Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: New York City (Page 20 of 24)

Extremely Short Tales of Cell Phones

January 9, 2007 / / 33 Comments

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Story One — The Bar in Queens 

I left New York rather quickly last month, so I don’t think I publicly said how much I enjoyed seeing Sandra, Caitlin, Anonymous City Girl, Tatyana, and Claudette. 

One of the funniest meetings was with Caitlin and her boyfriend, Billy.  We planned to meet in a bar in Queens.  I arrived a few minutes early and was waiting by the jukebox in front.  Some pretty girl walked in and stared at me for a second and then just passed me by.  She sat at the bar.  I looked over at her and she looked my way, but then she turned away and ignored me.  She started a conversation with the guy sitting next to her at the bar.

I continued to wait for Caitlin and Billy. 

Every few minutes, I felt someone looking at me.  It was that girl at the bar.  I would look over at her and she would look away.  Now, the guy at the bar turned to me for a second, then turned away.

Was this Caitlin and Billy?  And why don’t they come over to me?  Isn’t it apparent that I am waiting for them by the front entrance?  It can’t be them.  Wouldn’t Caitlin and Billy come together?  Maybe this girl at the bar just thinks my overcoat looks funny and she is making fun of me?  Should I go over to them?  Will that dude who is talking to her think I am cutting in and kick my ass in the alley?

I came up with the perfect solution.  Caitlin had called me on my phone earlier, so I had her phone number stored in memory.  I’ll call her up and if this girl answers the phone, I’ll know it is her. If not, I’ll know that she hasn’t arrived yet.

I dialed Caitlin’s phone number.  A phone rang at the bar and the girl answered.

Caitlin:  Hello.

She looked my way.

Neil:  Hi, I think this is me and you are you.

Caitlin:  Oh, hi!

Neil:  What should we do now?  Should I go over there?

Caitlin:  Sure.  Thanks for calling!

Neil:  Anytime.  Nice speaking to you.  Bye!

Caitlin:  Bye-bye!

It was Caitlin… and Billy.  We sat down in the restaurant area to order some dinner.  We noticed that patrons at different tables were eating completely different types of food:  Chinese food, pizza, and even fried chicken.  “What a diverse menu!” I said.  It ended up being that since the bar didn’t serve food, they handed everyone a bunch of take-out menus, and patrons just got food delivered to their table from some outside restaurant.  So, I used my phone again and ordered some pizza.

 

Story Two — The Free Phone

Last year, I received a free Sprint phone and six months of service as part of the Sprint Ambassador Program for bloggers.  I wasn’t required to write about the phone on my blog but (wink wink).   Sophia was so jealous that she emailed them and convinced them to send HER a second phone since she was my blog editor.

Six months later, the gig was up.  Bloggers around the country said good-bye to their Sprint phones.  Sophia, of course, found it difficult to say goodbye.  She loved playing with all the applications.  She even used the GPS program she downloaded on the phone as she walked around New York.  She convinced me to write a suck-up post to Sprint so we could be participants in the new “phase” of the Sprint Ambassador program.  It didn’t work.  My days of free stuff for blogging came to an end, and I went back to paying for my measly phone service like the rest of you suckers.  It was my own fault.  I didn’t pimp them enough AND I never really gave them any feedback.  Honestly, I didn’t use any of the cool applications other than reading my blog comments on the phone.  On the other hand, Sophia downloaded music, played “Lemonade,” text messaged, watched TV, etc. and had an opinion on every single thing about the phone, including the size of the buttons, and emailed Sprint all the time, telling them how they could do it better.

So, guess which of us got a NEW phone for another six months for this Sprint Ambassador Program?  And which of us was refused as a participant for being a promotional dud?

 

Story Three — Stupid Commercial

I really hate that new Cingular ad where these two dudes have just downloaded The Clash’s “Rock the Casbah” on their phone and are singing it incorrectly as “Lock the Cashbox.”

At first it bothered me because they were mangling one of my favorite songs and making me feel old, but on second thought I just found it insulting to the intelligence of Cingular’s customers, such as myself.  Those idiots just DOWNLOADED a song titled “Rock the Casbah” and they can’t figure out what the refrain is?  Didn’t they have to look it up first to download it?

“Dude, I just downloaded “Rock the Casbah” but I can’t understand what these British guys are saying.  Is it “Lock the Cashbox?” 

The real idiots are the copywriters that created this one.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  CES: Day Two

Why a Pillow is No Substitute for a Woman

December 10, 2006 / / 32 Comments

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Yesterday was mother-son bonding day in the Kramer New York household.  We did a family favorite — we went to Macy’s One Day Sale with a 25% off coupon we received in the mail.  I convinced my mother that her coat was getting old, and I helped her pick out a nicer one.  The big drama began when the cost of the coat turned out to be $99.65 and the salesman wouldn’t use our coupon because he said the purchase had to be $100.  Talk about hard-asses!  Is this the same company that puts on the playful Thanksgiving Day Parade?  But my mother would not relent.  We searched for the cheapest thing you could buy in Macy’s, so we could stick it to them and still get our discount.  We ended up buying a $1.25 bottle of Macy’s “Spring Water.”  Where the hell is this spring — under Herald Square?

On the way home, we stopped in downtown Flushing, which is more of a real Chinatown than the Chinatown in Manhattan.  I took my mother to have her first dim sum.  If you have never been to this type of Chinese restaurant, dim sim is usually served in a large banquet hall.  Rather than ordering from a menu, women push these carts with different types of appetizers.  If you are kosher, forget about it!  Most of the dishes are either pork or shrimp.  You get charged a modest amount for each plate.  These restaurants get jammed on weekends, so we had to share a large banquet table with a family that didn’t speak English.  My mother was a little nervous because she was unfamiliar with all of the dishes.  I tried to act confident, but the truth was I had no idea what half of the dishes were myself.  I avoided ordering anything that looked like fish eyeballs. 

Last night, I slept on the living room couch.  This morning, I woke up and noticed that my legs were all scratched and cut, almost as if my legs were in a knife fight. 

“What in the world happened to me?” I asked my mother as she was cooking some oatmeal.

My mother is a big fan of detective shows like CSI and The Closer, so we both sat down to examine the evidence.

1)  Our first thought was that it was a reaction to the dim sum, but it seemed unlikely that this would only affect my legs.

2)  We discussed “bed bugs” in the couch, but there were no visible bites, only scratches.

3)  Despite watching “The Polar Express” last night, where the moral of the story is “believe,” we do not believe in ghosts wanting to do harm to my legs for some evil reason.

4)  My mother insisted that she doesn’t sleepwalk.  And if she did sleepwalk and come over to me with scissors in hand, she wouldn’t cut my legs.  “I would probably cut your hair.  It looks awful.” she said.

5)  Finally, our TV detective method paid off.  When I used to be in bed with Sophia, I would always wrap my legs around her legs while I was sleeping.  Being a creature of habit, I was wrapping my legs around the abrasive pillows of the couch, and every time I moved, I would scratch and cut my legs against the pillows’ zippers without even waking up!

Love hurts.

Overheard in New York in December

December 8, 2006 / / 20 Comments

“Have you seen The Tree in Rockefeller Center?”

“Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?”

“How much do you tip YOUR nanny?”

“I hate all the tourists who come in from Ohio.”

“My parents are taking me skiing in italy! I would never go to Florida.”

“What are you doing with your bonus this year?”

I can’t believe we’re having our Christmas party midtown again!  My wife goes downtown to Ono!”

“I find New York very lonely around now.”

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A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Why I’d Make a Good Husband for You, My Female Reader

The New York City Speakeasy

December 6, 2006 / / 36 Comments

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New York is amazing.  Once you think you’ve seen it all, there’s another “secret place” to discover.  Luckily, I know Jake, the ultimate New York hipster, who can get me into any club, no matter who is on the VIP list.

Last night, we took a cab up to Harlem, to this little club as far away from the tourists as possible.  This club doesn’t even have a sign outside.  They don’t want anyone from New Jersey there.  You either know about this hot spot, or you are just a loser. 

Outside the club, a bouncer stands, watching every move.  If the cops wanted to, they could close this illegal “speakeasy” in a flash, but the club owner knows how to grease the wheels, so to speak.  Every cool person in town knows about this club.  And now I do.  Please do not send me emails asking me to tell you where it is.  As if one of YOU is cool enough to go to this club.  Even if Dooce commented on one of my posts, I wouldn’t tell her either.

The interior of the club is dark and rich with atmosphere.  There are many “ethnic” types mingling about, providing some local color.  The place has the smell of illicit activity.  A top band, whose name I cannot tell you, plays some tunes. 

But the real draw to this secret speakeasy is what makes it so illegal.  It is the sensuality of sin.  The erotic nature of the forbidden fruit.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, in this club, the food served is still prepared using trans fats, despite the prohibition.

The New York City Board of Health voted yesterday to adopt the nation’s first major municipal ban on the use of… trans fats in restaurant cooking, a move that would radically transform the way food is prepared in thousands of restaurants, from McDonald’s to fashionable bistros to Chinese take-outs.

But the elite and trendsetters of “The Greatest City on Earth” march to their own culinary drummer.   Thus the trans fat speakeasy was born.

“Let the “bridge and tunnel crowd” eat soy-corn blend cooking oil when they go out,” said popular socialite/performance artist Oman Ginsberg. 

“I don’t care.  The fried chicken here is the best in the world” said club promoter/rapper/DJ Mr. Def-X, as an ambulance drove him to Mount Sinai Hospital after his massive heart attack.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  A Chicken Sausage for One of the Mishpucha

The Miracle of Kew Garden Hills – The Final Chapter

November 30, 2006 / / 33 Comments

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(from The Miracle of Kew Garden Hills – Chapter Two) 

Nick took my mother’s other hand.

“Your mother and I are friends… ” he said.

“Very good friends…” added my mother.

It suddenly became real to me.   This was Santa Claus.  And Santa Claus was a horny older guy leering at my mother’s figure!

“Mom?”  I gasped.  ”Are you doing it with Santa Claus?!!”

“What kind of question is that to ask your mother?!” she answered.  “And I’m a adult.”

“But I’m shocked,” I stammered.

Nick laughed his “Ho Ho Ho.”

“How can someone who writes about his penis all the time be such a prude?” he joked.

“But, Mom?” I cried incredulously.  “What about Dad?  It’s only been 15 months since he passed away.”

“Your father would be the FIRST person to want me to date again.  Being over 65 is young today!” 

I began feeling dizzy.   My mother gave me her kindly smile.

“Think about every Christmas since you were a child.  What did your father do at Queens General Hospital?”

“He would dress as Santa and visit the children’s wing.”

“He was the funniest-looking Santa ever,” Nick added. “He was so skinny… and those Woody Allen glasses!  But he was the best!”

“So who better to take on as a lover…” said my mother, “than the REAL Santa Claus?!  Your father would be impressed!”

I turned towards Nick, still defiant.

“And what about you, Nick?  Aren’t you still married?”

“Technically, I am still married to Mrs. Claus.  But we are, uh, separated.  Although we still live near each other in the North Pole, and love each other, we can still date, but… it’s all very complicated.  I’m not sure if you can understand…”

“Oh, I can.  I can…”  I replied.

My mother took me by my arm and led me to the living room couch.  It was in perfect condition for an old couch because of the plastic that covered it for 30 years.

“Mom, are you sure you know what you are doing?” I asked.

“Is there anything wrong with Nick bringing some “joy” into my life?” she said.

I shook my head, confused.

“I don’t understand.  How did you and Santa… uh, Nick… meet?”

“At Shirley’s house.  It seems that Nick is quite a whiz at Mah-Jongg and came over for a game.”

Nick sat down across from us.

“My mother, Miriam Clausiwitz, god rest her soul, played Mah-Jongg every Tuesday when I was growing up in the Bronx.  I  can still hear the click of the tiles and the chattering of the women.  I even taught the elves how to play!  Oh, you should see some of their competitive tournaments!”

“My head is spinning” I said.

My mother gave me a hug.

“All is good, Neil.  The world is good, despite your bad experiences on the plane and the cab ride over here.  People ARE good.  We just forget to look at the positive side sometimes.  I don’t know if it will work out between Nick and I, but I’ve learned so much from him.”

“And I’ve learned so much from your mother.” said Nick.  “She’s a wonderful woman.  And so full of energy!   Be inspired by her, Neil.  It’s up to you and other wonderful bloggers to spread the joy throughout the blogosphere.” 

“You mean the Holiday Concert?  The Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Holiday Concert?”

“Yes, Neil!  The Holiday Concert on your blodge” said my mother, beaming with pride.

“It would be a mitzvah!” echoed Nick.

I could hear MUSIC coming from upstairs, but it wasn’t coming from the apartment upstairs.  The music was surrounding us.  It felt spiritual. 

“That music?” I said as I looked for the source.  “It sound so familiar.  It sounds like the soundtrack from “Gunga Din” my father’s favorite movie.”

“It is your father… !” said Nick. “From the beyond! 

My mother listened carefully, as if she understood. 

“I think Artie wants to say that he loves the Holiday concert idea.   It could be a Holiday tradition, just like when he used to dress up like Santa Claus at the hospital every year!”

Suddenly, I heard my father’s voice calling out to me.

“Go ahead, Neil.” he said.  “Make the announcement about the concert already!”

“And what about Mom and Santa Claus?  What should I do” I asked my father.  “Doesn’t it make you upset?  Doesn’t it make you jealous?”

“Nah.  If Elaine passed away first, you don’t think I would be shtupping other women by now?  Besides, what’s there to be jealous of?   Have you seen the tiny size of Santa Claus’ c**k?!”

“You are too funny, Dad.  I love you.”

“Go and put up the sign-up sheet,” he instructed me.  “The Holiday Season is upon us.  Let everyone “Be of Good Cheer!”

ANNOUNCING THE FIRST ANNUAL BLOGGER Christmahanukwanzaakah HOLIDAY CONCERT — December 20, 2006

(sign-up sheet coming later)

The Miracle of Kew Garden Hills – Chapter Two

November 29, 2006 / / 28 Comments

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(from The Miracle of Kew Garden Hills, Chapter One)

“Here’s what I want, Neil.  Have you ever thought about hosting a Holiday Concert on your blog, where other bloggers spread the joy by sending in holiday music and songs they recorded themselves?”

“Host a Holiday Concert?  Me?  But I’m Jewish!”

“So am I, Neilochka…” said Nick.  “So am I…”

“Who else do you think they could get to work on Christmas Eve?” he laughed.

“And how exactly would this Blogger Holiday concert work?” I inquired.

“Ho Ho Ho.  Easy as fruitcake.  Tomorrow on your blog, you would put up a sign-up sheet.  Bloggers could volunteer to perform a holiday song for Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa.  They can sing or play an instrument, or both.   They could send the finished piece over the internet either in .wav or MP3 format, edited or unedited.  I’m sure you can help explain all this.  Even with all those Playstation 3s I’m hearing about, I’m not much of a techie.”

“And when would I hold this Christmahanukwanzaakah Concert?”

“December 20 sounds right.”

“And what about those bloggers who can’t sing or play an instrument?”

“You mean the talentless ones?  They could always send you a photo of their menorah or Christmas tree.  Just NO KITTENS.”

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Nick.  Although some call me Kris Kringle.  Or Santa Claus.”

“Santa Claus?!  You have to be kidding?”  I cried, my eyes rolling in disbelief.

The elevator door opened.  My mother was standing down the hall, waiting for me, much as she used to when I would come home from school.  I grabbed my suitcase and rushed towards her, trying to get as far away from this nut as possible.

“Hurry, Mom!  Let me in and then close the door behind us!”

“Hello, Neil,” my mother said in her usual cheerful, comforting voice.  “And hello, Nick.”

“Nick?!”

I twirled around like a dreidel and saw Nick following right behind me.

“My Sweet Elaine.” Nick purred, as he took my mother in his arms.  They kissed, passionately.

“MOM?!  What the…!!!”

My mother took my hand, sensing my concern.

“Neil, I was going to tell you later about Santa… uh, Nick.. but… but…”

Nick took my mother’s other hand.

“Your mother and I are friends… ” he said.

“Very good friends…” added my mother.

It suddenly became real to me.   This was Santa Claus.  And Santa Claus was a horny older guy leering at my mother’s figure!

“Mom?”  I gasped.  “Are you doing it with Santa Claus?!!”

(TO BE CONTINUED)

The Miracle of Kew Garden Hills

November 28, 2006 / / 44 Comments

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“Would you mind switching with me?” asked the well-dressed gentleman sitting directly behind me.  I had just boarded the plane at LAX.  “They mistakenly put my wife next to you.” he continued, smiling at the elegant woman to my right.  “Of course,” I said, always eager to help a married couple so clearly in love.  We switched seats, and I sat behind the gentleman.  Within five minutes of taking off, the man leaned his seat all the way back, blocking most of the space needed for my long legs.

“Some thanks” I mumbled to myself.

I bought these tickets at the last moment, so I had no choice but to switch planes at Dulles.  Once we got to Washington, there was a delay and we had to circle the airport for fifteen minutes.  I was getting nervous about missing my connection. 

As we started our descent, a flight attendant made an announcement on the loudspeaker, “There is one passenger who needs to connect to a flight to JFK.  Could you please raise your hand?”

I meekly put up my hand.  The flight attendant pointed me out and the rest of the plane looked in my direction.

“When we arrive at the gate,” she continued, “would everyone be kind enough to stay in their seats and let this passenger exit the plane first?”

“How nice.” I thought.

The plane landed.  The moment the seat belt sign went off, everyone completely ignored the previous announcement and stood to get their luggage from the overhead bins.  I was trapped in my seat.

The flight attendant spoke into her microphone again, this time with a bit more emphasis, “Could everyone please return to their seats and let the passenger who needs to make his flight to JFK deplane first?”
 
The grouchy passengers grumbled as I made my way down the center aisle.  I weaved my way past the obstacle course of opened bins, luggage in the aisle, and dirty looks, I heard a wife complain to her husband, “Why didn’t he take a STRAIGHT-THROUGH flight like everyone else rather than make us all wait?!”  It was apparent that the other passengers really didn’t give a damn whether or not I made my flight.  Not only that, they wished me DEAD for making them wait ten seconds.

Now I have several wonderful blogging friends in the Washington D.C. area, so I’m not going to make any generalizations about the residents of our nation’s capital. 

And to be honest, my arrival in New York was just as unfriendly.

Once at JFK, I wheeled my suitcase to the taxi stand.  There was a long line of cabs waiting to pick up tourists for the $45 trip to Manhattan.  Some unlucky cabbie got stuck with me — a local fare staying in Queens.

For most of my trip home, I had to endure this cabbie’s dramatic monologue, which consisted of “F***k, F***k, F***k, I waited for twenty f**king minutes for this s**t!” said over and over.

I finally made it home and overtipped the cabbie out of guilt.  He zoomed off without a thank you. 

I stood in front of my familiar old apartment building, but I didn’t feel any joy.  Instead, the trip had just made me depressed. 

I thought of that gentleman who shoved his seat in my face as a thank you for my switching rows with him.  I remembered the callous passengers on the flight to Dulles, so selfish they couldn’t wait a few seconds to let me off the plane.  I saw the face of the disgruntled New York cabbie, who ruined my welcome home with his obscenities and hateful stares.  Is this humanity?  Is this the best we can do?  People suck!  I could feel any empathy for the human race drain out of my body, like the sweat does when I’m in the San Fernando Valley in August.

I entered my apartment building.  The elevator was waiting and I got inright away.  As the elevator door was about to close, I heard a voice calling out, “Hold it!”  I quickly pushed the “Door Open” button, and a hefty man jumped inside the elevator.

“Thank you, kind sir,” he said.

This hefty man was a odd looking guy.  He was at least 65 years old.  He had thick white hair, a long white beard, retro Ben Franklin glasses, and extremely red cheeks, almost like sugar plums.  When he laughed, he did this hardy “Ho Ho Ho” that sounded a bit fake, but at the same time it was very endearing.  He said his name was Nick. I never saw him before, so I assumed he was a new resident in the apartment building.

“Did you just fly in?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“What did you fly on?”

“Jet Blue.”

“You name yours Jet Blue?”

“Huh?  It’s an airline.”

“Oh, yeah, I should try one of those some day.  Can’t be any worst than listening to Rudolph and Prancer argue all night about their “alternative lifestyle.””

This strange man was making me nervous. 

“Do you… uh… live here?”  I stammered.

“Oh, no.  I came here to see you, Neilochka.”

“Me?!  How do you know my name?!”

“Oh, that.  Don’t take this the wrong way, but I see you when you’re sleeping.  I see you when you’re awake.”

I started reaching for my cellphone to call 911. 

“You’ve been a very good boy this year, Neil.” he said, smiling.  “Well… except maybe for you, uh, “decorating your Christmas tree” a little too often in the morning when you wake up.  But hey, even I send out the Mrs. for some gingerbread cookies when I want some alone time.”

“Who the hell are you?”  I demanded.

He laughed his oddball “Ho Ho Ho.” 

“It sounds like you’ve had a terrible trip to New York, my friend.  And you’re beginning to doubt the good in humanity.”

“Is this elevator broken?”

I started pushing buttons at  random. 

“Life can be harsh.” he continued in his deep voice.  “Many lose hope at this time of the year.  They grow depressed as the days get darker and nights get colder.”

 “Well, thanks, but I have my Prozac for that.  I’m going to call the police now for help.  I think we’re stuck.”

“Neilochka, you are stuck, but not in the way you are thinking.   You are stuck because you are not seeing the joy of life.”

“What joy?”

“Ah… what if there was a way you could find this joy of life again and help others as well… help others see what is wonderful with the world…”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.  Maybe you should move to Los Angeles.  You can make millions giving New Age seminars.  What do you want from ME?”

“Here’s what I want, Neil.  Have you ever thought about hosting a Holiday Concert on your blog, where other bloggers spread the joy by sending in holiday music and songs they recorded themselves?”

“Host a Holiday Concert?  Me?  But I’m Jewish!”

“So am I, Neilochka…” said Nick.  “So am I.”

(TO BE CONTINUED)

The Eye of the Mah-Jongg

November 28, 2006 / / 26 Comments

There are some who dream and some who do. I am a dreamer. There are so many things I would like to do, but fear prevents me from taking the first step. But there is one member of my family who is a true champion, a real Rocky Balboa. Despite being an underdog, this person is not afraid of facing the toughest, most steely-eyed competitors in her field. Yes, for three full days, my mother has taken off from work so she can do battle in a Mah-Jongg Tournament at the Trump Taj Mahal Casino in Atlantic City. How this ancient Chinese game became popular with Jewish women of the last generation is a long story, and you can read some of the history of Mah-Jongg on Wikipedia.

Although my mother plays in her weekly “dollar” game in her apartment building, this is her first sanctioned tournament. When her friend invited her, I would never expect my mother to say yes. But something has changed in my mother since my father’s death and her trip to Spain. She has surprised us again. She joined the American Mah-Jongg Association and paid the $150 entrance fee. Now, if my mother “plays her tiles” right, she can win thousands of dollars.

The competition is three days, for at least three hours each day. There are dozens of tables set up, and after a certain amount of games, there is a rotation to different tables. The champion is the one who wins the most games. According to my mother, most of the women at the tournament are Jewish women over 55. Mah-Jongg is also popular in the Asian community, but supposedly, their tournaments have slightly different rules. I was disappointed to hear this. I was so looking forward to a Jewish-Chinese showdown.

My mother promised to call me up several times a day, so I could “live blog” about the big tournament. For some reason, ESPN isn’t covering it yet (although the Discovery Channel is doing some taping tomorrow for some documentary). Is Celebrity Mah-Jongg the next big thing?

Day 1 Highlights —

My mother and her friend, Shirley, took the early morning bus to Atlantic City from Penn Station. My mother said most of the bus was filled with “lowlifes and gamblers” who travel to Atlantic City for the day. During the trip, my mother and Shirley talked about whatever the usually talk about, when they noticed “some gambler in a pea-coat” moving away from them. My mother said “a guy who smelled of cheap liquor” also moved to the back of the bus. After my mother asked what was going on, a third gambler explained that the “regulars” usually sleep on the morning bus and their “loud yakking” was keeping them up. My mother apologized to the drunks and gamblers, and everyone went back to sleep.

My mother made it to casino. She described the Taj Mahal as “large and unfriendly, but they gave us a free buffet, so I guess it is OK.”

As for the first day of the tournament, my mother played at tables 39, 40, 41, and 42 — and didn’t win any games today. Shirley won one game. My mother said that the women played too fast for her, so she felt rushed. I think my mother is being intimidated by those tough-as-nails Jewish women from Long Island, like a NBA rookie in a room of Kobe Bryants.

Tonight, my mother was going to the buffet with Shirley and some of the other women. As my mother’s “coach,” I strongly rejected this idea. I suggested that she stay in her room and watch videotapes of today’s games, so she can strategize for tomorrow. My mother just laughed at me. Would Rocky Balboa do that to his coach’s face?

Are there any athletes out there who can offer my mother some proven techniques so she can better focus tomorrow on WINNING IT ALL?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Who is Really the Sexiest Man Alive?

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