Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: New York City (Page 16 of 24)

Breakfast with Lily

September 22, 2008 / / 26 Comments

As I have mentioned many times before, Sophia is a strong, assertive woman. I find that sexy (unless, of course, when it has anything to do with me, when it can be a pain in the ass). One of the traits I really admire about her is that she isn’t a wallflower in restaurants. If she doesn’t like a dish or it isn’t up to her standards, she isn’t afraid of telling the waiter and speaking her mind.

Before I met her, I was too meek to complain.

“Eh, the salmon is OK.” I would say. “It’s not that bad.”

“Don’t eat it. Return it!” she would answer. “You’re PAYING for it.”

During the last several years under her tutelage, I became stronger. Hair sprouted on my chest (even if the hair has grown a little gray lately). Now I eat in restaurants with renewed confidence.

On Sunday, my mother and I had breakfast with Lily, a workmate of my mother’s from Farrar Straus, and Giroux. She is an elegant-looking Peruvian woman of about fifty. Her strong opinions reminds me of Sophia’s.

We received our food, and Lily took one bite of her omelete.

“It is completely cold,” she said.

“I’ll call the waiter over.” I insisted, taking charge of the matter, the testosterone running through my body.

“No, it’s fine like this.” she whispered quietly, and continued to eat her mushroom omelete.

I found this very confusing. Normally, Lily is very assertive. Had I become such a stronger personality –that I had already surpassed her? Have I finally rid myself of my passive nature? Am I ready to take the world by storm, standing tall, my c**k always at attention — like a true man?

As we left the restaurant and stepped into the September air, I built up the courage to ask Lily the question on my mind:

“Why didn’t your return your breakfast when it was cold? It seemed so unlike you.”

“I know,” she answered. “But my husband has worked as a cook in a restaurant for twenty-five years. I know FOR A FACT that when a customer returns his food, everyone in the back spits on it.”

Earth, Wind, and Fire

September 10, 2008 / / 28 Comments

Today I will continue my tradition of writing a blog post about my neighborhood without walking a block from my mother’s apartment building. 

I’ve introduced you to the supermarket downstairs with the crashing cars and the religious Jewish guy with the condo fliers.  I’ve told my tales of the worst McDonald’s in the United States and the seventeen year old black kid who is the assistant manager and the elderly Chinese saleswoman selling porno DVDs.  I’ve exposed the evil landlord from Palm Beach, Florida, who is trying to close all the small stores a half a block away to build some sort of Kmart.  Today, I’ll move across the street — to the mini-mall next to McDonald’s. 

In this non-descript Los Angeles-style mini-mall, there is a small deli, a chicken/pizza place, a hair stylist, and a “car service.” Other than using the car service to go to the airport, my mother doesn’t go into any of these stores.  They mostly cater to the Muslim, mostly Pakistani and Afghan community.  Now in my mother’s defense, she doesn’t go into the religious Jewish stores on Main Street either.  These small insular establishments are not very friendly to the outsider.  I’ve tried the pizza at the Muslim pizzeria a few times, and the food was pretty bad.  And for the record — women in burkas don’t like you checking out their asses.  But I have used the “car service” to go to the airport.  The drivers are excellent, despite all of them looking like Bin Laden’s brothers.

Over the car service is a small mosque, built into what seems to be a former dentist’s office.   A crescent moon stands proudly on the make-shift fabric domed roof.  From my mother’s living room, you can look directly into the mosque.  It is Ramadan now, so there are services at night.  I sleep in the living room, because the mattress of the convertible bed my mother put into my bedroom is like sleeping on metal.  While I lay on the couch, I can look inside the mosque window and in the brighness of the room, watch the religious praying, kneeling and facing Mecca. 

Later today, is my uncle’s funeral.  It has been a crazy week since he passed away.  He lived in San Francisco, but he wanted to be buried in New York — near my father, who was his eldest brother.  This opened up some neurotic family discussions, and also a debate over how to get him to New York.  He wanted to be cremated, which could be iffy in some Jewish cemeteries. 

And the big question — “Can you carry an urn with ashes on an American Airlines flight?”

This morning, I woke up to the sound of my mother’s loud dishwasher.  I also heard the sound of prayer.  It was comforting, even if it was coming from another religion – from a religious group that doesn’t usually see eye-to-eye with mine.    I thought about religion in general, and how we are all alike at heart.  All of us trying to make sense of life and death, all having the same hopes and dreams.

And then the whirl of the dishwasher stopped.  And what I thought was prayer was not prayer at all.  There was no one praying at the mosque.  What I imagined as sacred prayer was the janitor’s CD player blasting songs from “Earth, Wind, and Fire” as he worked on his old Toyota out front.

Searching for My Identity in a Queens McDonald’s

September 8, 2008 / / 61 Comments

I’ve written about my local Queens McDonald’s before.  It is across the street from my mother’s apartment building.   It is also the worst run McDonald’s in the country.  The managers are so chintzy here that you have to ask for napkins.  They have removed all the napkin dispensers.   And God help you if you ask for another packet of ketchup.

Every morning, I go downstairs to this McDonald’s.  Why?  Don’t I live in New York City now, the home of hip coffeeshops, where your latte is served by some slender beauty from NYU and all the customers are reading David Sedaris?   Well, remember – I’m living in Flushing.   There is no Starbucks by my home.  There is a Dominican diner and a bagel shop, both terrific, but these are tiny Mom-and-Pop operations that do not want me taking up their space while I read blogs for an hour  — at least not for the price of a cup of coffee.  At McDonald’s, I can buy a cup of coffee and then write on my laptop until the battery runs out.

Sidenote:  I probably could write a haf-decent decent blog and never walk more than half a block from my apartment building.   On Monday and Wednesday I can write about the Pathmark supermarket downstairs where cars smash into things like in a senior citizen NASCAR race.  On Tuesday and Thursday, I can write about the crappy McDonald’s across the street.  On Friday, I can write about my mother.  And on the weekend, I can let my Penis guest post or I can write about blogging or kiss the ass of some popular blogger.  For some odd reason, I think this would be a more successful formula than the one I have now.

OK, back to McDonald’s.  Last week, there was a bit of drama over my ordering the Egg McMuffin without the meat.   Usually, I don’t order breakfast at McDonald’s.  I buy a cup of coffee and do some writing.  But despite my eating my Cheerios on that day, I found myself hungry.  I decided to order an Egg McMuffin.  I am not a fan of those greasy sausage patties, so I asked for a sandwich without the meat.  They charged me the same price.

“Shouldn’t the sandwich be cheaper because I’m not getting the meat?” I asked.

“No, said the bored cashier with that ‘I don’t give a shit attitude’.  “It is the same price.”

This bugged the hell out of me.  Clearly the meat portion is the most expensive part of the sandwich.  Shouldn’t they at least offer me a tomato as a replacement?

I mentioned this experience on Twitter later in the day, thinking I was the first person to ever notice this phenomenon.   I was not.  Vegetarians said this happens all the time.  They always pay the same price as the regular sandwich.

I am a nice, gentle soul.  Normally.  But when I see the “little man” wronged, especially when it is done by a mighty corporation, I MUST take action.  Consider me the Obama of the Blogosphere.  The next day, I strapped on my new belt that I bought at Rite-Aid for five bucks (as I was walking the day earlier, my belt buckle broke, and my pants starting slipping down, so I snuck into the drug store, was surprised that they sold belts, and got myself a nice bargain that looks pretty good), and swaggered down to McDonald’s.  I ordered an Egg McMuffin without meat, was charged the regular price — but before I handed over a penny, I demanded to see the manager.  A seventeen year with a Kanye West cap approached. 

“The manager is out.  I am the ASSISTANT manager.” he said.

I explained my problem.  He said that my cause was hopeless, because this was corporate policy. 

Some people say you can’t fight City Hall.  Maybe they are right.  Oh, by the way, I am still waiting for that phone call about my free flight from Dockers/JCPenney.

Yeah, let’s see how much Obama really “changes things” in Washington.  Hah!

Anyway —

I am in McDonald’s RIGHT NOW.  I usually write while I am here, but today I am mostly reading some blogs ($2.95 for two hours of wi-fi at McDonald’s).

I am also in an introspective mood.  I am thinking about my identity — both online and off.  Who am I?  What am I doing with my life?  Can my life be as “rich, bold, and robust” as they say about the coffee on the McDonald’s cofffee cup? 

Recently, I changed my Facebook network to “New York” from “Los Angeles” and ten people wondered if I had permanently moved.  It means nothing really.  I just did it, in the hope that some blogger that lives in New York might notice and invite me to a wild party with loose women while I am in town.

I am slow to change.  It wasn’t easy changing my network on Facebook.  I still don’t know what I want with Sophia.  Or where to live.  Or which new shows to watch in the new TV season.  If you look on my sidebar, you’ll see that I added some new widgets as an experiment.  This template is so old (2005), that I have to hand code half the gizmos.  I “designed” my header on a rainy afternoon way back March of 2005.  What does it mean?  Who is that kid?  I have no idea who that is, but it has been my “icon” since I began this blog.  Is this how I really want to be “branded?”

Last week, Maggie Dammit got her blog re-designed by the talented Sam of Temporarily Me.   Last night, I must have chatted online for a half an hour with new friend Jennifer from Thursday Drive about how jealous I was of this header because it captured this blogger’s identity so successfully.   My semiotic “blog header” analysis was worthy of Roland Barthes.  Look how much information we we get from this photo.  There is a picture of Maggie.  She is cute and likeable.  She has a quirky expression on her face, so we know that she is approachable, like Meg Ryan.  No on would ever say this person is a “bitch” or she would “stab you in the back.”   Look at all those books she has!   She is not a dummy.  But she is NOT a lonely, bookish hermit.  She is using a MAC!   And she is confident.  She has her arms up, like those women in those Sure deodorant commercials.  She is a hot, but approachable, literary, but trendy, confident, but caring.  Hell, I don’t just want to read her blog.   I want to marry this woman!   Now that is good branding.   She clearly knows who she is. 

Do you know who I am?  I doubt it.  Do I know who I am?

Let me go back to talking about McDonald’s.  Every morning, on schedule, a tiny old Chinese woman enters the store, carrying a plastic supermarket shopping bag.  She comes to every table:

“DVDs?  DVDs?  Good DVDS!”

Her business is pushing bootleg DVDs.  I have never seen a customer buy anything from her, or even look at what she has to offer.  The McDonald’s staff seem to have a “deal” with her.  She is allowed to sell her wares, but only if she gives each table one pass, and then she quickly leaves.

She just made her rounds a few moments ago, just as I was writing this.  She always comes to me first, because she see my laptop, so she figures that I am in the market for bootleg DVDs.

I always say, “Thank you.  No.”

Something changed in me today.  Maybe it was curiosity.  Maybe it was introspective mood, my thinking about my identity.  Maybe I just felt like doing things differently.  I have been changing lately.  Didn’t I almost have email sex with a stranger?  Didn’t I act assertively when I confronted the McDonald’s assistant manager about the unfairness of the no-meat Egg mcMuffin?

“OK, let me see what you have.” I told the Chinese lady.

She immediately sat across from me, grasping her plastic bag, ready for her sell.

“I know you like this –”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a group of DVDs wrapped in two large rubber bands.  They were all macho-type B-movies that I had never heard of, with titles like “The Killing Machine” and “Fists of Blood.” 

“You LIKE these!”  she insisted.

She was wrong.  I thought about Maggie’s header.  It was so clear “who she was.”  I found it amusing that this DVD saleswoman was completely off track.  Who does she see?  She sees “MAN.”  Her first assumption is that I want to watch this mindless violent shit. 

“No, no…” I told the DVD lady.

“Ah, I KNOW what you like,” she said, pulling out another collection of DVDs wrapped in rubber bands.  She was persistent.

This collection of DVDs came closer to my identity.  They were DVDs of Hollywood movies out in theaters RIGHT NOW.  I assumed that these are created by someone shooting a video in the theater as the movie was playing.  You can find stuff like this on chinese YouTube. 

“How much?”  I asked.

“Four dollars.” she said.

I was tempted for a second, just to buy something, but her collection consisted mostly of the most lame-brained comedy and action films out today.  These were movies I wouldn’t even watch for free on Chinese YouTube.  While I might see “Pineapple Express” because it is the only thing playing on a Saurday night, do I really need an illegal DVD of the movie?   Don’t they ever make any bootleg videos of good films or art films, or at least Woody Allen films?  Still, her choice of mainstream Hollywood movies came a lot closer to my true identity.

“I’m sorry,” I told my new friend.  I was wondering if I should buy her a cup of coffee while we sat together.

But she certainly wasn’t leaving… just yet.

“Ah, so this is WHAT YOU LIKE…”

She pulled out a final collection of DVD’s from her bag, wrapped, as usual, in rubber bands.  This was her “special” collection.  She smiled knowingly because she was confident that she had finally figured me out —

The DVD all had buxom, naked women on the covers, some blond and some Asian.  The films had titles such as “In and Out” and “My Favorite Geisha.”

“These you REALLY REALLY LIKE… huh?!”

The saleswoman was clever.  She had come very close to figuring out “who I was.”  But a person’s identity is a complex thing.  It cannot be isolated into just one characteristic.  Like many men, I am interested in naked women who want to be my geisha girl.  But that is not WHO I am.  She did not understand me at all.   If I don’t truly understand me, how can she understand me?  She was so confident in her sales ability, that she could manipulate my inner desires to sell me something, that she completely overlooked a even MORE important aspect of my identity —

— I am way too cheap to spend four bucks buying a porno DVD in McDonald’s!

I am finding out who I am a little more each day.

God Loves this Blog

September 5, 2008 / / 51 Comments

I don’t consider myself an atheist, but politicians talk too much about God.  My main reason for voting Democratic is that there is so much religiosity to the Republicans.  At least the Democrats like sex, even if it is with women other than their wives.   And why is the President sworn in on a Bible?   What do we do when we have a non-believing President?   Will he be sworn in on a copy of “The Lord of the Rings:  The Return of the King?”

If we are going to talk about God, we should talk about God and his relationship with this blog.

God loves “Citizen of the Month.”  How do I know this?   I have concrete evidence.

A month ago, I wasn’t in the mood to blog, so I asked a bunch of bloggers to guest post.  On the first day of my freedom, I stepped out of my apartment building, whistling, relieved of the pressure of having to write something witty or interesting for my non-paying readers.

And then — SMASH!   A car went through the window of the supermarket downstairs.

I immediately took photos and ran upstairs to publish it on the blog.  The photos were too dramatic to not share with the world!  It was as if God needed to do something dramatic to force me to post.

Remember, my God is the God of the Old Testament.  He is wise and caring, but not above causing a bit of mayhem to make “a statement.”

He is the God who said, “Hey, Abraham, why don’t you sacrifice your favorite son just because I say so.”

This is a passive-aggressive God.

Two weeks have passed since the guest-posting.  I never hit my stride again.  I only posted once this week, a sad tale of email sex gone bad.

This morning, I opened up WordPress.  As I began to type, I lost all mojo.

“Screw them,” I said to myself.  “These bunch of whiny losers don’t deserve more than one post a week from me.”

I shut off my computer and decided to take a walk, to get a bagel and coffee.  But as I approached the supermarket downstairs —

— SMASH!

God commanded that I post.

WTC

August 27, 2008 / / 35 Comments

The best views of the remains of the World Trade Center are not from the streets of lower Manhattan.  They are from the window of the PATH train as it snakes its way from the terminal en route to New Jersey.

The train winds right past the still empty hole, construction constantly delayed by conflict and confusion.  The area is filled with cranes and construction equipment, but it feels as somber as a memorial.  For about ten seconds, the train slides slowly by, as if the tracks were purposely built to give the passengers the best possible view.  The brief portion of the ride reminds me of the Universal Studios tram driving past the old Earthquake attraction, although the destruction here was not manufactured in a warehouse in Burbank.

From Wikipedia:

Soon after Flight 11 (first plane) hit the North Tower on 9/11, the PATH station was shut down by order from PATH’s deputy director, Victoria Cross Kelly, and Richie Moran who commanded the PATH system at the Journal Square Transportation Center.

With the station destroyed, service to Lower Manhattan was suspended for over two years.  Cleanup of the Exchange Place station was needed after the attacks. As well, the downtown Hudson tubes had been flooded, which destroyed the track infrastructure.  The Exchange Place station re-opened in June 2003. PATH service to Lower Manhattan was restored when a temporary station opened on November 23, 2003. The inaugural train was the same one that had been used for the evacuation.

The temporary PATH station was designed by Port Authority chief architect Robert I. Davidson and constructed at a cost of $323 million.  The station features a canopy entrance along Church Street and a 118-by-12 foot mosaic mural, “Iridescent Lightning,” by Giulio Candussio of the Scuola Mosaicisti del Friuli in Spilimbergo, Italy. The station is also adorned with opaque panel walls inscribed with inspirational quotes attesting to the greatness and resilience of New York City. These panels partially shield the World Trade Center site from view.

Jersey City, New Jersey is a growing community directly across the river.  Many of the big financial corporations have offices here, some moving after 9/11, others because the rents are cheaper. 

I am in Jersey City to meet some friends at a riverside restaurant with great views of Manhattan.  The five guys at the table next to us talk loudly about stock options.  The view of the skyline is stunning.  It always amused me that the way to see the grand skyscrapers of Manhattan is to go to Brooklyn or Queens or… New Jersey.

As the sun set, the metal and windows of these towering office structures reflect the light, as if haughty and dismissive of God himself.  “Your Sun is bright, but our steel and glass buildings will make it shine even MORE beautifully.”

The stubborn edifices put on a show, as if to outdo the Sun.  They change colors, like a proud peacock.  Depending on the angle of the sun, the skyline turns purple, then orange, then red, then yellow, then green.  The hubris of these metalic structures has no bounds.  Even when the Sun goes dark, the skyline remains lit by the human invention of electrical light. 

Man is powerful.

On the way back to New York, the PATH train present us with a repeat view of the remains of the Twin Towers, now at night, now lit by the same man-made lighting that made the city seem so majestic from New Jersey, only here the brightness illuminates only destruction. 

Man is powerful, but not always good.


(via tribecatom)

Almost Like Vienna

August 14, 2008 / / 53 Comments

I’m beginning to accept a philosophy of life that combines equal parts idealism and cynicism  — everything good has the seeds of something bad and everything bad contains the potential for something good.  There are some problems with this new theory, so I won’t expound on it too much, because I might decide by next week that it is total hooey.

Here’s an example of what I’m talking about — coming to New York and separating from Sophia is bad (and sad), but it has also has created some good.  I have gained some independence.  I don’t worry as much.  A few weeks ago, there was a problem on the E train.  Everyone had to disembark and wait for another train.  It was late at night.  It was hot.  It was crowded.  The wait was an HOUR!  Sophia would have just fainted, or glared at me all night for living in Queens, not Manhattan.  If Sophia was there, I would have gotten eanxious worrying about her discomfort, making things worse.  But since I was there by myself, I didn’t fret. I amused myself by taking artsy, but poorly-exposed photographs of the subway signs.  I had FUN.  I could only have had that experience alone.

I hear about this good/bad dichotomy all the time.  Having kids is the greatest joy in a person’s life.  Having kids is the biggest pain in the ass.  Working hard means I get well paid.  Getting well paid means I have to work hard.

One of the best things that has happened to me by coming to New York is a surprise — my bonding with my mother.  It is a good in a bad situation.  She is without her husband.  I am without my wife.  And for once, we are both “adults,” — or at least I pretend to be.   During this visit, we have become friends.  We went to the movies together.  We went to the theater.  We went to City Bakery and made fun of the skinny girls sitting next to us, picking at their fifteen dollar salads while we were eating our huge muffins.

Today, during lunch, my mother and I met Suzanne, a former workmate of my mother, at the Neue Galerie at 86th and Fifth.  The Neue Galerie is located in a former mansion of the Vanderbilts, and the museum is dedicated to German and Austrian Art. 

I’ve always liked German Expressionist art.  I especially love the work of Gustav Klimt. 


Gustav Klimt

Neue Galerie has one of his most famous works, the portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer.


Adele Bloch-Bauer by Gustav Klimt

I’m not sure my mother was crazy about some of the paintings in the museum.  Much of the German work from 1900-1930 is shocking, seedy, even ugly — as if these artists could see the festering amoralism of German culture of the time period.

 
Girl with Doll by Erich Heckel

“That girl looks like she is eight years old.” said my mother.

“I think she is eight years old.”

“Why would you paint a nude eight year old?  It makes me uncomfortable.”

“I think that’s what he was trying to do.”

“Who would want that in their house?”

“It’s probably worth thirty million dollars.”

“I still wouldn’t put it in my house.  Yuch.”

“You’re in a museum.  You’re not supposed to say “Yuch.””

“What should I say?”

“You should say, “Interesting,” but with a lilt to your voice to show your uncertainty.”

My mother walked over to a wall of Klimt’s sketches.

“I like this one better.” she said,

“Which one?”

“The sleeping nude.”

“I don’t think she’s sleeping.”

“It looks like she’s sleeping.”

“I don’t think she’s sleeping.”

“Oh.”


Reclining Nude Facing Right by Gustav Klimpt

After walking through the galleries, we went downstairs to have dessert at Cafe Sabarsky, a restaurant decorated to look like an authentic Viennese cafe.  At first, after seeing the menu, we almost left.  Desserts were eight dollars each and coffee (no refills) was six dollars.  We decided to splurge. 


Cafe Sabarsky


My mother and Suzanne


Cheesecake, Rum Cake, Apple Strudel

The desserts were pretty good (we shared a rum cake, cheesecake, and apple strudel), but not really worth the fifty bucks.  In fact, we were all a little disappointed that the food didn’t really live up to the high price. 

Suddenly, my mother noticed a Mr. Softee ice cream truck pull up on 86th Street, directly outside the cafe window.  Two museum employees ran outside to buy themselves ice cream cones for $1.50 each. 

“At least the people who work here are smart enough not to spend fifty dollars on dessert from the cafe!” said my mother.

We all laughed, because my mother, my new friend, is funny.

The Orthodox Jewish Guy Outside the Supermarket

August 13, 2008 / / 50 Comments

I went down to Pathmark Supermarket to buy whole wheat hamburger buns and some bottles of Snapple.   In front of the entrance, was an Orthodox Jew handing out leaflets.  He was wearing a yarmulke and tzitzit, a traditional fringed garment worn under the clothing.  I’ve seen these guys before.   Some ultra-religious Jews go around and try to get less religious Jews to pay more attention to the various rituals of Judaism.  These men believe that the spreading of their religious fervor will hasten the arrival of the Messiah.

Usually, these Jews only bug other Jews.  They frequently ask passerbys, “Are you Jewish?” before they annoy the hell out of you.   I understand that they are on a mission, but sometimes I just want to walk to the supermarket without having to discuss religious issues.   The only time I’ve ever said that I WASN”T Jewish had nothing to do anti-Semitism.   It was to avoid one of these ultra-religious guys pestering me on the street about lighting the Shabbos candles.

“Here, take some candles. Light them on Friday night. Do you belong to a temple?  Come to our temple.  We even will feed you!”

They will feed you. I know their trick.   You go to their temple.  They feed you some good chicken soup, and then they OWN YOU!

What surprised me about this guy outside the supermarket was that he was not asking, “Are you Jewish?” to anyone.   He was handing out his leaflets and talking to every passerby, whether they were black or white or Latino or Asian.  Some of these shoppers quickly walked by, while others politely took one of his leaflets.

Was he trying to convert everyone to Judaism?

Three years ago, I wrote a post advocating Jews trying to convert other religions. I was being a little tongue in cheek.   At the time,  I felt that if other religions are always trying to convert you, why not return the favor?   In reality, conversion is a dirty word for most Jews because it brings up a sad history of forced conversion, mostly at the hands of Christians.   Even though I wrote that post, I don’t really feel comfortable with anyone trying to convert another person.

I wondered if this zealot outside my Queens supermarket felt safe trying to convert others to Judaism because we were in Queens, and there were many Jews in the neighborhood.   Maybe he felt safe in numbers, despite the fact that there was a mosque right across the street.

This made me angry.   If I were a Jew in a Christian neighborhood, I would hate having someone try to convert me outside my local supermarket.  I would feel as if I was being pressured to be “one of the majority.”  I’m not a hypocrite.    Why should a Jew try to convert others in our neighborhood?   Surely, the religions of others — whether it be Christianity, Islam, or Buddhism — is as worthy a religion.   This smug Jewish guy, passing out leaflets, was arrogant.  It didn’t matter if he was “part of my tribe.”

I walked into the supermarket, using a side door, just to avoid him.

After I finished my shopping, I looked through the store window, and saw my Jewish friend deep in conversation with a black mother and her son.  The mother took the flier, nodding in agreement.  Did he just sucker in another victim to leave her own religion behind?  My face grew red.  This idiot was giving the Jewish people a bad name.

I walked outside, waiting for him to hand me a flier and engage me in conversation.  I walked by and he completely ignored me.   What was up with that?!   Did he see that I was angry and was worried about a conflict?   Or could he tell that I was already Jewish so he didn’t need to convert me?   And how did he know I was Jewish?   Was he judging me on my Jewish nose like a racist would do?   Was this Jewish man stereotyping a fellow Jew?

Hell, I wanted him to try to convert me!   I wanted him to hand me one of those leaflets, so I can shove it back in his face and tell him that this is not the ways Jews should behave.  That it is a shame for him to stand there in his yarmulke and tzitzit and show such disregard for other cultures and other religions.

I did a 360 and entered the supermarket again, just so I could exit a second time and get one of those leaflets.  I quickly re-walked my steps, leaving the market as I did before, not even waiting for the electric door to fully open.  I walked past the ultra-religious Jewish guy, who was eagerly handing out his leaflets — and the asshole ignored me again.

That was enough for me.   Like Abraham, who would sacrifice Isaac, his son, because of God’s word, I knew that it was my moral obligation to confront my Jewish nemesis.  I stepped in front of him.

“May I have one of those leaflets.”

“Sure,” he said reluctantly.

He handed me one. I held it tightly in my hand, ready to start my diatribe against religious hypocrisy.  And then I read the piece of paper:

“Looking to sell your condo?  Call 718-555-1212.”

When I arrived home, I looked at myself in the mirror. My hair had gotten long again. I was unshaven. I was wearing an old t-shirt. Apparently, I was stereotyped by this guy as someone who can’t afford to own a condo.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Truth and Fiction

Car in Supermarket Window

August 3, 2008 / / 16 Comments

I know I promised that I wouldn’t blog this week. Please accept my apologies. There was just some excitement downstairs at the local supermarket, and I wanted to show my mother at work my “eyewitness account” — so I figured the easiest way for her to see the photos was to post them on my blog.

Now go and read Rhea’s excellent guest post.

Is Male Personal Blogging Still a Radical Act? (BlogHim 08′ Recap)

July 20, 2008 / / 39 Comments

BlogHim 08′ in New York City was a phenomenal success.  Although we had no sponsors like Blogher, no swag (Dockers had promised to supply us with some free giveaways, but never came through), and received no attention from the media or kindly General Motors, we all had a great time meeting up with old blogging friends.  And isn’t that what blogging is all about?


Two male bloggers discussing ways to increase their readership.

BlogHim had no money to pay for a hotel conference room, so most of the sessions took place at Neil’s Coffee Shop on Lexington.  Participants really enjoyed the free coffee refills and the way the waiteress said “Be right with you, Hon.”

One of the most popular BlogHim sessions was about new ways for Daddybloggers to monetize their children.  There was a good deal of heated discussion.  Many men were angry that the Mommybloggers received all the free Wiis. 

“We just get the viagra ads” said one Daddyblogger.  “Why do marketers think that because we have children we can’t get it up anymore?”

Barry, a male “Alpha” blogger from Tennessee asked the one question that was on every Daddyblogger’s mind.  “What was the point of having children if you can’t make money off of them on your blog?”

But it was Andrew “TexasDad” who came up with the answer, inspiring the crowd with his keynote speech, “Why Daddyblogging is a Still a Radical. Act”

“We are men.  We must use our logical male minds and think out of the box!  Why go the same route as the the women?  Are we men or a bunch of pussies?  If we are unable to monetize our children with our daddyblogs, let’s follow another path.  Let’s force our children to run a marathon in Central Park when it is a 100 degrees outside and BET ON THEM like a horse race!”

It was just then that the Guy Kawasaki Challenge was born!

The daughters did us especially proud!  Some of us made a ton of money from the betting pool.

The highlight of the day was when the sons raced.   These young men are the underappreciated male personal bloggers of the future, so we pushed them extra hard.  Some of the more clever Daddybloggers even told their sons that they were going to abandon them and leave them in New York if they didn’t win!


It was hilarious to see how much pressure was put on the wimpier boys and to watch them fall in frustration!

The weekend consisted of one fabulous session after another, all catered to the male blogger.  On this weekend, we were ALL Alpha Male Bloggers:


Session One:  “Why You Should Never Share Anything with a Woman”


Session 2:  “Dog Pee is bad for the Environment, But Even Al Gore Pees in the Shower.”


Session 3:  “Question Authority”


Session 4:  “Why a Really Nice Piece of Ass is Better than a Good Humor Bar”

Thanks all!  See you Next Year at BlogHim 09!  Remember — Keep your chins up and your c*cks hard.   We are MEN!

Sex in the Male City (in honor of BlogHim ’08)

July 17, 2008 / / 34 Comments

New York City may have nine million residents, but it is a small town when it comes to meeting available women.  Or at least so it seems when we go out on the town. 

At a half past ten, I was dressed to the nines and entering Maxwell’s, located on the corner of Right Now And Everyone Was There.  On a normal night, I would never make it within ten feet of the velvet rope, but ropes seem to jump by themselves with a friend like Robb.  He is what Glenn would call “a trifecta” — a high-profile attorney, one of the Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors according to New York Magazine, and currently representing the daughter of the biggest real estate developer on the Upper East side, in a nasty divorce case that makes it to Page Six as frequently as she has gotten DUIs in the Hamptons.

So, there we were, in Maxwell’s, four attractive single men, Robb -the lawyer, Jake – the ultra-successful financial analyst, who never said no to a nice pair of legs, but always dropped her as fast as a T-bill in his money market account, Glenn – the former ballplayer, now a sought-after commercial artist, the only man I ever met who had slept with seven different women in one week, but who secretly would throw everything away just to become a stay at home dad, and me – the under-employed writer, currently living with his nice Jewish mother.

I spent much of the night thinking about Atlas, and how he struggled to hold the world up, despite his powerful arms.  What does friendship really mean to me and my friends?  Are we like four Atlases?    Would we always be there to help each other hold up our own little worlds? 

Of course, our conversation in Maxwell’s revolved less about Greek Mythology then our favorite topic — male shoes and fashion.

“Hey, Neil, my main man, are those Dockers you’re wearing?”  asked Glenn, admiring the fit.

“F**k no,” I answered.  “I wouldn’t wear those piece of sh*t pants again after the Docker/Levi Strauss Company screwed me with that “free flight” that ruined my going to BlogHer.”

A gorgeous model sashayed by, catching our attention.  This was not just any model.  This was Ashley Maran, the latest cover model in Vogue.  Our conversation quickly turned to our second favorite conversation — the fairer sex.

“I’m breaking up with Annie,” said Robb, batting first, hitting us with a foul ball.

None of us were surprised, but we were a bit sad — we actually liked Annie.  She was a Mets fan.  So, we pressed him for more info.

“One of the reasons I was initially attracted to her was because she is a dentist.  I figured — a dentist, oral sex, a perfect match.   But she gave the worst blowjobs I ever had.  How can you explain that?  She even used her teeth!”

We all cringed in pain.

“Didn’t they teach her about this in dental school?”

We all agreed that this was a legitimate reason for dumping her like a third-rate draft pick, even if she did like the Mets.

Jake had oral problems of his own.  Jake had been dating a busty stock broker from Goldman Sachs, and apparently she was bullish on him going down on her.

“That’s all she wants.  Apparentlly, she can only have an orgasm through oral sex.   I mean she’s been going to therapy for years because of this.”

We all agree that Jake was practically a Mother Theresa for sticking around with this woman for longer than he ever has with anyone else — nearly three weeks.

“You know me, I’m eager to help out.” said Jake.  “I drive you guys to the airport whenever you need me.  But not driving my c*ck between her thighs is torture. ”

Jake looked like he was near tears.  Robb gave him a sympathetic hug.

“I can’t sit there for two hours with my tongue doing all the work,” Jake continued.  “I’ve lost ten pounds this month because my jaw hurts so much, I’m too tired to chew any food.”

After we all consoled Jake, It was now Glenn’s turn on the witness stand.

“I sometimes wish I could just settle down, have a child, and become a stay at home daddy.”

For years, I never understood Glenn’s fantasy of being a SAHD.  Here he was, a big success with a fancy Soho condo, women up the wazoo – and he wants to throw it all away?  For what?  For dirty diapers and daddy blogging?   But New York can do that to you.  It gets at you.  It wears you down.

“I just want to meet the right woman.”  said Glenn, sighing.  “But it feels as if the only women over thirty in New York are either taken, unable to commit, lesbian, or trans-gendered men.”

“What about Lisa?” asked Jake. 

For the last month, Glenn had been seeing Lisa, the cute V.P of this hip new internet marketing firm in Chelsea.

She’s very passionate, but a little too short.” said Glenn.

“Short?  What are you talking about?” asked Jake.

“Well, I mean she’s compact.  She’s 5’2″, and when we are in bed… and I’m a big guy, so… uh…”

“Are you saying your d*ck is too big for her p*ssy?” asked Robb.

Glenn nodded.

“Has this ever happened to any of you?” he asked.

“Of course” we all said, nodding, as if this was a frequent problem in our lives.

Finally, it was my time to be grilled, like salmon filet at Tavern on the Green.  I could feel the guys looking at me as closely as they would a brunette’s tight ass as she climbed on the Stairmaster at the Crunch Gym in Tribeca.

“What about you, Neil?” asked Robb.  “You’ve been awfully quiet tonight.  You getting any action in Queens?”

I think it was Isaac Bashevis Singer who said, “The best stories come out of the daily experiences of your own life.”  So, I took the writer’s advice.

“Well, I went to McDonald’s for a cup of coffee and as I was drinking it, I got a major hard-on.”

“Was the girl at the counter really hot?” asked Jake.

“No,” I said.  “I think they just added too much sugar.”

After a long, uncomfortable pause, Glenn changed the subject.

“Have you heard from Ms. Big?” asked Glenn.

The others looked at each other, concerned.  Was it too soon to bring up the name of Ms. Big?

“I IM-ed with Sophia last night.  She’s in LA.”

They all were eager to know what she said.

“Well, she sent me this message: 

 “You should start seeing someone there.” 

I said, “A woman?” 

She wrote back, “A man or a woman.” 

I answered, “A man or a woman?!  I don’t get it.  Are you saying I should start seeing someone — like going on a date?” 

She said, “No.  I meant you should start seeing a therapist in New York.””

My three friends laughed.  But it was OK.  I know that if I were Atlas, and had to hold up the world with my skinny arms, they would be at my side, helping me carry the weight.

Update:  BlogHim 08′ recap

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