Thanks for all the cool photos! I know that this is going to sound sappy, but I can’t think of a BETTER birthday present than having you come to this site and actually READ the nonsense I write. So, thanks.

I have no idea where this is going, or if I’ll ever finish it, but just knowing you’re reading it makes me laugh –

The Royal Bra by Neil Kramer

Chapter One

“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” Sarah said, pinching her own arm. “Me, lil’ Sarah Rothberg, here in Manhattan at the British Consulate at an exclusive party for the Royal Family.”

She closed her eyes thinking it all a dream, but when she reopened them, the amazing reality had not disappeared. The whole night had been a whirlwind for Sarah, from the moment she entered the British Consulate. What glamour and elegance! And so far from her typical dorky life of a Brooklyn-born working drone/editorial assistant for Science Interest Magazine.

Sarah knew she was out of her element from the moment she was announced at the door, and saw all the well-dressed guests and the lush 19th Century interior. She immediately ran to get a glass of champagne to calm her nerves. And then another. And then a third. Since when did she become such a lush? She knew she was getting a bit tipsy after that third glass of champagne.

“Sure,” she rationalized, “I was hoping to become a little more comfortable and social by having a few drinks — it is a party after all — but how in the world did I end up in the second floor “library” making out in the darkness with a virtual stranger? I’m a good girl. Sarah Rothberg doesn’t do one night stands.”

Although she couldn’t make out the books on the shelves, she was sure that Jane Austen was there, watching her.

“Would she scold me for being so brazen, or would she say “You go, girl!?”" Sarah wondered, giggling to herself.

Maybe tonight will be the night.

Sarah’s mind drifted back to the man on the sofa who was kissing her so passionately. And what a kisser he was! If this is wrong to do, let it be.

“No jury would ever convict me, ” she thought. “I would tell them about his lips, the way his hands tenderly feel my body. Oh, he’s good. Real good. Not guilty. By reason of insatiable.”

Sarah’s impure thoughts were just getting good when they were rudely interrupted by the alarm blasting from her iPhone.

“Oh no, I have to go,” screamed Sarah, gathering up her clothes and running out the library door.

“But wait…” said a deep male voice. “Don’t go. I don’t even know…”

But Sarah was already halfway down the stairs. She was feeling dizzy. The champagne. The man. The emotions. She had to stay focused. She had to leave the Consulate before the stroke of midnight, when her Guy Larouche sapphire-blue gown would dissolve back into a pair of Levis.

It’s what the fairy godmother told her.

Back in the library, His High Royal Highness Prince Robert of Cornwall flicked the light to the library, revealing a shirtless man with the toned chest of a sportsman. Rushing to the window, he hoped to still catch a glimpse of the woman he has just met, but he only saw her for a second, until she disappeared into the New York dark.

“Please come, back.” he whispered to the night air. “I don’t even know your name.”

In all his years, Prince Robert had met many women — specimens of the gender who were thought to be his “equal” — beauties with exquisite taste, proper upbringing, well-travelled, pencil-thin daughters of billionaires who knew how to place a baccarat bet in Monte Carlo or what wine to order at Alain Ducasse in Paris. But never has he met a woman like the women he just kissed. What passion. He could still taste her on his lips and feel her skin next to hers. Had she even known that he was the Prince? Did it matter? The more he thought about her, the more he could feel the Mountbatten of his loins saluting at full attention. Hail Brittania!

He must find her. But how? If only he had some sort of clue, some information that can lead him to the woman… the one who he must make the Princess!

And then he saw it. The clue. Hanging on the edge of the sofa, was… her bra. He remembered how he gently unclasped the back of the bra and it fell down, away from her, like falling leaves during Autumn in Hyde Park.

Prince Robert walked over to the hanging bra, savoring the feel of the material, remembering how her breasts responded to his caresses. It was a purple bra. He read the label. It was from a company that he had never heard of mentioned in his social circles, where bras are usually tailor-made in France.

“Playtex Cross Your Heart,” he read out loud to himself. He took it as a sign from God. “I DO cross my heart that I will find you.”

Prince Robert dressed and went downstairs. He saw his father, the King of England, deeply in conversation with his friend, the new President of the United States, President Obama.

The King waved Prince Robert over.

“President Obama, this is my son, Prince Robert.”

But Prince Robert was not in any mood for pleasantries or chit-chats. He had something more important on his mind.

“President Obama, I know we have just met. But I have something very important to ask you that will play a significant role in Anglo-American relations. I need your help.”

Then, in one strong, swift, upward gesture, Prince Robert lifted up the purple bra for all to see.

“We need to find the American woman who fits perfectly into this bra!”

Within hours, there was a frenzy in the media, both on TV and in the blogosphere. Twitters were being sent all across the world, spreading the news. New York was in an uproar. The New York Post was the first to announce an open call with their headline:

“Prince Robert to New York: BRA-VA!”

“An open call will be held tomorrow afternoon at Madison Square Garden. Women will be expected to try on a specifically-sized bra. Only one woman will fit perfectly in the bra.”

By morning, there was chaos. Women of all shapes and sizes lined up outside Macy’s on 34th Street and little by little, the line grew. And grew. The line snaked it’s way uptown, past Central Park, past the Upper West Side, past Harlem, and into the Bronx. Many of the women, knowing that they were going to try on a bra once they reached the Garden, made a point of just wearing a bra in the street — hopefully catching the attention of the Prince before they even got to the Garden. Some women dispensed with bras completely, going topless, thinking the Prince would appreciate their resourcefulness. And besides, it was a beautiful day.

It was a sight never seen before in New York, and probably never again. Thousands and thousands of women of every religion and color, shape and size, standing in line, the fresh air hitting their exposed bras and breasts. For once, women found themselves free to talk about their breasts in public. Some talked about breast-feeding. Buxom women were supportive of women with A-cups, saying how athletic they looked. Flat-chested women spoke of their envy of full-breasted women. Big-breasted women complained about back pain. Women started taking donations for breast cancer research, and gave each other bra-buying advice. Some women wore special, elaborately-decorated bras for the occasion, and New York’s artistic community came out in force, with female artists constructing their own bras out of unique materials, such as felt and tin cans.

For men, it was a major holiday — a day every male New Yorker will remember in happiness for the rest of his life, much like VJ Day, or the Mets winning the World Series. Throughout the city, women were walking around, taking the buses, eating hot dogs — just wearing their bras. By afternoon, men began to even see it as normal and just enjoyed the view, without making such a big deal over what God gave women.

Of course, for many men, it was overwhelming. Ronald Boxner, age 78, had a massive heart attack and was rushed to Mount Sinai Hospital. As he was being rushed by ambulance, he knew his time on this Earth was up. He asked the emergency worker if he help him lift his head, so he could just watch the women with bras walking in the city.

“Of course,” said the EMT.

Ronald Boxner died a few moments later. His final word were, “This is the happiest day of my life.”

Of course, this outpouring of women into midtown Manhattan was not all for noble reasons. For many women, this was all about MONEY and POWER. They were there to snag a rich husband. These golddiggers would never truly love Prince Robert.

Sadly, New York City is filled with these golddiggers. Like Shirley and Jackie.

Shirley and Jackie have always been on the prowl for men. They also have no respect for the male gender, thinking them as horny dumb creatures, who are only after sex. Shirley and Jackie use whatever it takes to nab a wealthy man. Both are owners of the latest in breast enhancements, created by — and they would be proud to tell you this — the older brother of the doctor who worked on Pamela Anderson’s boobs in Los Angeles. This is not the first time that they have had surgery on their breasts, or their lips, or the thighs.

“There’s no way I’m gonna be stuck with a loser guy from Brooklyn.” is Shirley’s motto. “If wealthy guys like big tits, that’s what I’m gonna give them.”

It was a typical evening at home, when Shirley and Jackie heard the news about the Prince. They were in the middle of their daily “Wheel of Fortune” showing, when Eyewitness News broke in with the news the purple bra and the big event at Madison Square Garden sponsored by the Royal Family.

The newscaster showed a photo of the bra.

“From all accounts, the “Royal” bra is a 34B.”

“Hell, I CAN fit my DDs in that, if I really squeeze them tight.” announced Jackie.

“Not if I get on line first,” said Shirley.

Jackie and Shirley adjusted their huge breasts and rushed to the door, each hoping to get on line first, passing their youngest sister, Sarah, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor with Ajax.

“You stay here and keep cleaning, pancake chest.” said Jackie to Sarah. “We have important business to attend to.”

As Jackie and Shirley slammed the door behind them, a tear fell from Sarah’s eye onto the already perfectly clean kitchen floor.

Sarah IS the owner of the purple bra.

(to be continued or not, depending on my mood)

The bad thing about having insecurities is that you always looking at the external world, comparing yourself to others.   Today I skipped all blog posts that were about romantic Valentine’s Days.  Was I happy for these lucky bloggers and their contentment with their significant others?  Of course I… oh, who am I fooling.  Bastards.

No matter whatever good happens, a truly negative person only sees that the next person is better off.  I told a friend from film school that I have been taking with this producer about some story idea.  He reminded me about our mega-successful friend who is directing a film with Nicolas Cage.  Jerk.

Thank God for mothers.  Whatever you do, they always put you first.   A mother always makes her son feel like a Prince.   Today I was talking to my mother about my interview post.  She is astounded that so many people have gotten involved. 

“And who’s interviewing YOU?”  she asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.  I’ll probably just put my name at the bottom of the list and let it be random like everyone else.”

“That’s nice.” she said, in her sweet voice.  “I’m being interviewed tomorrow, too.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, laughing.  “Who’s interviewing you?  The Flushing chapter of Hadassah?”

“No, tomorrow, a woman is coming to interview me at work.  From “The New Yorker” magazine.”

“The New Yorker?!”  You’re joking.”

“Why would I be joking.”

“No offense, Mom, but why would “The New Yorker” — one of the most prestigious magazines out there — want to interview you?”

“Well, maybe you need to re-read your “interview” post again where you say that “everybody” is a “somebody.”

The story: 

My mother has worked for one company her entire life, starting the job before she was even married.   It is the literary book publisher of Farrar, Straus, and Giroux.  Although she isn’t an editor or someone with much decision making power, she has been working there since the days when the company had just a handful of employees, lead by the firm’s founder, Roger W. Straus.   Since then, the company has published twenty-one Nobel Prizes winners in literature. Knut Hamsun, Hermann Hesse, T. S. Eliot, Pär Lagerkvist, François Mauriac, Juan Ramón Jiménez, Salvatore Quasimodo, Nelly Sachs, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Pablo Neruda, Eugenio Montale, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Czeslaw Milosz, Elias Canetti, William Golding, Wole Soyinka, Joseph Brodsky, Camilo José Cela, Nadine Gordimer, Derek Walcott, and Seamus Heaney.

With most of the original staff having either passed away or retired, my MOTHER is now apparently the longest-active employee of the famous company.  She has seen the rise and fall of authors and agents, the birth of the mega book stores, the changes in book publishing, and the inevitable growth of the conglomerates eating up the independents.  And The New Yorker wants to ask her a few questions for some general interest article on the firm and book publishing!

Perfect.  I’m going to be interviewed by some dumb random blogger, while my MOTHER is going to be interviewed by The New Yorker!   (Mom, remember to tell her about the blog!  “Citizen of the Month”)

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:   A Merry Tale of Whale Watching

I am here, but do you see me?  I Twitter my voice, but do you know me? 

I want to step from my box, my canvas, my rectangular prison.

 I can see your face, but I cannot touch you.

 I want to feel something.  A touch maybe.  A breath.  Your laughter.

I imagine you.  Are you wearing red today?  Do you wonder about me?

Do we look at each other like pieces of art, hanging from the wall, imagining what could be, but never daring?

This is where I grew up and where my mother still lives. It may not look like much, but it is one of the nicer apartment buildings in my Queens neighborhood. My grandmother lived a few blocks away, in a lower-income apartment. When I was in elementary school and my mother went back to work, I went to my grandparents after school. My grandmother made an excellent tuna fish sandwich, with chopped celery and dill.

My father was a physical therapist at a city hospital and my mother still works in publishing, so they never made that much money. They worked hard to put me through two very expensive private colleges, just so I could obtain two completely useless degrees — a B.A. in English and an M.F.A. in Film. I was totally spoiled by them.

I had an excellent childhood growing up in the Flushing/Kew Garden Hills area of Queens. The public school was good, the public library was two blocks away, and the neighborhood was incredibly diverse — blacks, Jews, Puerto Ricans, Indians, Chinese. I’m still good friends with guys from the neighborhood who I’ve known all my life. They’re the first people I see every time I fly into New York.

I am so diverse — here I am with my Jewish childhood friend Barry at the Blue Bay Diner in Bayside last week, which looks exactly the same inside as it did when I was in high school.

When I was a child, Queens felt isolated from the excitement of Manhattan, but it was close enough to travel to by subway. (…ok, first you take a bus to get to the subway) My parents took me to museums and concerts all the time, so I was able to participate in the “high culture” of the city. We also lived near Queens College, which had a symphony orchestra. I spent many weekends in the audience with my parents, falling asleep to Schubert.

Although the stores in my neighborhood weren’t very fancy (still no Starbucks!), you could get everything you needed just by walking down the block. There were grocers, a bakery, a Radio Shack, a cleaners, a pharmacy etc. This was perfect for my parents, who didn’t drive a car. It also created entertainment for me. After school, my friend, Rob, and I could pass several hours just stopping in the Kissena Boulevard shops, or reading the comic books in the stationary store.

I only felt embarrassed about “Queens” once I went to Columbia, and met rich kids from the Upper East Side, Beverly Hills, Boston, etc. They had actually gone skiing in Aspen and visited museums in Florence. All of a sudden, Kissena Boulevard was very small time. I began to feel ashamed of my background, like a Jennifer Beals in Flashdance, moving from the steelmill to the hoity-toity ballet studio. It felt as if the entire borough of Manhattan looked down on Queens. The only reason to visit Queens was to go to the airports or see a sporting event. There was even talk about building a new stadium in Manhattan, so there would even be less reason to travel to Queens. Queens was the home of misfits, from Archie Bunker to Ugly Betty. During snowstorms, Manhattan was quickly shoveled by the plows since it is the center of the business and tourism worlds. Queens was always plowed last. Queens had her big moment in 1963-64 when the World’s Fair was in Flushing Meadows Park, but then most of the fair buildings was just left behind to decay.

“Sorry, we don’t have enough money in the budget to fix the NYS Pavilion.” - Mayor Michael Bloomberg

Eventually, I learned to embrace my Queens neighborhood. There was a cool mix of people on the street, and it felt more “New York authentic” than many of the streets of Manhattan. Today, “Sesame Street” reminds me of Queens, not Manhattan. Big Bird could never afford Manhattan. Sadly, whenever Sophia comes with me to visit my mother, I’m always disappointed that she can’t see the area in the same positive way I do.

“It looks like a slum,” she said recently, as we walked down Kissena Boulevard. This hurt my feelings, especially because, in my heart, despite my romantic view of the neighborhood, I believed the same. At one time, the street was lively, with all sorts of shops and ethnic food. Gene Simmons, who grew up nearby, even named his group KISS, after Kissena Boulevard. Now, the neighborhood has deteriorated almost beyond recognition.

Half of the stores on the block are gated and closed — some stores have been empty for five years! Can’t the management company find any tenants? What happened to the bakery, the pharmacy, the seafood store, the stationery store, the women’s clothing store? Surely some business can make a profit here? People are afraid to walk outside at night because everything looks so abandoned. Why has this happened?

Perhaps the answer can be found on the website of the management company, Pelcorp. On the site, they advertise the entire block, not as available individual stores catering to a community, but only as a 240,000 sq. ft. shopping center. There had been rumors that the landlord isn’t renting out the stores because it’s interested in selling the entire block to a big-box entity like Kmart. This might explain why no stores never seem to be rented, despite having “For Rent” signs plastered on the gates of shuttered stores. Is the management company waiting for the opportunity to unload the entire property at once?

A view of Kissena Boulevard at noon, a far cry from what this busy street used to look like.

The management company has every right to sell the entire complex if they want to, but should they be allowed to thrust the entire neighborhood into a downward spiral? Who wants to live in an area where more than half the stores have been closed for years?

It is pretty sad state of affairs. I remember how The Garden Bakery made the best onion rolls I’ve ever tasted. There was “Sweet Donut,” a little coffee shop/donut store. Dr. Sakow, the friendly optometrist, fitted me with my first pair of dorky eyeglasses in the third grade. All of these stores are now gone, with no replacements.

Even if the management company does want to sell the entire property, shouldn’t they at least be responsible for its upkeep? What about all the garbage and graffiti everywhere? Why should I be embarrassed to show my wife the “old neighborhood?” Why should my mother have to walk past the junk in the parking lot? People still LIVE in the neighborhood.

At one time, the landlord/management company was a local one, headed by a New York builder. He was always seen around the area because he also created middle-income housing across the street. After his passing, his son took over the real estate property, and it didn’t surprise me at all that his management company is based in Palm Beach, Florida! Out of sight, out of mind.

From their website:

Our President, Prescott Lester, is the fourth generation of Builder Developers. He is responsible for building and developing nearly 3,000 residential units in Palm Beach County, Florida. Projects included Lakes of Laguna in West Palm Beach with 2,204 residential units and Cascade Lakes in Boynton Beach having 556 dwelling units.

Mr. Lester’s Greatgrandfather began building in Brooklyn, New York around the turn of the century. He was followed by his son David Minkin who became one of New York City’s Master Builders. Mr. Lester assisted and succeeds his great uncle, David Minkin, in running the family’s building, management and brokerage operations.

Here is a promotional photo of the late David Minkin, Prescott Lester, and former NY Mets (yeah, Queens!) pitching great Tom Seaver, who has apparently sold his New York baby boomer appeal for some hard cash.

Despite a history of New York building, the fourth generation of builders now “specializes in the marketing and sale of luxury properties in Palm Beach County. This includes waterfront, country club, and other estate properties.”

The Kissena Boulevard holdings, one of their four retail holdings still in New York, must be their least attractive holding, compared to their shiny new malls in Florida. No wonder they seem so disinterested in the upkeep of Kissena Boulevard!

I talked to a few people in my mother’s building and they are very unhappy with the way Kissena Boulevard looks. Some say they would even move away, if they could afford it. The shopping area is pretty disgraceful, and much of the blame must go to the management company. They have played a major role in making the area look like a slum. Of course, since Pelcorp is in Palm Beach, and the executives don’t get to come to Queens very often, I’ve included some photographs of Kissena Boulevard for Prescott Lester and his partners to see.

The Pharmacy, now closed, the letters falling from the sign

The Laudromat, closed

The shoe store, closed

The graffiti along the “Wholesale Liquidators” wall

The garbage along the wall, opposite the closed shoe store

The kosher deli, closed

The Rainbow Women’s Clothing Store, closed

The pharmacy, closed, is now a haven for pigeons

The Bakery, closed for years

The fish market, closed

Ugly graffiti and disrepair along the property walls

After writing a post about me finding my fifth grade diary, someone told me about Cringe, a monthly reading series held at a Brooklyn bar.

On the first Wednesday of each month, brave souls come forward and read aloud from their teenage diaries, journals, notes, letters, poems, abandoned rock operas, and other general representations of the crushing misery of their humiliating adolescence.

Leahpeah had organized something like this in Los Angeles, but Cringe is the big momma of this genre.  It is hosted by Sarah Brown, a popular New York blogger, and there is even a Cringe book being published. 

(via Que Sera Sera)

My plan for tonight was simple.  I would attend this reading, my diary in my knapsack.  At a certain point, I would volunteer to read.  I would stand in front of the Brooklyn hipsters and wow them with my elementary school wit.  A literary agent would be sitting in the front row and ask me to write “The Penis Monologues,” which would become a huge bestseller, and I would become so famous that men all over the world would stop calling their members “Dicks” or “Johnsons,” but rather will all call them “Neilochkas.”  Millions of women would be screaming for “Neilochka” each night.

But life has a funny way of changing a person’s plans –

Sophia’s father loved marriage.  He loved it so much, he was married five times.  From everything I heard, he was a nice and exciting guy, but difficult to live with.  Sophia’s parents divorced when she was young.  Recently, Sophia learned that she had an older half-sister who lived in Brooklyn.  The woman, Anya, was born to Sophia’s father and his very first wife, twenty years before he married Sophia’s mother, Fanya.  Anya… Fanya…the whole story is more complicated than Crime and Punishment, or All My Children.

Sophia decided that today was the perfect day to meet her half-sister.  We would meet Anya in a restaurant for an early dinner, and then Sophia and I would take off to Cringe.

We picked Anya up and headed to Spoon, a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach. 

It was a very joyous meeting, which was surprising, because there was a lot of tension before the actual get-together.  It was almost canceled because at first Anya refused to have Sophia come up to her apartment to pick her up, and Sophia was somewhat upset and confused as to why wouldn’t her long-lost sister want to invite her into her home.  Once Sophia understood that Anya was insecure about how her Americanized new relative might judge her modest home, she wasn’t feeling hurt any longer and laid Anya’s worries to rest.  Both women were also nervous about what this meeting meant.  For all their life, they knew nothing of each other.  Are they instant “sisters” now or still relative strangers with little in common?

The jury is still out about where this relationship goes, but Sophia and Anya seemed to bond well.  We all had a lot of fun together.  Anya’s English was decent enough so I could talk with her, and I impressed her by singing the one Russian song that Sophia taught me.  Since we were on Anya’s territory, she insisted that she pick up the tab to the restaurant, and proceeded to order enough food and drink for fifteen people. 

What I look like when I start to get drunk. 

After the huge meal, Anya invited us back to her home for dessert, and to meet the rest of her family. 

At first, I wanted to say no, since this would mean we would miss Cringe, since it was already getting late.  Then I realized that this meet-up was so much more interesting and authentic than reading from a diary to a bunch of strangers.  A diary is all about connecting to the past — but only through words.  Here, the past was coming together in the present…in actuality!  Two women from the same father, both testing the waters to see if this vague family bond matters in any tangible way.  Who needs Brooklyn hipsters laughing at old diaries when I could witness real life?!

At Anya’s house, there was more food, dessert, and more drinking.

Putin may be bringing Russia back into the Cold War, but no one can doubt that Russians know how to party!

To the half-sisters!

P.S. — After all that, when we got home, we saw that the Cringe reading was cancelled tonight. 

A few months ago, I attended a reading of bloggers and writers reading from their teenage diaries. All of the participants were women. After the show, there was some discussion about diaries and gender. It seemed that every women had kept a personal diary in their youth, but hardly any men. Is this why women feel so comfortable blogging?

I told everyone that I never kept a diary. Writing for me was geared more for fiction than for self-exploration. So, you can imagine my surprise today when I found a diary in the back of my closet! I completely forgot about it. I wrote it in the fifth grade. Unfortunately, I lost interest in writing the diary after one month. I started it in January and ended it in February.

I’m not sure it is interesting to anyone, but what the hell — here’s the first week of entries. I found the second entry the most intriguing, for obvious reasons.

January 2nd

Today I went back to school. The day passed quickly. Today for some reason our teacher, Mrs. Mattis, brought 4 books, like pamphlets, called “What Should I Tell My Daughter.” It was about sex on the girls side. When I was home my Mom and a little bit of my Dad were bugging me about sex. All day my feet were killing me because of growing pains.

January 3rd

Today was a normal day. A rumor which was not true was that I showed my penis to my classmate, Freya. it started off with Tracey then went so forth. But many others have been having this trouble. My Hebrew school, regular friend, and ringolevio classmate said “Our class is the sexiest class in the school.” He’s right. My seat was changed from between Debbie and Freya to between Subha and Robert S. (Snipple). Larry was between Subha and Robert S. Now, he’s between Debbie and Freya. They all love each other.

January 4th

Today it was a normal school day. At gym we had dancing. Our class has more boys than girls so some boys doubled-up as a girl. I was one of them. A boy named Steven (spiderman) said to Barry (Eggy) who was dancing with a girl named Jamie, “Dancing with your girlfriend?” I was astonished when Barry said, “At least I can afford one.” Then me and Barry (Eggy) came home. I got a 100 in spelling.

January 5th

When I woke up this morning, I felt lousy. The day passed along slowly. At gym, I played like a zombie. One event, in gym, was when a girl named Sandra tagged her own man. A boy named Steven, who wants everything perfect, said to her, “Don’t tag your own man.” She thought he said “old man” not “own man.” She started to cry because her father died on my birthday. After school, I went to the eye doctor. My eyes got worse and I need new glasses.

January 6th

There’s been a problem. The lock on the diary just broke. I don’t even have time to write. I’m on the history committee on Mexico with Subha and Mahaan in school. Me and Mom bet on the first one who curses, yells or gets mad has to give the other person $1.00. Grandma came in 4th Place in a Reader’s Digest lottery. Mom says it’s a hoax. I say it’s true. I walked to school with a person I know but don’t know his name. At school, I helped a new girl named Sheri with math. The teacher told me to.

In the last couple of days, there have been several comments on this blog about Sophia looking like my mother.  That’s just crazy!   Sophia and my mother look nothing alike.   Why would anyone marry someone who looked like his mother?  That would mean… that this person wanted to… that…  I just can’t even put the words together because it is so unspeakable.

Whatever.

Sophia and my mother don’t look anything alike.   Really.   None of us think it is true.   If anyone looks like my mother, it is me.    The proof is in the photo on top, taken at the Dominican coffee shop where we ate breakfast this morning.

Here is a photo of my parents on a date at the Luau 400, a famous New York Tiki-bar that is long closed.

The Luau 400 (Polynesian), at 400 E. 57th St., is another example of what we think the South Seas should be like. To enhance the atmosphere, owner Harry Bloomfield has employed all his theatrical skill to present tropical trees, waterfalls, and exotic birds as a background for the sloe-eyed waitresses, ukulele players, etc. A favorite with show people, especially for private parties, and one of the last ports of call for upper East Side theatregoers on the way home.

brochure photos from Critiki

My mother didn’t really remember much about the evening. Hopefully, it wasn’t as bad as my first date with Sophia.

When I searched for Luau 400, I discovered that there are Tiki bar collectors out there. A Luau 400 “mug” can fetch as much as $170! Unfortunately, my mother didn’t have any tiki mugs in the house.

But all is not lost! Look what I found in the back of my closet!

I apologize to my mother for saying that she gave all my baseball cards away. I apologize to my cousin for saying that he became a millionaire selling my baseball cards on E-bay. I am RICH. Hank Aaron! Pete Rose! Roberto Clemente! Ha Ha, you suckers have to go back to work after the holidays. I’m ready to rule the world with my millions! (well, actually the most valuable card, the Roberto Clemente (with added crayon-colored uniform), is only worth $45 dollars mint-condition, so I will only rule the world for a few days until I am poor again).

I promised my mother that I would throw out some things that have been in my closet for years, but it is impossible.  How can I choose what to toss?   Who knows? — one day I might be called on to perform some brain surgery on a sick neighbor and I’ll need to practice on that old Operation! game board.  It was fun going through old school reports and yearbooks.  I found personal papers and writings that I haven’t seen in years. 

These two writing pieces made me chuckle.  I would have been a terrific grade school blogger!

Me!  by Neil Kramer
(This is part of a journal written in elementary school.  There were photos attached, but were missing.)

It was a nice but cold day on March 7th.  Then at 2:38 AM, a spectacular thing happened.  I WAS BORN.  This is me, Neil Scott Kramer, at four months old.  The hands holding me belong to my baba (as I used to call my mother at four months old).  Birth notices were sent out to relatives and friends about ME, like the one above.  I took this photo of my mother and father.  I take many pictures.  That’s only one of my hobbies.  Others I have are coins, stamps, comics, and magazine collections.  Astrology — I like it!  I am a Pisces.  My mother is a Libra.  My father is a Gemini.  I LOVE TV!

Here is picture of ME in school.  Look at the 4th Row, 3rd Person from the left in Mrs. Mattis’s class in P.S. 154, in Flushing, in Queens, in NYC, in NY, in the USA, in North America, in this world, EARTH.

An interesting fact about me! - 18 1/2 million call the New York/New Jersey area their home.  And without me, it would be ONE LESS!

Clearly, my literary brilliance came through at an early age.  Unfortunately, once I became a Freshman in college, my writing turned pretentious and filled with sexual cliches, much as it still is today.

Sue by Neil Kramer
(a story written in a Freshman “Creative Writing” Class at Columbia)

I’m sitting on the top of the balustrade that separates Central Park from the adjacent sidewalk that I face, waiting, hoping that Sue will pass.  Although she is nowhere in sight, many other lovely girls pass me by, and since today is a hot July day, which prompts these beauties to sail right in front of my eyes in various stages of semi-undress, the sporadic wafts of warm, summer air gently fluttering the fashionable, soft, cotton fabric of the females blouses into a massage of their protruding breasts, the wait is not unpleasant.

A young couple exits the movie theater across the street.  The female (25, perhaps?) wears the tight green shorts that Boy Scouts usually wear.  I wonder what effect the movie had on this couple.  I know that the film is about a love affair between two Resistance members, and the war’s toll on their lives.  Max Horkheimer, the Marxist intellectual of the Frankfurt School of Philosophy, said that art is the only proletariat spirit left in my generation’s lifetime.  Great art should make the persons appreciating art to strive to reach this ideal, that of making the world a better place to live.

“Do you think this has happened to that couple?”  I ask myself.

I laugh. 

WTF?  Max Horkheimer, who the hell was he?  And who is Sue?  There are several more pages of this short story/political manifesto, but you couldn’t pay me enough to publish the rest. 

Now, continue on with your repressive, advertiser-driven blogs, you fools, those of you who bow before the false idols of capitalism and Technorati, while I, a modern-day Max Horkheimer, lead on with my blog revolution!

I laugh.