Let’s imagine I’m walking down the block and I find a wallet on the ground.  I open it up.  Inside, I see a driver’s license with an address.  The wallet also contains $5000 dollars. 

What am I going to do? 

I’m going to contact this person and return the wallet, with the money still inside.  I’m not even going to think about keeping the money for myself. 

I know this is the right thing to do.  But why?  Cause my mother taught me to do this?  What does she know?!  She used to serve me margarine with all that trans-fat rather than butter?

This is an example of the type of sh*t you think about when you go to therapy too much and you start becoming f*cked up.  

Here’s are my current thoughts on this important “wallet” matter.  If I was religious, I wouldn’t keep the money because I would be afraid of sinning.  God would see me taking the money, shaking his head in disappointment.  I might even get karma kicking me in the ass.

But I don’t believe in any of that.  If I took the money, NO ONE would know, NOTHING BAD WOULD HAPPEN TO ME, and I would have 5000 bucks to live it up in Paris for four days, drinking champagne with lanky French fashion models.

Of course, the reason I don’t take the money is that if I did, I would feel like a SCHMUCK. This feeling is not based on any scientific fact.  It is based on some religious system of morality, of right and wrong.  And a morality without any real consequences. 

You only live once.  You need to grab what you can in life.  So, who’s the bigger schmuck?  The guy who gives the money back and gets nothing in return?  Or the guy who keeps the money, goes to Paris, has a naked French model dance for him in his hotel room, writes a terrific blog post about his experience, and then wins a Pulitzer Prize for his novel “Paris on 5000 Dollars.”

Two years ago on Citizen of the Month:  Neilochka Sez:  Boycott the Fashion Industry

(typical mommyblogger)

“God couldn’t be everywhere, so he created mothers” 
- Jewish proverb

They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.

But people were pissed at losing paradise.

So they paved the parking lot and planted paradise.

But people now had no place to park at paradise.

So they raised taxes, spent 6 billion dollars, and built a light-rail system to paradise.

But now any shmuck could get in, and the place was swarming with trailer-trash who took the light-rail in from the boonies, ruining the appeal of paradise.

So they privatized paradise and made it into a gated community.

And they build underground parking for the residents.

First a post about sadness, now sleep.  Can he get any more boring?

Hold on a minute.  I think we should write more about sleep.  Think about it.  We sleep for 1/3 of our lives.  If we live to a hundred years of age, that means we slept for thirty-three years (ok, thirty-three and a third).  The woman at Bagel Stop in Redondo Beach is thirty-three years old.  I know that because I recently heard her tell her friend, “Woo-hoo, I’m thirty-three today!  Are you coming to the Cheesecake Factory tonight with Joey for the party?”  On that same day as her birthday, somewhere else in Los Angeles, an elderly man turned a hundred years old.  He had slept through the bagel woman’s entire life.

We like to tell stories about action, not sleep.  We climb mountains, we kill whales, we buy video games, we love.  We write about sex.  But sex is small potatoes compared to sleep.  Even if we had sex every single night for our entire lives, which in my experience lasts about… uh, eight minutes a pop, that means that if we live to a hundred, we have only spent 8 minutes x 356 days x 100 years having sex, which equals…  well, just take my word for it… it is less than the time we sleep.   I’m just too sleepy to do the equation.

Yes, I’m sleepy.  Exhausted.  I can’t wait to go to sleep. 

Should I be embarrassed to tell you, my dear reader, that I want to go to sleep?  It does feel a little funny.  It’s an area that we usually keep off-screen, like Meryl Streep sitting on a toilet in a movie.

I’d like to take sleep out of the closet for one day. 

Years ago, poets compared sleep to death, and maybe that has scared us from talking about it.  Sleep is the absence of action.  It looks like we are dead to the world.  A lot of people actually DO die in their sleep.  People have nightmares.  Children want the lights on.  Sleep can be creepy.

But it’s time to take the reaper out of the sleeper! 

I see sleep as food for the brain.  If the day sucked, there’s always tomorrow.  Sleep refreshes you.  If it was a good day, a good night’s sleep is a reward for your accomplishment. 

Sleep is your friend.  I don’t usually remember my dreams, but I’m sure they are good ones.  I’m sure there are a lot of hot women in my dreams every night.  I know this for sure — in my dreams, the sex always lasts for longer than eight minutes.

Good night.  Sweet dreams.

On Sunday night, I was feeling sad.  I was thinking about my marriage situation, why I was taking so long to move out, whether I should get a roommate, if I should go to New York for a few weeks, how that would affect my writing, and other issues that I would rather not have bouncing about in my head.  These nagging questions took time and energy from important things, like keeping up with your blogs, or poking people on Facebook.

Don’t worry, Mom.  I wasn’t depressed, just sad.   

So, what does a blogger do when he’s feeling sad?   He writes a blog post. 

I wrote a blog post about… feeling sad.  When it was done, I read it over, and it just seemed pointless.  What was I  expressing? 

I… am… feeling… sad… period.    Bleh. 

There wasn’t much artistic merit here.  I didn’t describe the sadness in any poetic manner,  like saying my sadness was like a black cloud hovering over Redondo Beach or compare my life to the crumbling facade of an ancient pyramid in the Egyptian desert.  I’m not that melodramatic.  Life goes on.  My sadness was more a pedestrian sadness… a blah sadness.  The type a sadness where a friend might call you on the phone and say, “Hey, let’s go to see that new movie where Jessica Alba walks around in a bikini,” and I might answer, “Eh.”

So, I wrote the sadness post.  It was done, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to publish it.  I noticed that a blogger friend was on Yahoo IM.  I contacted her.

“Could you do me a favor?” I asked. “I wrote this post about being sad, but I haven’t published it yet.  Could you read it and tell me if you think it is something I should publish?”

“Sure,” she said.

I sent the post over and waited for her response.  After a few minutes of me nervously pulling the hairs out of my arm –

“It’s good.  You should publish it.”

“Isn’t it… about nothing?”

“Well, you’re sad.  That’s what it is about.”

The moment she said this, I suddenly felt very different… calmer.  I felt relieved, as if my stress had drifted off.  What had happened?

Someone had read my post about being sad.  Someone knew I was feeling sad on this Sunday in April.

Oddly, I didn’t have the need to publish it anymore.  She knew I was sad.  It was enough.  It wasn’t important to have readers from the four corners of the world reading my post.  I wasn’t trying to promote my blog.  I just wanted to to tell someone that I was feeling sad.  And now I did.  Mission accomplished.   I said thanks to the blogger, and that was it.  I deleted the post and wrote another post where I have sex with various women in my old bedroom in New York.  Did I think this new post was a bit stupid and perverse?  You bet.  But it made me laugh, and I wasn’t sad anymore. 

Bloggers always talk about how many “comments” we get, as if getting 300 strangers giving you feedback is the ultimate validation.   Sure, it is amazingly cool and satisfying.  Yesterday, I just wanted to connect… to say that I was feeling sad.   And one reader was all that I needed to make me feel better.

Dear Meg, Allison, and Bill Jr.,

Wasn’t that an amazing day?  I can’t stop thinking about it.  There were millions of people lined up Fifth Avenue, cheering so loud that it was deafening, like a rock concert.  And then the ticker-tape fell from the sky, like multi-colored snowflakes, littering the city streets. 

And it was all for ME!

You were all so proud.  I saw in your eyes.  Me — Bill Addison, your husband, your father — the first man about to make a solo trip to Jupiter!

I remember that day so vividly.  Don’t you?  I can’t believe that it was thirty eight years ago. 

Anway, not much new here.  The trip to Jupiter is still in progress.  It gets lonely at times, but then again, it’s only another twenty-seven years before I reach Jupiter, and then — who knows what I’ll find?!  Woo-hoo, party!!

I know these emails don’t reach you, but know I’m thinking of you!  I hope you’re all enjoying life.  Is Gramps still around?  I’m always looking at the family photo — the one we took at the Ticker-Tape Parade.  Whenever I sit down with one of my NASA food packets, I imagine you guys here with me, chowing down. 

I’ll never forget that Parade.

Love,

Bill (Dad)

Note: This is not a page from anything I’m working on.  This is a page from the film classic “Chinatown.”   But imagine something just as well-written and influential.  Only it is about getting laid.   And there is one crazy car chase in downtown Los Angeles.  Wait, I think there is car chase in downtown Los Angeles in Chinatown, too!  Woo-hoo!  Oscar time.

Can you think of anything more self-absorbed than showing people your haircut?   Can you think of an easier blog post to write?  Can you think of a surer way to get Whoorl to comment on this blog? Can you think of a weirder hair salon than one where after the haircut is finished, the stylist unexpectedly massages your shoulder for five minutes with one of those electric gizmos from Sharper Image, scaring the shit out of you (it’s one of their “gimmicks” so they can charge ten bucks more than Supercuts)?  Is there anything more satisfying to a man as watching a nice-smelling woman with really nice breasts washing your hair?  Is there any doubt that I left a 35% tip?  Was it stupid to have spent the whole cut talking about my “wife” and how she hated my messy hair?  Will I ever get laid again?  When am I moving out of this house and getting my life in gear?  Will I ever be done outlining this screenplay?  Should I go to New York for Passover?  Is Obama really experienced enough to be President?  Will there ever be peace in the Middle East?

The before shot (bohemain, but shaggy)  This cut says that I’m irresponsible and poor, but wild in bed.

The after shot (boring, but clean-cut).  Now I am an accountant.  Which is ironic, since I haven’t even touched this year’s taxes.  I was going for a sarcastic, David Sedaris-look, but not sure I got it.  My mouth just looks crooked.

Sophia got a haircut too.   Her haircut is better.  But she spent more on it.  We are looking into the bathroom mirror, standing in front of our toilet.  We have a pretty cool toilet seat in this bathroom, with seashells embedded in the glass and drawings of fish.  The toilet seat makes you think of the beach when you are sitting there.  I asked Sophia if I could take a photo of it so you could see it, but she said “no.” 

Now, was that a POST — or what?!

With blogs and bloggers becoming more important in the media, it’s become common to hear about a blogger interviewed by the New York Times or chatting on the Today show.  I don’t want to sound like I have sour grapes, but my opportunities in the “real” media world have been pretty thin.   That’s why I jumped out of my chair on Friday when I received an email from the The Dr. Phil Show. 

The email began –

“My name is Emily and I work with the Senior Producer at the Dr. Phil Show here at Paramount in LA…”

Emily continued on about some post I had written in 2006 about Sophia’s parents getting ripped off at a local mattress store.   She wanted me to call, so we could discuss this post. 

Woo-hoo!  I imagined fame and fortune and everything that goes with it…

But there was one red flag.  The letter was hastily written, with several spelling errors.  Was it spam or just written by  a very busy individual.  I googled Emily and was she legit.   My success was back on track.

I took a deep breath before calling the show.   I was a little anxious… for a very good reason.  I have made fun of Dr. Phil several times on my blog, even mocking his son’s marriage to a Playboy bunny. 

Then I remembered that he is a forgiving guy. 

“Isn’t that what his show is all about?”  I said to myself.

The past is the past.  Especially, if the Dr, Phil show wanted me as a guest.  I imagined an important show about “Senior Citizen Rip-offs” and Dr. Phil calling me from the audience:

Dr. Phil:  “And now, with more ways for seniors to protect themselves against shady mattress store franchises, I’d like to bring up blogger/consumer expert, Neil “Neilochka” Kramer, who writes the hugely-successful blog, Citizen of the Month.”

The female crowd goes wild.  Many lift  banners and signs, ala American Idol, reading “Take My Bra Off, Neilochka!”

With my mind jam-packed with these vivid images, I called up Emily at her Paramount office.  She quickly answered the phone.  She was waiting for my call. 

For me?!   My ego rose to heights never seen before.

“Thank you, thank you for calling back!” she said, somewhat frantically.

Wow!  Was the show that desperate to have me as a guest?   She seemed almost in awe of me, as if she was on the phone with Tom Cruise, begging him to come on the show for an exclusive interview.

“How can I help you?” I asked, speaking in a deeper than usual voice, trying to hide my New York accent.

“I’m so glad I found you,” she continued.  “You see, my boss is in the hospital.  A few days ago, she asked me to buy her a new mattress for her home, so I went to Ortho-mattress, and they ended up ripping me off on the price, not promising what they said, and then charging me too much for shipping.  The mattress cost hundreds of dollars more than she allocated and now I don’t know what to do.  I haven’t told her yet — and I’m afraid of getting fired.  So, I googled mattress rip-offs in Los Angeles and found your blog, and I ‘m hoping that you can give me some advice!”

Advice on mattress rip-offs?!  So you won’t get fired?  This is what the email was all about?!   You mean, Dr. Phil didn’t want me ON the show?!

I had this tight feeling in my stomach.  I remember the first time I felt it.   During grad school, I went out with this cute girl, thinking she wanted to take off my clothes, but all she wanted was to “pick my brain” to learn how she and her boyfriend could find a agent for some sci-fi screenplay they wrote together about a war with some crazed robots.

Luckily, Emily was quite nice, despite her reason for calling me.  We talked for fifteen minutes.  Well, mostly she talked.  She just moved to a new apartment and she couldn’t get fired because she has all these debts, and it wasn’t fair that she got ripped off by the mattress store, and now she has to face the producer, and she is very very nervous…etc.  We chatted like old friends, which was odd considering that she just found my blog on a Google search.  But maybe Dr. Phil only hires very friendly staff members.

I told Emily that mattress stores are the last refuge of sleazy salesmen.  For instance, when you buy a car nowadays, you usually know how much the sticker price is from looking it up on the internet.  Sealy and Serta intentionally name the same mattresses different names depending on the store, so it is difficult for the consumer to do a price check.  I advised Emily to call the Better Business Bureau, the store’s corporate office, and lastly, to contest the charges with her credit card. 

After I hung up the phone, it occurred to me that I actually WAS helpful.  Google DID bring her to the right person to speak to about mattresses.  The internet worked.

Dr. Phil, I’m ready for my close-up!

From the archives:  An even earlier mattress store story.

During the coronation of a new Pope, it is traditional for a monk to hold up a burning piece of flax.  After it burns, the monk says, “Pater sancte, sic transit gloria mundi,” which is translated as “Holy Father, thus passes the glory of the world.”  Catholics are supposed to remember that despite the power of the Pope, he is still a mortal man.

This is how we get the expression — “Fame is fleeting.”

Bookfraud was down on himself last week because so many novelists publish their first novel before they are 30:  Jonathan Safran Foer, Zadie Smith and Gary Shteyngart.   And he felt that the deadline had passed.

I can relate.  We all want to be acknowledged for our work.  It would especially cool to be famous.

But let’s think about this “fame” business a bit.  Is writing a book really going to give us what we want?

Jonathan Safran Foer?  Gary Shteyngart?  Seriously, I bet you that 95% of the American public think these are the names of the two main characters on “Two and a Half Men.”

What is fame anyway?.  American Idol has millions of viewers, but how many of the contestants will be remembered?  How many CDs have you bought that were released by any of the former contestants?  Quick — who won the runner up in season two?

From 1915-1922, the biggest female box office star in Hollywood was Mary Pickford.  From 1923-1926, it was Norma Talmadge.  Other than Danny from Jew Eat Yet?, do any of you know anything about these hugely popular actresses — the superstars of their day?

The #1 Blog on Technorati is Techcrunch.  Enough said.  No one will remember Techcrunch in 100 years.

In Junior High, I was forced to memorize this poem.  At the time, I was too young to understand it.  But now –

OZYMANDIAS by Percy Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Every single writer, politician, movie star, and celebrity will eventually be forgotten. 

But all is not hopeless.  There is one celebrity from today who will be remembered forever — Arnold Palmer.

Yes, Arnold Palmer, was once the greatest golf player of the day.  But like, Mary Pickford, a person can only be at the top of the game for so long.  Eventually a Tiger Woods comes along, and everyone starts to ask, “Arnold who?”

Arnold Palmer, however, was a marketing genius.  He instinctively knew the lesson of Ozymandias.   By creating a drink — the Arnold Palmer — half lemonade/half ice tea — he did what no other celebrity could do – made sure that his name would be famous forever.  Just today, I was eating lunch in Beverly Hills, when I saw a beautiful women calling her waiter over to order an “Arnold Palmer,” her lips smacking in anticipation.   Can you imagine what it must be like to have women all around the world wanting you like that? 

Arnold Palmer is the only media consultant who deserves to speak about “branding” at web conferences.  Arnold Palmer — the ultimate brand.  There’s even a drink named after him.

I was once misguided enough to think that this blog would give me fame and glory.   Every day, people would wake up, rub their eyes, turn on their computers , and come to Citizen of the Month, ready to be astounded.   I had this illusion that even if  flying robots from Mars were destroying the United States outside, my loyal readers would not flee for their lives until they finished writing a witty comment on my latest post. 

But is this loyalty a constant? 

Already, I’m noticing newer and more exciting blogs catching your eye, your attention spans dulled by years of MTV, video games, and prescription drugs. 

Luckily, I have a plan for when this blog loses its buzz.  The Neilochka —  1/3 Pomegranate Juice, 1/3 Cranberry Juice, and 1/3 Seltzer.

Please, start ordering it NOW at your favorite watering hole.  Remember to order it by NAME.  “I’ll have a Neilochka.”

This is the only way it will catch on, insuring that my name will live in glory forever.

The Year, 2246

Bar, Moon of Saturn Outpost #23A

Beautiful Female Cyborg:  I’ll have a Neilochka, straight up!

Bartender:  Excellent choice.  Coming up!

Beautiful Female Cyborg:  I’ve been wanting a Neilochka all day.  I’ve always wondered why this delicious drink is called a Neilochka.

Bartender:  At Harvard Bartending School, they taught us that Neilochka created this drink.  He was a famous blogger about 200 years ago. 

Beautiful Female Cyborg:  He must have been an amazing person.  No one could create this wonderful drink without having been super talented.  If I lived back then, I would have definitely f**ked him.  What else do you know about him?

Bartender:  Supposedly he was very famous.  Very popular.  Did this thing called blogging.

Beautiful Female Cyborg:  Blogging?  What the hell is that?

Bartender:  I have no idea.  But, he’s certainly remembered for this drink!  I better stop talking and get back to work before I’m dooced.