This post is more for me than you. I’m still playing around with that idea of my “brand.”   Here is a list of seventeen descriptions of Neilochka, this blog’s writer.  Could you do me a favor and pick the three that best describes this person?   I am curious if your perception matches my own sense of reality.   Don’t be shy about saying that I seem like a neurotic mess, if I come across that way.  You can always email me rather than commenting if that makes you more comfortable.

1)    Super-confident storyteller who knows exactly how to manipulate you with words.

2)     Anti-social grouch who finds most of you hypocritical and annoying.

3)     Idealistic sentimentalist who cries at blog posts and loves to unite others in “holiday concerts.”

4)     Gay friendly dude who likes old musicals and talking to platonic girlfriends about their shoes.

5)     Bullshitting male who enjoys nothing better than chatting with “the guys” in a coffee shop.

6)     Polite momma’s boy who is “respectful” of women.

7)     Flirt who dreams of f**king most of the women he has met on their kitchen tables.

8 )    Artsy bohemian who walks around wearing a fedora.

9)     Bookish, pretentious twit.

10)    Imaginative, head-in-the-clouds guy who can never find his own keys or his own underwear.

11)    Screwed-up neurotic, afraid of his own shadow.

12)    Star Trek-loving dork

13)    Ambitious take-no-prisoners go-getter.

14)    Social-climber, constantly on the look-out for the “cooler” people.

15)    Class clown.

16)    Confused and aimless.

17)    Loving ever minute of life!

November 22, 2008

November 26, 2008

and, of course, on December 23, 2008…

…it’s time for…

I’m always finding other writers online who say that they started their blog to “help others.” I wish I had a more noble reason for being here with you today. It would be cool to inspire you or show you how to knit something. I know this is a personal blog, and being inspirational is not a requirement. It is supposed to be about me. But what impression am I giving of myself? Is it an accurate one? On Halloween, I wrote a story about some woman giving me oral sex, and then I rewarded her by decapitating her with a Samurai sword. What does that say about me? Does it say anything about my character? Would Obama write this story? In real life, would I even be able to lift up a heavy Samurai sword?

On Twitter yesterday, I made mention that we should give George Bush some credit for picking Powell and Rice as two of his closest advisers. Because of his actions, America became familiar with African-Americans in powerful positions, which paved the way for an African-American as President. Someone asked why I was even bringing this up? Why was I being an apologist for the evil Bush administration? The answer is… I don’t know. To annoy you? To win Sophia’s favor? I don’t even like George Bush. It was just something that popped into my head, so I wrote it down.

Sometimes, I wonder if I should have more control over what I write. I don’t approach my blog like I am writing an op-ed piece for the New York Times. I find myself contradicting myself all the time, sometimes even trying out ideas that I’m not even sure I believe. I sometimes forget that there are other people out there reading this. I would hate to have to think too much about you — the reader. Where else am I going to try out stuff?

This is all just a long introduction to show you this painting by Leon Kroll (American Painter, 1884-1974).

I accidentally stumbled upon this yesterday on some art website, and I thought it was really sexy, so I decided to share it with you. There’s no real point in sharing it with you, other than what the hell. For some reason, I find most pornography unsexy. What’s the fun of watching some guy with a bigger dick than yours having sex? It is like watching someone else eating an ice cream sundae and then saying to yourself, “Woo-hoo, that was good, even though I’m never going to get a chance to eat that” as the other guy finishes the last spoonful.

But look carefully at this painting — all three women are thinking about ME, and ME alone. They SOOOOO want me! And that is sexy.

Does this post communicate anything about me? Again, not really. But what the hell.

I am so glad that Obama won this historic election, but I couldn’t sleep all night. I was worried about what this election would mean to my future. I’m not talking about more taxes. What truly bothered me is that as a cynical person, all this hope and good will is bad for my writing. An African-American President. Respect from the world. People caring about each other. People are so optimistic on Twitter, I don’t even recognize the application anymore. Who are these people? Weren’t they just a bunch of assholes a few days ago? Have they all changed overnight? I even read some blogger who said that from now on, she will only read bloggers who “are positive about the world.” I don’t want to lose readers, as newly good-hearted people run away from my dislike of humanity.

But then a ghost appeared to me. It was the late Nipsy Russell, the first black performer to be a regular panelist on a weekly game show. I loved Nipsy Russell, especially the poems he would recite on the old Match Game, gems like these:

If you ever go out with a schoolteacher,
You’re in for a sensational night;
She’ll make you do it over and over again
Until you do it right.

The opposite of ‘pro’ is ‘con’
This fact is clearly seen
But if ‘progress’ means move forward
What does ‘Congress’ mean?

Nipsy Russell was a big influence on my love of words. Seriously. He was great.

“Neilochka, Neilochka. Cheer up.” the ghost of Nipsy Russell said to me. “I wrote this little poem for you –

Today we all are proud
A good man’s won for you
But life would really suck
Without some sarcasm too”

“So, what are you saying?” I asked, confused and startled by his sudden appearance in my bedroom.

“I’m saying that America — the world — still needs you.” said the comedian. “God put each of us on this earth for a reason. Some are here to lead America as the President of the United States. Some to write poems on game shows. And others are here to kvetch and look at the negative side of things. America needs all of us.”

“But what is there to feel negative about? I don’t really believe that President Obama will bring in a socialist government and destroy America — like those crazy right-wing talk show hosts do?

“Neilochka, open your eyes. There is one reason to truly be cyncial about the Obama administration. Something all Americans should be in fear of every day of their lives. Something so scary, that I almost would have suggested for you to vote for McCain instead.”

“What’s that?”

“Guess Who’s Coming to Stay at the White House… a lot!”

“Oh, no – NOT MORE OPRAH!”

It is Wednesday, November 5. The 2008 Presidential Election is over. America had decided. And with this choice, there is a new America.

What will our country look like?

Let’s take a look at how that this fateful — and historic — Wednesday morning will look to the average taxpaying citizen, ME, depending on the outcome of the election.

Wednesday Morning (if McCain wins)

8:30 AM — I buy a newspaper. “McCain Wins” screams the headline! I enter McDonald’s and order a cup of coffee and an Egg McMuffin, but without the greasy sausage. The salesgirl charges me the full price.

9:40 AM — I shop in CVS Pharmacy for deodorant and new batteries for my camera. The stern Indian salesgirl, dressed frumpishly, asks for my CVS card. I say that I forgot it at home. She says the batteries were on sale, but I’m out of luck without the card.

10:24 AM — I check my email at home. I receive a angry diatribe from a female blogger insisting that I stop sending her photos of my naked body. “You are a sick man and should be imprisoned. One more photo and I am taking you off my blogroll!”

11:01 AM — Producer from LA calls up and says that my script is as “unfunny as a Geico commercial.” Besides, Hollywood is broke, so “don’t waste your time. Stick to blogging.”

11:12 AM — Sophia calls and says her Wii is not working. What should she do?

11:23 — I am depressed and see no future.

Wednesday Morning (if Obama wins)

8:30 AM — I buy a newspaper. “Obama Wins” screams the headline! I enter McDonald’s and order a cup of coffee and an Egg McMuffin, but without the greasy sausage. The salesgirl charges me fifty cents less, saying this it is only fair, since I am not ordering the full sandwich. The new motto of McDonald’s is “Caring for Our Customers.”

9:40 AM — I shop in CVS Pharmacy for deodorant and new batteries for my camera. The sexy Indian salesgirl, showing a lot of cleavage, asks for my CVS card. I say that I forgot it at home. “No problem.” she answers. “I’ll let you use my personal card. We’re all citizens of this great neighborhood!” She also throws a a free box of condoms into my bag, winking at me about the importance of ethnic groups “getting to know each other through interpersonal dialogue.”

10:24 AM — I check my email at home. I receive a lovely poem from a female blogger thanking me for “that great photo.” She has been feeling depressed lately, and my kindness has given her hope.

11:01 AM — Producer from LA calls up and says that my script is as “funny as one of those hilarious Geico commercials.” There is so much money flying around Hollywood, now that the economy has picked up, that there is a bidding war to make this movie.

11:12 AM — Sophia calls and says it isn’t fair that she gets to be the only one using the Wii. It is important to “share the wealth.” She is sending the system to me in New York for a month, so I can get a chance to play Wii Bowling too.

11:23 AM — There is a ring at the doorbell. It is the Indian girl from CVS Pharmacy. She is smiling seductively. “It is a time for unity between diverse people!” she says, as she takes off her top, revealing her ample bosom and her dark coffee skin.

As you know, I don’t like to discuss politics on this blog. I think voting is a personal decision, and I will not even give you a HINT about my choice of candidate. I just want to give you the FACTS. I hope that you analyze them carefully. Do everything you can before you vote to educate yourself — think, discuss, read intelligent blogs like this one — and then weigh the good and bad aspects of the two alternative Wednesdays that I described. And then ask yourself — which America sounds better?

I’ve written a lot lately on the difficulties of a man and a woman becoming platonic friends. This has been a theme throughout my life. In my experience, something always gets in the way.

After I graduated from Columbia, I moved into an apartment on 110th Street and Broadway. My roommate was Miyako, a female graduate student from Tokyo, who was studying physics. We quickly became good friends. She attended her first Passover seder at my home. She taught me to eat exotic sashimi. Our apartment was beautifully decorated with Japanese tea sets, woodblock prints from the Sosaku Hanga, and an authentic 19th Century nihontō Samurai sword on the wall, a gift from her uncle in Kyoto. There was no romance between us, only deep platonic friendship.

Things changed quickly when I met my Ellie. She was an exciting and sensual young woman from Connecticut. She opened up my mind and body to new pleasures. Before Ellie, I had never experienced oral sex. Ellie was obsessed with “giving head.” She love the passion, the vulnerability, and the control. Every morning I would wake up and find her already at work, slowly going up and down, hungrily taking me between her moistened lips, always totally in charge. As she pleasured me, she would stare at me with her beautiful, but foreboding, sky blue eyes, and I would be mesmerized, under her hypnotic gaze. She always had me at full attention, and I was her slave.

Ellie’s intense passion also had a dark side. She had an irrational hatred for Miyako. She was jealous of our platonic bond. Ellie wanted me only for herself.

One night, while Miyako was studying at the library, Ellie was giving me amazing head in the kitchen. As I leaned against the refrigerator, I noticed that there was something different in Ellie’s intensity. There was hatred in her eyes.

“You must kill Miyako. You must kill Miyako tonight!”

I tried to protest, but I was powerless. As she sucked my c*ck, I grew lightheaded, and all morality evaporated from my soul. I had no choice but to relent to her every whim. I needed to obey. I would kill my friend, Miyako.

At 11PM, Miyako returned from the library, drinking a cup of coffee from the Greek diner downstairs. Ellie hid in my room. I stood in the darkness of the foyer, the samurai sword from the wall gripped in my hand. I held the handle with such pressure that my veins felt like they were going to pop.

As Miyako stepped inside, she was humming a little tune. It was a Japanese children’s song about a little bird learning to fly. This was her favorite song. It was an innocent song, like Miyako herself. Like the innocence of a platonic friendship. The song touched my moral center. Is this what sexual desire does to a man — turns him into a craven murderer? Who was I? What had happened to that once nice Jewish boy? Had too much oral sex turned me into a monster?

“I cannot do it! No, I won’t kill you, Miyako!” I screamed.

Miyako turned, startled by the sight of me with the Samurai sword in my hand. She dropped the coffee cup onto the floor, the hot liquid spilling on the cold wood floor. She let out a silent scream. Ellie raced out of my bedroom, pulling at her long hair, her eyes angry at my betrayal.

“Do it!” she insisted. “Kill her. Kill her NOW!”

I glanced at Ellie, my beautiful lover. I turned to Miyako, a dear and trusting friend.

“Kill her. Kill her. Or I will kill her myself!” said Ellie.

Ellie lunged at Miyako, her jealous rage written all on her face.

“No!” I yelled. It was my final decree. I would close the chapter on this sexual, but horrific, chapter of my young life. I lifted the Samurai sword up high. The light from the track lighting in the kitchen refracted off the metal and I could see a mirror image of my determined face in the curved blade.

With one swoop, I swung the Samurai sword, decapitating Ellie.

For several minutes, Miyako and I stood in silence. What words could ever truly capture the terror on our faces? I took a deep breathe, taking in the life force, and eventually found enough reason to tell my tale to Miyako, from beginning to end. There was no catharsis in the re-telling of the murderous plot.

Miyako, being a good friend, was not concerned with the past. She was worried about me.

“You can get arrested for this.” she noted. “We need to get rid of the body.”

We gathered up the bloody body and the decapitated head and placed them in an old Japanese trunk that Miyako used as a changing bench in her bedroom. She told me of a lake in the Catskill Mountains where we could safely dispose of the body. We would drive there immediately, during the cover of night.

As we drove up through Westchester, the two of us had an emotional conversation. In one wild night, circumstances had brought us closer than ever before. We revealed that there was more to our relationship than just platonic feelings. Miyako admitted that when she went to the library at night, it was not to study, but out of jealousy. She could not bear to hear the sounds coming from our bedroom.

“What did she do to make you so content… so full of joy?” she asked, curiously. “Do you think I could ever make you so happy?”

It was at that moment, that I heard a faint voice coming from the trunk of the car.

“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”

It was the voice of Ellie. But how? Was my mind playing tricks on me?

“You don’t hear anything, do you?” I asked Miyako. “Like a voice from inside the trunk of the car?”

“Whose voice?”

“Ellie.”

Miyako laughed. She was a scientist.

“You mean a ghost?!”

Miyako always became argumentative whenever one of our friends brought up a subject like ESP, UFOs, religion or Bigfoot. If there was no empirical evidence, she thought it was hogwash.

I giggled along with Miyako. Of course she was right. Ellie was decapitated! The trauma of the evening was affecting my judgement. I was being silly.

“So, you never answered,” Miyako asks, returning to her question. “What DID you find so attractive about Ellie?”

I heard the voice once more.

“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”

I started to sweat profusely.

I slapped myself, trying to snap out of the craziness. Could it be… that Ellie’s chopped off HEAD was talking to me from inside the trunk?

Miyako still heard nothing. She pulled over next to an embankment looking out over Lananasee Lake, the car still running.

“We can dump her down there,” she said.

I nodded, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Ellie’s hypntoic voice was ringing in my ear.

“I know this is nuts, Miyako…” I said. “But can Ellie still be alive in there?”

Miyako grew petulant.

“I believe in global warming. I believe in evolution. I believe that one day the Mets might win another World Series. I don’t not believe in talking decapitated heads. And I’ll prove it to you…”

Miyako put on the brake and stepped out car.

“N-n-No!!” I stuttered, as I ran after her.

“Stop being a baby, Neil.” she said. “You’re a man, not a scaredy cat. I was so impressed the way you killed this horrible woman. And now you’re acting like a meek little girl afraid of her shadow.”

Her words stung like a poisoned arrow. She was right. I was born a man. A man shows no fear. A man is proud. A woman respects a man who looks danger in the eye.

Miyako opened up the hatchback of her car. Ellie’s voice grew louder.

“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”

The sound was deafening, but only I could hear it. Miyako grabbed the Japanese trunk and slid open the top open.

“There. See for yourself!” said Miyako.

I prayed to God, swallowed my fear, and looked inside. My eyes bulged in horror! It was empty! All that I could hear, all that I could think about was Ellie.

“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”

The voice was so close I could feel the breath on the back of my neck. I did a quick turn just as Miyako grabbed my hand in fear. In front of us was the headless Ellie. Under her arm, she carried her bloody, decapitated head, her eyes still alive, her mouth still moving.

“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”

Ellie moved the head towards the frightened Miyako. I ran to protect Miyako, but the Ellie pushed me aside, as only a scorned headless woman could do. Suddenly, the Samurai sword appeared in Ellie’s other hand, ready to be used. She approached Miyako, who was now frozen in fear.

I lifted myself up, stumbling against the car, aware that I could never make it to Miyako I time to save her. It was then that I felt the hum of the car engine against my arm, remembering that Miyako left the car running. I reached through the open window, pulled the gear to “Reverse,” and pressed the gas pedal with my hand. The car careened backwards.

“Miyako, move away!” I screamed.

Miyako awoke from her fearful slumber and shot to the side, just as the car smashed directly into Ellie, throwing both her and her screaming head off the cliff, and into the shallow depths of the lake, the car exploding on top of her.

“Giving HEAAAAADDDDD…”

A week later, Miyako moved out as my roommate. We never spoke again. Recently, she even refused to become my friend on Facebook, just proving how difficult it is for men and women to become friends.

Ellie’s body was recovered by the Dutchess County Police Department, but her head was never found.

Can Ellie’s head still be out there?

Men… be careful out there. Women can be dangerous.

Happy Halloween.

Truth quotient: Are you an idiot?

One of the reasons I feel relatively comfortable meeting other bloggers, is that I am under the assumption — and this theory requires a leap of faith which requires that I accept the innate goodness of man — that if an individual can tie words together and make a sentence that communicates a thought, image, or sensation, it means that he has adequate control over his mental faculties, and that he is not crazy, or at least not dangerous, or at least medicated enough to be acceptable to society, but not medicated too much where he just stares at the monitor like a drooling zombie from the Dawn of the Dead.

I make this announcement, presenting it to all you, my dear colleagues on the blogosphere — fellow writers, satirists, and raconteurs — in case you ever read anything I write, and loudly say to yourself, or to whoever is nearby in your office cubicle or home kitchen, “Holy shit, this guy is f**king nuts!” (editors note: Although if you have children doing their algebra homework at the kitchen table, you probably won’t be say “f**king nuts!” but “completely nuts!” out of respect for raising your children in a manner deemed appropriate to mannered society).

Whether you say “nuts” with or without the “f**king,” my response to you, virtual friend, is the same — please, for the love of goodness and sunny days, don’t worry about me. If I am writing, and the paragraphs align and the verbs and nouns seem happy together, sidling together like two canoes floating down the river, or like two young lovers reaching in anticipation for that moment of first pleasure, be assured that things are going well enough in my life that I can successfully accomplish that achievement.

Only worry about me when I am not writing. That means

words

meaning.

Latest Filter For Good Post: The Story of Paclitaxel

Note: You notice how this post is sort of a throw-a-way post? Should I even bother to post nonsense like this? I was thinking of calling these posts “Expendable Posts” that I would publish, and then just delete in a few days. If my blog is supposedly my “calling card” for my writing, why do I want to have crap cluttering things up? But at the same time, it is kind of fun posting crap. I think something really fucked up my idea of blogging about six months ago, around the time I read Queen of Spain’s post about “The Business of Mommyblogging.” Until then, my blog was like a child’s sandbox, and I was just having fun. And then, it felt like I was Dorothy seeing the real Wizard of Oz. Most of you had “reasons” for being online — branding, money, connections, advancing your writing, corporate sponsorship. I began to feel like I was just playing with myself. That I was a still child and everyone was now an adult. The only possible “practical” reason to continue blog was related to writing, but where does this leave moronic posts like this one?

Of course, there is the community aspect of blogging? But what is my community? Some bloggers, especially the parent bloggers, frequently wrote posts addressing each other, sometimes even getting annoyed if a non-parent commented on an issue related to children.

I’m not a parent.

Should I be searching for my own unique community? And what is that community? Writers? Do I really want to become one of those who only reads “the literary blogs” and pooh pooh those who ONLY write blogs about their lives, but without the cleverness of a poet? I know plenty of people who are exactly like that.

Besides, half the time, I don’t really write anyway. I just blog funny stuff.

Humor bloggers?

Nah, not funny all the time.

Today, I’m not even writing at all. I’m putting up a video.

What do you think of the idea of “expendable posts” — ones you might publish just for the hell of it, or you just want to rant, like this, and then delete it afterwards so your “brand” doesn’t get diluted or you just don’t want the post sitting up there forever? Is that being dishonest, in your view? On the other hand, is it better to steer away from writing shitty posts like this — out of fear being seen as a lesser writer? C’mon, we all have shitty posts in us!

Maybe, twice a month, I will intentionally write a really bad post on some lame topic, just for the expression of it, and then delete it. Is that against the rules?

You don’t really have to comment here. I’m deleting this post tomorrow.

On May 15, 2008 the California Supreme Court ruled that statutes that limit marriage to a relationship between a man and a woman violated the equal protection clause of the California Constitution. It also held that individuals of the same sex have the right to marry under the California Constitution.

Proposition 8 wants to “change the California Constitution to eliminate the right of same-sex couples to marry in California.”

Even the most conservative voter should realize how radical it is to change the California Constitution. The only word I can think of to describe this proposition is… wrong.

I am voting No on Prop 8.

However, if you watch the video PSA below, you’ll notice that the filmmakers parody the Apple commercial where the hip young dude is “No on Proposition 8″ and the older guy in the tie is all for “adding a little discrimination.”

When I watch this video, I come away thinking that it is an issue of heterosexual white men wanting to limit the rights of gays and lesbians. But not is that simple in California. There is a good chance this Proposition 8 might win in California — because all communities are split on this issue. An October 17 poll indicated that 58 percent of African-American voters supported Proposition 8 versus 38 percent who opposed it. Among Latinos, 47 percent supported the proposition while 41 percent were opposed. It is time to be a little more open about this issue — that negative attitudes against gays are not the domain of white suburban church leaders alone — and that everyone needs to start fighting their prejudices against gays and lesbians, and voting No on Prop. 8.