I love imaginary Paris. I love the cafes, the art, the fashion, but mostly I thrive here because this is the famed city of French existentialism and moral relativism. I am comfortable here using the $5000 that I found in that imaginary wallet yesterday. Sure, I COULD have returned the wallet to the owner, but what’s going to happen to me now that I didn’t? Will God strike me down? Of course not. Not in a city where God is dead.

Imaginary Paris is at its finest in the spring. The flowers are blooming and the scent of perfume is the air. And the women? Oh, the women. I was in an imaginary tiny bakery in the 18th arrondissement just below Montmartre when I met Juliette. She had just finishing doing a fashion shoot for Paris Vogue across the street and was now enjoying a quick espresso. I immediately knew my reason for coming to Paris. I had to know this woman.

“Bonjour.” I said flirtatiously, deciding to open the conversation with a sure-shot French ice-breaker. “Excuse-moi, j’ai perdu mon numero de telephone. Est-ce que je peux emprunter le tien?” (Excuse me, I seem to have lost my phone number. Could I borrow yours?)

She smiled, wooed by my charm and wit. We chatted, at times in English, at times in French. We had some Parisian friends in common, including Elisabeth of La Coquette, Lauren of Maitress, and Tara of Paris Parfait. I made some jokes at the expensive of American culture and she laughed, her eyes twinkling. I offered her one of my Gitanes Brunes, and we enjoyed a smoke together. There was something very sexy about the way she smoked a cigarette. Like only a French woman could do.

I love imaginary Paris. Of course, there were some changes since the last time I was here. American chain stores had moved in. There was Starbucks. And Kentucky Fried Chicken. I even found a CVS Pharmacy right in Paris! I’m not a superstitious man, but I was half-expecting something bad to happen to me for using that $5000 dollars on my trip. But not in Paris. Nothing could destroy the magic of the City of Lights. In Paris, I was able to sit across from a beautiful model wearing a strapless Dior dress while dining at Le Grand Véfour, a restaurant nestled under the arches of the Palais Royal, overlooking a beautiful little park, at a romantic table once occupied by Colette and Victor Hugo and Jean Cocteau.

After dinner, I brought Juliette to my hotel room. She stood in front of me as I sat in bed. She danced for me a bit, swaying to a Carla Bruni song, then let her dress gently fall off her body. I felt a tinge of anxiety. Always neurotic and pessimistic, I figured this was the moment of bad karma. Here I would be with the most beautiful woman I’d ever met and because of my guilt over the $5000, I wouldn’t be able to get it up. But clearly this doomsday scenario didn’t occur. She looked at me and smiled. She slid next to me, purring.

“Avez-vous un préservatif?” (Do you have a condom?) she asked.

“Oui, I do.” I answered.

Luckily, before dinner, I slipped into that Parisian CVS Pharmacy and bought les condoms!

Within moments, Juliette and I were making passionate love. All I could hear was her heavy breathing and the pounding of the bed against the wall.

Or at least I thought it was the pounding of the bed against the wall.

In reality, it was the Paris police breaking down the door to my hotel room and an Interpol SWAT team smashing through the window. Apparently, when I bought the condoms at CVS Pharmacy, I used the CVS ExtraCare frequent shopper card from my wallet - but it wasn’t my card! It was the CVS card of Mr. Craig Tellerson of Studio City, CA, who had lost his wallet and $5000 cash while riding his bicycle in Redondo Beach.

“Fraud is a federal offense in France,” said the Parisian police officer.

Today, I am blogging from Devil’s Island in French Guiana, the first day of my 300 year prison sentence. On arrival, we greeted by the warden who said, “Welcome to the penal colony at Devil’s Island, whose prisoners you are, and from which there is no escape.”

While I enjoyed my date with the French model, this certainly was one expensive bill to pay. Take it from me, if you find a lost wallet, return it to the rightful owner. God is alive… and vengeful. C’est la vie!

Two years ago on Citizen of the Month: Clock and Crow

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

“What are you doing here?”  she asked.

I didn’t care if she protested.  I was getting what I came for, even if I had to take it with force.

“No one’s hugged me in a month.” I said.  “Do you know how unhealthy it is for a man not to get hugged?  I read that male babies — if they don’t get hugged after they are born — just die.”

“You were supposed to have moved out already.”

“I am moving out.  But do you really want me to die?”

“You’re not a baby who needs to be hugged.  Well… maybe you are.”

“If you don’t want to hug, I can just go back downstairs.  I know plenty of hot women who will give me a hug on Facebook.”

“OK, shut up and I’ll hug you.”

We hugged.

“But will you set up Dance Dance Revolution on the wii tomorrow?” she asked.

“Deal.”

(in retrospect, the hugging may have not been a good idea, considering the argument the next day, after neither of us could figure out how to use Dance Dance Revolution)

(typical mommyblogger)

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

First I received that nice email from the Sun-Maid raisin girl about a post from that year.  Today, I received a different type of response to a ”humorous” post I wrote in May 2006 titled “Seven Reasons to Abolish Mother’s Day.”

The comment:

You are, by far, the biggest loser that has ever lived. I challange you to a debate on the reason for mothers. Obviously, yours has failed you and you are tainted in your view of mothers. What about father’s day??? How many have bailed out on their pregnant significant others? What about that, you coward? It has not happended to me…I just think you need to view the whole picture. Let’s meet face-to-face, or are you scared?

Valerie

Valerie –

I know EXACTLY who you are!  You are the coward.  If you are so brave, why don’t YOU use your real name?  Would you like me to out you?  OK, I will — Mrs.  Elaine Kramer! 

Nice try, Mom!  Valerie, hah!  You’ll stop at nothing, won’t you?  Don’t you know I can track you with Sitemeter?!

I know I said I would call you back in five minutes today and then forgot all about it.  I’m busy.  Get used to it!  I was on Twitter.  I had no time to talk.  And I know I still haven’t sent you a mother’s day card from… last year.   But seriously, get a life –

You’re the best, Mom.   Happy Mother’s Day on Sunday! 

(uh, the card is in the mail.  I just sent it today, so you probably won’t, uh, get it in time…)

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.

And I have high cholesterol.

Is it any wonder that I haven’t blogged all week? Do you really want to read this crap?

Call me co-dependent. I need a woman at my side. Who is Adam without Eve? Without Eve, Adam would still be walking around the Garden of Eden, eating mud, and playing with himself!

“Hey, Adam, why don’t you try this delicious Apple?” said the sneaky snake.

“Uh, God said not to. I don’t want him to get mad at me and take away my wee-wee. I like raisin’ my cain.”

“What a dimwit.” said the snake to himself. “C’mon, God, you can do better. You need to go back to the drawing board and chalk this one up as the beta.”

“I think you’re correct, snake,” boomed God. “I will create the superior Wo-man! But what do I do with my first unsuccessful attempt, this creation called man.”

“I have an idea,” said the snake. “Give the Wo-man a pair of boobs so then he always has something to play with and to think about. His simple mind will be amused.”

And to commemorate this event, on Shabbos, Jews worldwide eat matzoh ball soup to remember the wisdom of God in his creation of wo-man.

Today, I am happy again. I received a very nice email from a very special, inspirational woman. She is beautiful, smart, and I have been in love with her for a very long time. She is also well-known… a major celebrity that you all know. I have had celebrities come to this blog before, like the cowboy from the Village People, but never someone so special. And, yes, she loves me too.

May I introduce you to Delia Pacheco, the woman behind the image on the Sun-Maid Raisin box since 1970!

In 2006, I wrote a post titled “I Love You, Sun-Maid Raisin Girl,” bemoaning the fact that the company was updating the image of the raisin girl in their marketing to make the image seem “hipper.” I’m glad to say that Ms. Pacheco is still on all the boxes of Sun-Maid Raisins, and I smile and wink at her every time I enjoy my favorite healthy snack. She is like my real life Eve!

Thank you for the email! Here is Ms. Pacheco’s Squidoo page with her story.   She is much more than a pretty face — she is an artist, a cancer survivor, and the founder of a Christian ministry!

Greetings to you, the lucky finder of this golden ticket, from Mr. Willy Wonka!  I shake you warmly by the hand!  Tremendous things are in store for you! Many wonderful surprises await you!  For now, I do invite you to come to my factory and be my guest for one whole day — you and all others who are lucky enough to find my Golden Tickets.  I, Willy Wonka, will conduct you around the factory myself, showing you everything that there is to see, and afterwards, when it is time to leave, you will be escorted home by a procession of large trucks.  These trucks, I can promise you, will be loaded with enough delicious eatables to last you and your entire household for many years.  If, at any time thereafter, you should run out of supplies, you have only to come back to the factory and show this Golden Ticket, and I shall be happy to refill your cupboard with whatever you want.  In this way, you will be able to keep yourself supplied with tasty morsels for the rest of your life.  But this is by no means the most exciting thing that will happen on the day of your visit.  I am preparing other surprises that are even more marvellous and more fantastic for you and for all my beloved Golden Ticket holders — mystic and marvelous surprises that will entrance, delight, intrigue, astonish, and perplex you beyond measure. In your wildest dreams you could not imagine that such things could happen to you! Just wait and see!  And now, here are your instructions: the day I have chosen for the visit is the first day in the month of February.  On this day, and on no other, you must come to the factory gates at ten o’clock sharp in the morning.  Don’t be late!  And you are allowed to bring with you either one or two members of your own family to look after you and to ensure that you don’t get into mischief.  One more thing — be certain to have this ticket with you, otherwise you will not be admitted.

(Signed) Willy Wonka

(from Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory)

Who has never hoped for that Golden Ticket that will gain him entrance to the places of his wildest dreams? 

On Saturday, I was walking along the street in Long Beach when I notice that a new candy store had opened down the block.  It was one of those upscale candy stores that was geared as much for adults as kids, with a large selection of exotic and nostalgic candies from the past.  Outside the entrance, a few adults were online waiting to get a signed headshot from some “celebrity” who was there to promote the store.   I’m pretty good at recognizing those in the public eye, but I had no idea who the celebrity was at first, even when someone told me that this was “Mike Teavee.” 

“Who?” I wondered. 

Then I saw a poster for the 1971 version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, and immediately remembered the obnoxious kid in the cowboy outfit, one of the winners of the Golden Ticket to the factory.  Sitting here was Paris Themmen, who played Mike Teavee in the film.  I stood on line.  The woman in front of me was next.  She was thrilled to meet a character from her favorite movie.

“Can you please write “To Meg, Martin, and the two girls — Mike Tevee says, “I love TV, Willy Wonka Candy, and I love YOU!”

The actor quickly scribbled the message.  It seemed as if he’d done this countless times before at other candy stores and movie conventions.

Next, It was my turn.  I had never stood in line to get a signature before… well, other than for Crazy Aunt Purl’s book signing in LA, who then promptly stopped coming to this site after I told her to sign my book “Neilochka, I’d knit you a pair of socks anytime, anywhere.”

“Hey, how ya doing?” asked Paris Themmen, the former Mike Teavee.  I’m a big fan of the original Willy Wonka, and the books of Roald Dahl, but I wasn’t really prepared for this random meeting with the former child star. He seemed like a cool guy, and seeing that I was a little down in the dumps over things with Sophia, I saw this as a pick-me-up.

“Uh, great,” I said.  “Thanks for coming here.”

“What would you like me to write for you?” he asked.

I really had no idea.

The result:

After he handed me his signed photo, some pretty girl handed me a free “Willy Wonka” brand candy bar.  Now, if I were Mike Teavee or a character in Willy Wonka, I probably would have ripped open the packaging to see if there was a Golden Ticket inside.  Unfortunately, my first destination was to read the back of the wrapper for the nutritional information, where I discovered that this candy had more saturated fat than a pastrami sandwich at Canter’s Deli. 

“Hell, I should at least try it and see if Willy Wonka would approve.” 

I took one bite of this grainy, milk chocolate pseudo Nestle Crunch bar and I knew immediately that Willy himself would drown the producers of this monstrosity in a vat of chocolate (I later found out that the “Willy Wonka” brand is licensed to Nestle). It tossed most of the candy, which is probably the best thing for my cholesterol.

Besides, there was no Golden Ticket inside.

One day, I’ll get that Golden Ticket.  But it won’t be in a candy bar. 

Thanks for the photo, Paris (Mike Teavee)!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Lillies of the Valley

I might as well finish up a week of blogging posts, with a post about blogging –

Yesterday, I made fun of those badges that we all put on our blogs announcing some award or honor. Today, I’m thinking of offering my own badge for you to put on a post. This time I’m not joking.

The idea came to me earlier today –

In the morning I brought my car in for a smog-check. Are there smog checks all across the country, or only California? Just in case you’re not familiar with them, you bring your car into a service station once a year and some machine makes sure that your car isn’t a terror on the eco-system. The service station knows that you have to do this test, so they find a way to rip you off (it’s the labor!) If you fail, you can’t register your car. If you pass, woo-hoo! — you can drive your car at 5mph on California’s crowded freeways and pollute away. That is, after you pay a FEE for your smog test certificate.

While, I was waiting for my car, I thought about some blogs that I had recently read. I noticed a growing thread online — internet addiction. I know that I have felt jitters when I haven’t checked my email by 3PM. I’ve worried about not blogging for TWO DAYS straight. Will everyone forget my name?

The internet used to be a lot simpler — blogs and email. Now there is twitter and facebook and flickr and youtube and… who wants to actually leave the house anymore?! I can even watch “Lost” right on my computer so I don’t even need to move my butt over to the couch to watch TV. I can twitter my restaurant’s exact address to you over my phone, and then take a photo of the sandwich I’m eating to show you all.

Because of personal issues with Sophia, I’ve been using the internet as a friend lately. After all, you never get mad at me. You love me — no matter how many times I curse! It’s nice having you. I just don’t want to get addicted. Don’t worry… I’m just taking precautions. I’m pretty bored with most of the stuff online. I could easily drop every application I use (except for my blog) and not miss it all. I’m too cheap to pay for texting or data on my phone, so I never “check my messages” when I leave my home. I like that. Still, I think it is important to remind myself that I am not married to technology, or hooked in an unhealthy way.

That’s when I had this idea for an internet smog check.

I would post some beautiful badge right here on this blog — maybe next week — created by someone talented like Secret Agent Josephine. This badge would say something like “I passed the test!” You could then post this badge on one of your blog posts, impressing your friends, but only if you first pass the test: You must stay off the internet completely for twenty-four hours for ONE DAY, from midnight to midnight. No email, nothing! Only then, could you post the badge on your blog, announcing to the world that you are a healthy person not addicted to the internet. Maybe you could even write a post about how hard or easy it was to not go online, inspiring us all to interact with real people.

If by 2009, a blogger has not yet posted her badge on a post, it would be a clear cry for help. If someone is unable to stay off the internet for just ONE day once a year, it is time for the rest of us to get together and have an intervention and help this poor soul.

We’re always asking each other to read our posts and be part of the “community,” but sometimes, the best way to befriend a blogger is to tell him to get the f**k off the computer and go outside!

More ways to fight the addiction.

I’ve never kept a diary.  It always seemed boring to me.  And I sometimes have trouble being honest.  I’m not a liar.  Well, I am.  I don’t only lie to you.  I lie to myself.  That’s why I’m in therapy.  So, in a way, my lying to you is being very honest.  Get it?

I try to write about reality.  Most everything in this blog, including my conversations with my Penis, is rooted in reality.  I find it interesting that my favorite posts are almost never YOUR favorite posts.  You seem to love when I write in an honest, diary style.   You feel as if I connected with you because I revealed some private truth.   It’s as if personal blogging is supposed to be the private become public, and dammit - he won me over with the admission that his mother washed his mouth out with soap.  It doesn’t really matter that I spent twice as long crafting something really silly.  The comedy never wins the Oscar.

Even if I were completely fact-based about my day to day life, I’m not sure I can effectively capture “me” through the details.  What actually happened today — May 1, 2008?  Sophia got a flat tire on the freeway and I came to her rescue.  I bought a new tire for her car and had a cup of coffee in Denny’s.  I arranged to meet with a producer.  I spoke to my mother.  This is all fun stuff, but most of the REALLY interesting events occurred in my head.  I got annoyed about “blog badges” and wrote my last sarcastic post.  I went on Craig’s List and wondered about apartment hunting.  I wondered how Carly from American Idol was managing.  I made a note to write a post someday about Brian Dunkleman (remember him — the comedian who co-hosted American Idol with Ryan Seacrest in season one!). I wonder if he is still pissed or if he was able to move on to a happy life.  I worried about this headache that I’ve had for three days, and tried not to become a hypochondriac, fearing it is a tumor or something horrible.

Am I  presenting a clear picture of my personality, and does it even matter?  I had an IM conversation with someone last week who seemed to be under the impression that I was some sort of Lothario having sex chats with women in every American city.  When do I have time?!   Truthfully, online sex chats would be too difficult for me because I would feel obligated, as a writer, not to be cliched.  How many unique ways are there to say, “So, are you unbuttoning your blouse now?”

Me:  “My hand is touching you…”

Her:  “Here?”

Me:  “Yes, there… but that’s not very descriptive.  Let me go on Wikipedia and look up what it is actually called in the  English language.   Also, I already used “touching you” twice already.  There must be some other way of saying that!”

Her:  “OK, enough.  I had my orgasm.  Thanks.  Bye.”

 I would feel too much literary performance anxiety to have any fun. 

I present myself as a nice Jewish boy who’s calling his mother every day, and then the next day I’m f**king four women in my bedroom.  Who am I?   I’m not sure I really know exactly who I am, so why should you?

But let me just stick to the blog — my writing.  Would be better to focus more on the reality in my life, or continue writing whatever shit comes to my mind?  The inconsistency of this blog’s tone must be very frustrating for some readers. 

I can also go the other way — not caring about you, the reader, at all.   That could be refreshing.  That would probably be the most honest approach.   I could explore different facets of my personality.  I could write a post like I was a woman.  I’d like to imagine what it would be like to give birth.  Would that be weird for you?  I’d like to be racist or nasty and say things that I don’t really believe, but not worry about your reaction. Why do I always have to write about what I believe?  It might be more fun to write about someone else’s beliefs. 

I’d like to finish a post without having to make the ending work.