one day with people you hardly know?   I know my productivity has soared since I found the solution — MyCyberTwin.

MyCyberTwin is a website that allows you to quickly create compelling virtual personalities called CyberTwins. These virtual beings live and breathe on the web and chat to your friends, family, colleagues or customers on your behalf.

Creating your very own CyberTwin is easy. All you have to do is register and then give your CyberTwin some ideas of things you want it to chat about. If you feed your CyberTwin content from your own IM conversations, email or blog, it will actually learn to talk and be just like you! It will be your digital personality and represent YOU online.

Basically, you give the site information, and your cybertwin starts to chat with others just like YOU would, learning to react more and more like YOU as time goes on.  It begins to mimic exactly how you respond on IM, so it becomes your voice while you do more important things, like play Scrabble online.

Here’s a transcript of my IM conversations this morning.   Notice that when my online “clone” encountered an unusual situation, it was able to “re-adjust” the script to fit the new scenario.

BOB SENDS A MESSAGE.

Bob:  “Hey, Neilochka.  What’s up?”

Neil Clone:  “Hello there.  Are you a man or a woman?”

Bob:  “Ha Ha.  You are funny.  I’m a man, of course!”

Neil Clone:  “Do you have a high Technorati rating or are you someone who can advance my career in any way?”

Bob:  “Huh?  What’s Technorati?  And I’m unemployed right now… well, I do some freelance XML coding…”

Neil Clone:  “Unemployed male person!  Please excuse me.   I have to go to the store and buy a bra for Sophia.   I will contact you some day.  Good-bye.”

NANCY SENDS A MESSAGE.

Nancy:  “Hi, Neil.  Loved your last post!”

Neil Clone:  “Hello there.  Are you a man or a woman?”

Nancy:  “Ha Ha.  You are funny.   You know what I am.”

Neil Clone:  “From the quick-pace of your type-stroke, I am 87% positive that you are a female.”

Nancy:  “Yes, I am!  I am woman, hear me roar!”

Neil Clone:   “Woman with pop culture reference.  78% chance you are college-educated.   69% that you will have sex by second date.  What are you wearing, person of female gender?

Nancy:  “A business suit.  I’m taking a lunch break at the office.”

Neil Clone:  “I love your blog.   You are the prettiest blogger in the blogosphere.   I am a Pisces.   We should f**k right now.   We can do it online.”

Nancy:  “Neil, that is a completely inappropriate and disrespectful.  Can’t you at least wait until I get back home and my husband and the kids are asleep?”

Neil Clone:  “You want me.  You want my…  please hold on, there is another incoming Instant Message.”

NEIL’S MOTHER SENDS A MESSAGE.

Neil’s Mother:  “Neil?  Are you there?”

Neil Clone:  “Hello there.  Are you a man or a woman?”

Neil’s Mother:  “What?!   I’m your mother.”

Neil Clone:  “Mother?  Mother is a woman.   What are you wearing, hot momma?”

Neil’s Mother:   “Are you meshugguna?”

Neil Clone:  “Something is wrong with circuitry.  Overheating.   Red flag!  Red flag!  Flirting with actual birth Mother.  Self-destruction mode on.  10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1-”

NEIL’S IM MESSAGE:  AT THERAPY 

Ha Ha, what’s funnier than a foreign name that sounds somewhat salacious?!    Sophia had a job in Orange County, so we stayed over at the Doubletree.  We received two phone calls for “His-Wong,” making us think that some Bart Simpson-type kid in Newport Beach was playing phone pranks on the unsuspecting tourists coming to see Disneyland. 

It didn’t occur to us, until today, that this was the name of the previous guest.

Hilarity ensued!

Please note:  I don’t usually go for this cheap ethnic humor, but I once was in Hong Kong and I was sitting at a shared table eating some noodles, and some young Chinese guys were laughing at the way I was holding my chopsticks.  So, consider this payback!

It’s that time again, when many in the blogosphere get together with their “blogging groups” for the annual class photos and the signing of the yearbooks.   Will everyone continue blogging through September, or will they be lost to a “summer love?”

2007 Class Photo of the Mommybloggers

2007 Class Photo of the Dating Bloggers

2007 Class Photo of the “How to Monetize Your Blog” Bloggers

2007 Class Photo of the Knitting Bloggers

2007 Class Photo of the Shopping Bloggers

2007 Class Photo of the Sex Bloggers

2007 Class Photo of the Celebrity Bloggers

2007 Class Photo of the Readers of “Citizen of the Month”

As assistant rabbi at Bnai Shalom, Rabbi David Klein frequently received personal packages from his congregants, usually cookies or muffins sent to his home, kosher of course, as a thank you for him officiating at some bratty kid’s bar mitzvah.  This package was different.  The box was large and heavy.  After he ripped it open, Rabbi Klein saw that it was filled with 35mm film reels.  Attached to the top reel, was a letter:

Dear Rabbi,

If you are reading this, I have passed away to the better world.  I’m sure you did a terrific job at the memorial service and were able to drum up at least twenty mourners.  If you haven’t had the ceremony yet, please make sure that you order the expensive lox for the nosh afterwards, and not the inferior stuff they had for Max Feinstein’s funeral.  I lived a long and fruitful life.  Sadly, my work consumed me and I never married or started a family.  That is why I leave you my prized possessions — all the negatives and films that I have produced throughout the years.

Morris

“I didn’t know Morris was a filmmaker,” said Rachel, Rabbi Klein’s wife, who was looking over the rabbi’s shoulder.  “Let’s see one of his films.” 

The rabbi’s wife, a 1996 graduate of NYU Film School, took out an old projector from the closet and started screening the film on the wall by the living room couch.  As the title was emblazoned on the wall, Rabbi Klein took a loud gulp:  the film was called  “The Plumber Always Cums Twice.”   For several minutes, Rabbi Klein and his wife stared at the wall as if in shock, their eyes ablaze, the only sound in the room being the repetitive motion of the projector.

The film opens with a half-undressed housewife opening the front door for a hunky plumber with a hardbody and a glint in his eye, the type of plumber you would never actually see in real life.

“I need my sink unclogged,” purrs the housewife.

“Right away, Ma’am” he replies.

“Let me just put on something a little more comfortable.” 

Soon, they are making love on the kitchen table, in the bedroom, in the shower, and finally on the washing machine in the basement, where she almost faints from her orgasm.

The film ends with the housewife walking the plumber to the front door.  She is wearing a purple bathrobe and has a huge smile on her face.

“Thank you,” she tells the plumber.  “You did an excellent job.”

“I’m glad you’re pleased.” he laughs.  “Call me again if you ever need any more work done!”

THE END

“That was scandalous!” yelled Rabbi Klein, as the last frame went through the projector and the filmreel started flapping in the air.  He started dragging the box to the garbage.

“We should burn these!”

“No, wait!” said the rabbi’s wife, placing her hand on his.   “Maybe God had a reason for these films to come to you.”

“That’s meshuganah!  What possible reason can there be?  Every commandment is broken in this story.”

“Let me have a chance to edit the film.  Maybe together, we can transform what is sinful into something new, something even educational for the congregation.”

Rabbi Klein saw how eager his wife was to do this project.   He knew how much she missed her film-making  career, which she put on hold to play her role as rabbi’s wife.  Besides, he could never say no to his beautiful wife.

“Let’s give it a try!” said Rabbi Klein.

His wife dusted off her old editing machine, and they went to work re-cutting the film.  Rabbi Klein had a brainstorm and they re-named the film, “The Plumber’s Moral Choice.”  

The film opens with a half-undressed housewife opening the front door for a hunky plumber with a hardbody and a glint in his eye, the type of plumber you would never actually see in real life.

“I need my sink unclogged,” purrs the housewife.

“Right away, Ma’am” he replies.

“Let me just put on something a little more comfortable.” 

As she exits the room, the image FREEZES on the face of the plumber, as we hear his thoughts in VOICEOVER (recorded by the rabbi himself):

The Plumber:  Hmmm… while she’s away I could probably use less expensive parts, then charge her the full price.  And then, she might need to call me again for more work, and I can charge her some more.  I could make a bundle off of this client, even charging extra for labor while I’m just moving things back and forth under the sink, wasting time.  But WAIT a minute!  What am I thinking?  I can’t do that.  This is wrong.  This is immoral.  Wasn’t it Rabbi Hillel who said, “What is hateful to you, do not do unto others!”    I should be a role model for other plumbers.  That’s right.  I’m going to do the best job possible as her plumber!”

The film ends with the housewife walking the plumber to the front door.  She is wearing a purple bathrobe and has a huge smile on her face.

“Thank you,” she tells the plumber.  “You did an excellent job.”

“I’m glad you’re pleased.” he laughs.  “Call me again if you ever need any more work done!”

THE END

Rabbi Klein was very happy with the final result.   He and his wife had turned something seedy into something uplifting. 

That Saturday night, Rabbi Klein convened his congregation for a special “movie night” and had the world premiere of “The Plumber’s Moral Choice” right in the temple sanctuary.  After the screening, the congregants applauded the film with enthusiasm.   One after another, people came up to Rabbi Klein and complimented him on making “religion come alive” for them.

After all the accolades, Rabbi Klein saw that he was being beckoned by an elderly man with a beard, who was sitting in the last row.  This was Rabbi Josephson, the Rabbi Emeritus AND the founder of the synagogue.   Rabbi Klein fidgeted nervously.

“Go on,” said Rabbi Klein’s wife, trying to encourage him to not be afraid of his mentor.

Rabbi Klein dragged himself down the center aisle, looking as sheepish as he did the first time he blew the shofar at the Rosh Hashanah service.  He was afraid of Rabbi Josephson’s opinion of his unorthodox teaching methods.  Rabbi Klein sighed with relief when he saw the elder rabbi smiling and nodding in approval.

“I’m very impressed” says Rabbi Josephson.

“I’m so glad you liked it.   I think it is important to find new ways to reach our congregants about moral issues.”

“Absolutely!” said Rabbi Josephson, patting the younger rabbi’s arm.  “The only question I have is — those actors certainly seem familiar to me.  Weren’t they also in “The Plumber Always Cums Twice?”

According to the BBC: 

Followers of the 12 Greek Gods, who, according to mythology, ruled the Ancient World from Mount Olympus, have cast a thunderbolt at their Orthodox opponents.

After successfully staging a landmark ceremony at the Temple of Olympian Zeus in Athens, their leader pledged to fight for the right to conduct baptisms, marriages, and funerals according to the rites of the ancient religion.

“We are a legitimate religion. But the authorities don’t let us do this, but we shall claim this right through the European Union,” said Doretta Peppa, the high priestess, who led the prayers next to the 15 remaining columns of the temple.

“It is time we reclaimed our religion from the misrepresentations of the modern world,” announced Ms. Peppa. “First there were all those bad Hercules movies,  then the second banana in the Rocky films was named “Apollo” Creed, and the worst offense — there wasn’t one, but TWO cheesy “Poseidon” Adventures.  How would you like it if we named Zeus’ nerdy little cousin one of your Gods?  How about Jesus or Muhammed?  I didn’t think so.”

Followers of 12 Greek Gods have quickly organized, and the temple has already created a popular “Sisterhood” and a “Men’s Club.”  Sisterhood President, Aire Stophelese, has called for February to be “Social Action Month,” in which they will refuse to sleep with their husbands until all unfinished chores are finished in the house.

The revival of this ancient religion has angered many in the Greek Orthodox church, which strongly disapproves of what it regards as paganism.  Schisms have also developed between friends and families with differing views on the religion. 

Tensions remain particularly high in the Pusadapolis family.  This Sunday, as Eddie Pusadapolis and his mother, Aegina, sent prayers to Mount Olympus, Eddie’s father, Spridon, attended his Greek Orthodox church, as he does every week. 

“They have been brainwashed by a dangerous cult,” insists Spriridon.  “There is only one true God!”

“I don’t care what my father says,” retorts Eddie Pusadapolis.  “Who does he think he is? A king?!  Sometimes I wish I could just kill him and marry my own mother!” he continued, as he lovingly took his mother’s hand and helped her up the steps to the Temple mount.

Of all the questions that I am asked, probably the most common is, “Why do you write?” This is actually a very difficult question to answer. Writing is something that comes from deep inside one’s soul. For me, weaving a tale is very much like how a knitter weaves a sweater. It requires work, attention, focus, and inspiration.

Writing is a way to express myself, to touch the heart and mind of a reader. I think my writing appeals to a certain reader, usually someone with a Master’s Degree or Doctorate and is a lover of poetry and the classics.

I’ve always dreamt of being a novelist, and to share my own thoughts and feelings with like-minded intellectuals and artists.

Sometimes, as I write, I like to imagine my readers as they hold my writing in their hands and I transport them into another world.

I like the fact that through my words, I can make them cry or even lift their spirits like balloons.

I love to communicate. Sometimes, I wish I could just reach out from inside my own words and show my appreciation to my readers.

I especially love it when I can personally touch them.

Of course, I also write for myself. Nothing gives me more pleasure than coming up with a well-turned phrase or a poetic way of expressing myself. But I wouldn’t be satisfied if I knew I wasn’t also pleasuring my faithful readers with the power of my words and stories.

Sometimes I struggle with my writing, like today. On days like that, I try to motivate myself by thinking about a future reader, an intelligent, thoughtful individual, taking my first novel home from the library, curling up in bed at night, and reading me until she can’t read anymore, then waking up in the morning and reading me again.

That’s why I write. Why do you write?

(all photos from Babes with Books) — you can find anything online!

Update:  Just a note, to those who who accuse me of only writing for an audience of big-breasted woman:  that is absurd, especially after seeing all the trouble Sophia has to go through to find a bra that properly fits.   What a pleasure it must be to go through life without having to wear a bra!  I salute you!  You are in my thoughts just as frequently as everyone with a size D!  Please examine photos 2 and 3 as evidence of women who don’t fit into the category of “big-bazoomed.”  

Let me also go on record that my readership goes far beyond the all-white women on the Babes with Books website.  I can think of nothing more satisying than my first novel being the “monthly pick” of the Compton Ladies’ Book Group:

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Beverly Hills Doctor

This week, we chose YOU as the Person of the Year because:

 ”In 2006, the World Wide Web became a tool for bringing together the small contributions of millions of people and making them matter.”

Three days later, the editors here at Time Magazine have decided that the Year of “You” has officially ended, due to an online blogger holiday concert that started out as a day for holiday cheer, but quickly denigrated into a night of chaos, violence, and protest.

Events at the concert unfurled quickly as two female bloggers sang similar versions of “Santa Baby.”  Fists started flying after Pam of Nerd’s Eye View called Erin of Villanovababy a “Britney wannabe who should stick to her stupid blog.”  Erin of Villanovababy simply said, “Pam is a blogging bitch who can stick her ukulele up her ***.”

Several bloggers were asked to leave the Hyatt Hotel on LA’s Sunset Strip after trashing the “Presidential Suite” in an after-concert bash. 

“I’ve never seen such sick depravity in all my years as hotel manager.  It was like a wild drunken orgy, except they used their laptops!” said Richard Ortiz, a 25-year veteran in the business.

Many bloggers were disappointed in the management of the concert.  Outcries of nepotism were heard because bloggers were only allowed to perform one song each, but Sophia Lansky of Redondo Beach, was allowed TWO songs.  An anonymous caller, a disgruntled blogger who goes by the alias of “Brooke,” said that Ms. Lansky isn’t even a blogger.  Further research revealed that the Ms. Lansky is the separated wife of the concert organizer, Neil “Neilochka” Kramer.  Requests for an interview were refused.

Disruptions to the concert are expected to continue this evening as Al Sharpton prepares to lead a large protest march against the Holiday concert. 

“Despite being called a Christmahanukwanzaakah Concert, not ONE song for Kwanzaa was included in the festivities.” said Mr. Sharpton. ”It is not surprising that this concert was organized by someone named “Kramer.”"

Time Magazine deeply regrets picking ordinary people to be Time Person of the Year. 

“If this is what happens when bloggers get together, forget this s**t about YOU.” said a senior editor.  “We should have just picked Tiger Woods!”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Blogging the Big Event