Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

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Georgia (and Bloggers) on My Mind

October 18, 2006 / / 28 Comments

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I was very upset yesterday when I got an email from Lynn at Sprigs that she was closing her blog.  

I met Lynn (Dana) online last December when I was writing some posts for Blogebrity.  Before meeting her, I interacted mostly with bloggers who were like me in writing style.   Lynn introduced me to a new group of bloggers  — those who wrote poetry and “Sunday Scribblings” and made jewelry and talked about creativity and did yoga and were into stuff that I would have made fun of a year ago.  Bloggers like Blue Poppy, Be Present, Be Here, Ink on My Fingers, and so many others I now read all the time.  

I’m not going to lie and say I don’t roll my eyes at times when some poem gets all “new agey” or emotional, but I’m not intimidated anymore by these creative writers.  These are EXACTLY the type of women that I would be afraid of talking to in my college English classes, thinking I was too lowbrow.  But I was an idiot.  There is no single TYPE of person.   And just because you’re artsy doesn’t mean you can’t have a sense of humor — even if you do spend a lot of time meditating in the nude under the night moon.  Sometimes, an artsy woman can even surprise you (like finding out one participates in roller derby). 

Lynn helped me “class up” my blog up.  I wrote a few bad poems.  Without her, I would be writing about my penis in every post.  Instead, I’m now writing weepy, unfunny posts like this which are only going to get me a lower rating with Bloglaughs. 

Thanks a lot, Lynn!   Keep in touch.

Over lunch today, I told a friend of mine about being upset over Lynn and her blog. 

“Over some blogger?” he asked.  “What’s the big deal?  You don’t even KNOW this person!”

That’s true.  I don’t really know most of you. 

But that didn’t stop someone as cool as Jody from Lindbergh’s Crossing from sending me some Fall leaves. 

No, I don’t mean photos of Fall leaves.  I mean real live GEORGIA FALL LEAVES in the mail!

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(a little Georgia Fall in Los Angeles)

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Second Base With Sophia

Strong, Silent Type

October 17, 2006 / / 48 Comments

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Cover Your Mouth wrote this comment on my last post after I worried that my post was being taken too seriously:

Listen Neil, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t give a shit about your financial stability or whether or not you’re “getting what you deserve from your marriage.” I come to this site everyday because your posts make me laugh. As long as you’ve got the 6 bucks a month it takes to keep a blog going and your relationship with Sophia continues to provide humorous post material, then I’m happy. I hope my callousness has lifted your spirits.

Why did I actually enjoy this comment?  Why am I actually more comfortable with a comment like this than a caring one?

Men usually write comments like that.   I usually write comments like that. 

MY father was not a strong man physically.  I never saw him get into a fight.  He wore Woody Allen type glasses, but you couldn’t pay him to actually watch a Woody Allen movie.  He loved movies about men.  Real men.  John Wayne.  Clint Eastwood in his spaghetti westerns.  James Bond.  Men who never complained, but always got things accomplished.  In reality, he was nothing like these characters at all, but I think he felt like he was the man in charge and the moral compass of everyone.  He never complained about his health or let anyone pick up a bill.  That’s what Gary Cooper would have done.  He would go bonkers to learn that when I had dinner with Sarah last week — SHE picked up the check.   Now that’s a shonda.  (Yiddish: disgrace)

Sophia’s step-father, Vartan, is an elderly man.   He walks with a cane.  He has trouble lifting one of his arms.  He never lets his wife carry the grocery bag.   Even I need to fight with him to do something for him.   It would hurt his pride to be seen by others as needing anything.

Every day I watch All My Children, along with Sophia, and countless other viewers.  Every man on that show is like a rock, always there to rescue Erica or Kendall or Babe from some traumatic event or emotional breakdown.  The man’s main role in life seems to be “a rock” for their woman.

I don’t consider myself a stereotypical male.   I love Broadway musicals.  I’m more than happy to let Sophia use all the tools in the house.  I do not touch a hammer or a nail.  I’ve never opened the hood of my car without the presence of the guy from AAA.  But during the last two posts, I heard my male ego scolding me: 

Neil’s Male Ego:  “Why are you setting yourself up on your blog for people to care?  And women, especially.  You don’t want anyone to worry about you.  That’s unmanly.  A man doesn’t take advice.  A man manages on his own.  A man takes care of his own marriage.  His own career.  He doesn’t ask for help or show any concern.   Does Clint Eastwood ask for help?”

Neil:  “You got a point there.  Like a quarterback.  He can’t have any doubt.  Win one for the Gipper!”

Neil’s Male Ego:  That’s right.  Just laugh away everything.  You spend way too much time with the girls.  Stop reading those knitting blogs and those poetry blogs.  Join a fantasy football league.  You need more male readers.  They write the comments you are comfortable with — the sarcastic, uncaring ones, you know — like the ones you write.   Write less about Sophia and more about your “dinner date” with Sarah of “The Delicious Life.”  So, why exactly is her life so delicious?” 

Neil’s Penis jumps up in protest.

Neil’s Penis:  “F**k your male ego, Neilochka.  Don’t listen to him.  You just keep on doing what you’re doing.  Anything that gets their panties off.”

Neil:  “But, Penis, I thought women like the strong, silent, manly type.”

Neil’s Male Ego:  “You see.  You’re doing it again.  You’re setting yourself up for female bloggers to say, “Oh, Neil, that’s not true!  We love sensitive men like you.  We are modern women.  We don’t like those boring manly types. We feel bad for you…”

Neil’s Penis:  “Good, Neilochka!  Let them say that.  Maybe one of them will finally f**k you!”

Neil:  “That’s not why I’m blogging, Penis.  I just don’t want readers to lose their respect for me.  I don’t want to appear needy!”

Neil’s Male Ego:  “That’s right, Neil.  Be a man.  Be strong.  Remember the Alamo!”

Neil’s Penis:  “Your male ego is so old school it ain’t even funny.  He’s never going to get you f**king again.  Listen to me!  Be a puppy dog if it will work!  Women like vulnerable.”

Neil’s Male Ego:  “Shut your mouth, Penis. No woman wants a man who makes LESS than she does…”

Neil’s Penis:  “Bite me!  He’s an “artist.”  Let her pay the bills while he does the shagging…”

Neil:  “Help!  Someone help!”

Arthur Kramer, Neil’s father, comes down from heaven.

Neil:  “Dad?!”

Arthur Kramer:  “What is it, Neil?  I’m in the middle of watching “The Guns of Navarone” on DVD.”

Neil:  “I’m having an internal conflict over being a man.  I need you… as my father… and as my main male role model.  Can you help me?”

Arthur Kramer:  “Well, I’ll tell you one important thing.”

Neil:  “Please do, Dad.”

Arthur Kramer:   “And I want you to forever remember these words of wisdom that are coming from the afterlife itself –”

Neil:  “Yes…”

Arthur Kramer:  “No man lets a cute food blogger pay her own restaurant bill!  And pay for you too?  What a shonda!”
 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Heaven or Hell

The Russian Market

October 17, 2006 / / 43 Comments

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I feel a little guilty bringing up some marital issues yesterday with Sophia, but I guess it is not a “true blog” unless you get in trouble with a family member over something. The truth is, none of us are perfect, and in most things, I couldn’t ask for a more supportive woman for a wife or a friend. I haven’t been the best of husbands financially, and Sophia has always stood by me in whatever I do (or haven’t done).

Sophia has been especially encouraging in my writing. A few days ago, I called Sophia and told her that it might be time to start writing something creative BESIDES my blog — something where I can actually make some money.

“That’s great,” she said. “I was waiting for you to say that. What are you going to write?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Why don’t you call your agent and see what’s going on?”

“Are you kidding? I haven’t spoken to him in two years. He probably thinks I moved to Tibet and became a monk or moved to Encino and became an accountant.”

“Eh, he wasn’t good for you anyway. What about that meeting you once had with that young literary agent at CAA [Creative Artists Agency]?”

“That was over a year ago. And we never even talked about the script. All he talked about was HIM. About how he was a big shot with “Young Executives for the Environment” or something like that, and how we have to save the oceans from pollution.”

“Well, put him on your contact list anyway.”

“OK, I’ll sit down on Sunday and start thinking of some idea…”

“Oh, well, before you do that… I volunteered you to drive my mother and her friend Maya to the Russian market on Santa Monica Boulevard.”

This wasn’t too bad of a request. I like going to the Russian market in the Russian-part of West Hollywood. I like seeing all the cans of exotic foods and the different types of cheeses. Fruits and vegetables are usually half the price of the regular supermarket, although they frequently look like the “rejects.”

Neither Fanya (Sophia’s mother) or Maya can speak much English, so it is always an adventure going out with them alone. My Russian vocabulary consists of “hello,” “goodbye,” “thank you,” and “this is tasty,” but the women get such a kick out of hearing me pronounce these incorrectly, that it is very easy to make them laugh.

The trip from their apartment building to the market usually takes ten minutes, but Sunday was different. Melrose Avenue was blocked off because of the annual AIDS walk. It took me forty-five minutes to get to our destination. Maya, a flamboyant woman, was sitting next to me in the passenger seat, chewing my ear off in Russian. I have a feeling she was once a real beauty back in Moscow, because she loves attention. She always dresses in flashy, zebra-striped outfits that are a size too small for her body. Even though it was a beautiful day on Sunday, she wore a small mink stole to protect her from the non-existent “Fall breeze.”

We finally made it to the Odessa Market. Fanya bought meats, cheeses, and vegetables. Maya bought vodka and a carton of Marlboros.

On the way home, I tried to take a shortcut, which was a terrible idea, and we got trapped in the middle of the AIDS walk. A police officer was blocking traffic, allowing the walkers to pass by. We were stuck there for what seemed like ten minutes, and I had a helluva time trying to explain to Maya what a AIDS march is all about.

The walkers were segmented into groups, each being from a different sponsoring company, and the first walker of each group carried a little sign signifying what company they worked for, much like they do with the national flags in the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics.

As we waited in the car — I saw the sign of CAA talent agency pass in front of me, and a huge contingent of employees following behind. I’m not sure — maybe it is because Maya looked so flamboyant — but it seemed as if every member of this group was looking directly at us as they passed by.

One walker even looked familiar.

Yes, it was that agent that I met with — the crazy one into environmentalist causes! The one I was just talking about with Sophia a few days earlier! The one who I was thinking of contacting and jumpstarting my career!

I smiled at him, but the look he returned was not a friendly one. It was more of a glare… almost of disgust.  Uh-oh.  Suddenly I realized why — I was there in Sophia’s gas-guzzling SUV rather than participating in the AIDS walk, while sitting next to a woman wearing a piece of FUR around her neck and holding a carton of CIGARETTES on her lap?

Why, why, why DIDN’T I take the Prius instead?!

When I got home, I crossed CAA off my contact list.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: The Information Superhighway of Broken Dreams

I Don’t Understand Women

October 15, 2006 / / 84 Comments

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(Three Women by Fernand Leger)

Thank you for all the nice things you said about my dancing debut on Citizen of the Month. I was frankly surprised by the positive reaction, especially from female bloggers. In fact, I’d like to talk about this response by the women… just with the men.

Privately.

Women — would you be kind enough to shut off you monitors for a few minutes so I can talk to the men alone. Thanks.

Men — did you see that response to me dancing? The babes were practically throwing themselves at my feet! Who knew that putting on an old suit has that effect? But isn’t it a little ironic that women are doing this at the EXACT moment when I’m making a romantic gesture to my wife? Where were they a month and a half ago? Why didn’t they do this when I was so horny I was writing pornographic children’s stories? Do you remember when Sophia first left town, I actually asked female bloggers to ease my pain by sending me photos of themselves topless.

Do you know how many tits I got to see? NONE!

Here I was back then — alone, and no one even swung their bra in the air for my amusement. But I do a little dance step FOR SOPHIA, and all of a sudden they’re throwing me their panties? Are they crazy? Or do women just like to torture us?

I don’t understand women. Do you?

Female bloggers — you can turn on your monitors now!

Back to the post —

Thank you again, ladies. Here’s a story I think you’ll enjoy. There’s food in the story, and I know you women LOOOOVE to eat.

One of my favorite local bloggers is Sarah from The Delicious Life and Slashfood. She’s one of the best food bloggers out there. I’ve been bugging her for weeks to let me come along and see her in action. On Thursday, she relented. She invited me to join her in checking out Mao’s Kitchen in Venice. We decided that I would pick her up and we’d drive together to the restaurant.

Although this wasn’t a date in a romantic sense, I was still having some pre-“date” jitters. After all, I was picking up a cute woman at her apartment and going to dinner with her, and I haven’t gone on ANY type of date since…. well, since… Sophia.

You know that cliched romantic comedy movie scene where a woman puts on five different outfits before she goes on her date?

On Thursday, that woman was me.

I changed shirts three times, then stared in the mirror at the awfulness of my hair. As much as I tried to brush it, it seemed as if the ghost of Donald Trump’s hair had decided to move in. I used some of Sophia’s mousse, and since I never use this gooey junk, it just made my hair look like a helmet. I ended up taking a second shower just to shampoo it out.

I decided to take Sophia’s SUV, thinking it was the most comfortable ride. I jumped in and was about to drive off, when I noticed that the windows were filthy. This was not acceptable for me to pick up some glamorous food blogger in a muddy car.

I stepped out of the car and decided to do a quick washing with the garden hose. I’m sure my face registered pleasure as the grime and dirt slid off the car, that is until I noticed that the passenger window was half open and I was spraying water from the hose INTO the car!

(DO NOT TELL SOPHIA ABOUT THIS)

Four towels and a quick drying later, I was off to my “date.”

Once Sarah and I met, we clicked instantly. We fought our way through traffic to make it to Mao’s Kitchen, buying a bottle of incredibly cheap wine on the way (it was BYOB). While Sarah liked the atmosphere of the restaurant, I thought it was pretentious. There was a “Mao’s Communist China” theme to the menu and all the dishes were creatively named after something from the period. For instance, the egg rolls were called “peasant rolls.” There was a “Gang of Four” fried rice. Call me overly-sensitive, but should you make Disneyland kitsch out of a regime where so many people were murdered?

But what do I know? The place was packed with trendy people. Maybe I should open up a trendy shish-kabob stand and sell young Hollywood types the Saddam Hussein Pita Sandwich.

As Sarah and I got drunk (actually, it was mostly me), the mood changed between the two of us. We stopped our joking and our gossiping about blogging. Our conversation became intimate, as it frequently does when a man and woman sit across from each other in a dimly-lit restaurant. Yes, you guessed it. I blabbed on and on about Sophia and she talked about her ex-boyfriend.

When I told Sarah that my wedding anniversary was the next day, she couldn’t understand why I didn’t go to New York to spend it together with Sophia. I explained that I asked Sophia SEVERAL TIMES if she wanted me to come to New York, and each time she said, “No.” Sophia told me that she was working long hours and didn’t want to get distracted by me, so I listened to her.

Sarah didn’t buy the story. She insisted that I SHOULD have gone anyway, despite what Sophia said.

“That makes no sense.” I said.

“To a woman it does,” she answered.

The next morning, I told Sophia about my conversation with Sarah.

“Sarah was right,” said Sophia. “You should have come to New York. We could have gone out for our anniversary.”

“But you told me explicitly NOT to come!” I cried. “I would think you would be pissed off at me if I just showed up.”

“I would be pissed off. Very pissed,” she answered. “But if I opened my door and you were there, holding flowers, I would be very impressed that you were there, despite what I said.”

“That makes no sense.” I said.

“To a woman it does,” Sophia answered.

Women — would you be kind enough to shut off you monitors for a second time so I can speak freely with the men? Thanks so much for you patience.

Men — WTF?! Do you hear that craziness?

I don’t understand women. Do you?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: My Class Action Suit

I Still Remember the Wedding Dance

October 13, 2006 / / 102 Comments

If you’ve ever watched “Dancing with the Stars,” you’ve seen the couples rehearse their routines in a second floor dance studio somewhere in Los Angeles. The first time Sophia and I saw the TV show, we instantly recognized the dance studio as the one on 3rd St. near the Beverly Center. Back when it was fashionable to do swing dancing, we had studied swing dancing at this dance studio. We enjoyed it so much we ended up hiring a swing band for our wedding.

The Andrew Sisters’ “Bei Mir Bist Du Schon” was the song we used for our first dance at the wedding.

Sophia doesn’t think I’m sentimental enough to remember our first dance, but I do. And to prove it to her, I will now redo my wedding dance in honor of our anniversary. I hope Sophia will do her dance steps in New York.

The Trees of California

October 13, 2006 / / 45 Comments

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Even the trees of California
Are beginning to change color
Knowing you will be home
Soon

Happy Anniversary, Sophia!

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(thanks, Jerry, for the tree photo!)

The Trees Are Indian Princes

October 11, 2006 / / 62 Comments

Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down in hosts;
The trees are Indian princes,
But soon they’ll turn to ghosts.

— William Allingham (1824-1889), Irish poet

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Green how I want you green.
Green wind. Green branches.

— Federico García Lorca (1898-1936), Spanish poet, playwright

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her swung breasts
Sway like full-blown yellow
Gloire de Dijon roses.

— D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930), British poet and author

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the great orange bed where we lie
like two frozen paintings in a field of poppies.

— Anne Sexton (1928-1974), American poet and writer

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Swinging
clusters of red, the hedges are full of them,
red-currant red, a graceful
ornament or a merry smile.

— Denise Levertov (b. 1923), Anglo-American poet

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Thanks for bringing a little Fall to Southern California.

The photographers are:

GREEN

Pam, Austria

Sweet, Washington D.C.

Boutros, Virginia

Dagny, Berkeley

Rhea, Boston

YELLOW

Dana, Connecticut

Tara, Iowa City

Joan, Winnipeg

Caitlin, New York

ORANGE

Jessica, St. Louis

Jenny, Chicago

Alison, Kentucky

Chantel, Portland

Sarah, Pennsylvania

Elizabeth, New Hampshire

RED

Cynical Girl, New York

Elisabeth, Pennsylvania

Pearl, Ottawa

Marianne, Massachusetts

Pee Like a Man!

October 10, 2006 / / 84 Comments

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(Manneken Pis in Brussels)

Men, let’s be honest.  Women online are selfish. We  care about their issues — body image, fashion, mommyblogging, etc., but when it comes to OUR issues, they are strangely silent. How else do you explain the lack of outcry on this story from Norway?

The head of The Democrats Party, a splinter group of former Progress Party hardliners, Vidar Kleppe, is outraged that boys at Dvergsnes School in Kristiansand have to sit and pee.

Kleppe accuses the school of fiddling with God’s work, and wants the matter discussed at the executive committee level of the local council, newspaper Dagbladet reports.

“When boys are not allowed to pee in the natural way, the way boys have done for generations, it is meddling with God’s work,” Kleppe told the newspaper.

… [School Principal Anne Lise] Gjul told NRK (Norwegian Broadcasting) that the young boys are simply not good enough at aiming, and the point was to have a pleasant toilet that could be used by both boys and girls.

Can you imagine the humiliation that boys in Norway are going through? Why do we send troops to Iraq and not Norway? Is there anything more central to being a man than the joy of standing there, taking aim, and peeing? What boy wants to sit like a girl?

No wonder why Europeans are turning into a bunch of wusses.

I believe this is another step towards world domination by feminists. Does it surprise you that it it is School Principal ANNE Lise Gjul who is destroying the manliness of Norwegian men, a country once so famous for it’s virile men that a song was written about them — Norwegian Wood?

Pretty soon, I fear that men will be put into metal cages and President Hillary Clinton will sign a bill enabling women to marry their vibrators.

“Do you, Susan, take this pink vibrator…”

Things are especially bad in Europe.   Did you notice the statue of Manniken Pis (little boy peeing) that I showed at the top of the post?   Apparently, he isn’t good enough being Brussel’s long-time city’s trademark.

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In 1987 this statue of a girl urinating (Jeanneke Pis) was erected on the east side of the Impasse de la Fidélité / Getrouwheidsgang (Faith Alley), a narrow dead-end street some 100 metres long leading northwards off the restaurant-packed Rue des Bouchers / Beenhouwersstraat (Butchers’ Street). Now parents tell little boys that they have a “choice” over which method is more appropriate, but usually add that only “Americans” and “bad men” pee standing up and “peace-lovers” sit like a woman.”

I say, enough is enough.  It isn’t our fault that we can’t aim very well.

Years ago, when men were really men, we used to shoot animals with bows and arrows and guns. We achieved our aiming skills through ACTION. Now “feminists” have decided that “hunting” and “killing” are bad for society. Is it any wonder we piss on the seat? Mothers teach their daughters about having their first period.  Fathers DO NOT teach their sons how to pee.

Men, I say it is time to turn back the clock against the feminizing of society. I want you, whether you or at home or at work, to STAND UP — Yes, right NOW, stand up, proudly walk to the bathroom, pull down your zipper with a sense of purpose, and take a PISS! Take that PISS standing up! Feel the cool Fall air. Listen to the sound the water, so much like the mighty Colorado River. Feel a bond with men throughout history — Abraham Lincoln, Alexander the Great, Douglas MacArthur — all men who urinated standing up. Yes, even Adam peed standing up in the Garden of Eden. Shout it out loud, “I am a man and I take a PISS standing up!”

You’re a man, for god sakes. Pee like one!

Two Nerds on the Phone

October 9, 2006 / / 92 Comments

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What happens to our dreams? Where do they go? Time flies so quickly. Just this morning, I was thinking how little I’ve achieved in my life plan. Do you realize that I am an adult male, and I have yet to sleep with a black woman, an Asian woman, a Latina woman, an Australian woman, a Native American woman, a woman that was taller than me, a blond woman, a woman that wore high heels to bed, or a woman from 48 of the 50 U.S. States? It’s sad really, especially since I am always promoting “diversity.”

While I’m in a rut, sitting at home, still waiting for Sophia’s return, others are breaking new ground. Last night, I got a phone call from my childhood friend, Dennis. I was surprised to hear from him because it was 2AM in New York.

“You’ll never believe what just happened.” he said.

“What?” I asked, nervously, worried that the call was about somewhat sick or dead.

“I went to a retirement party at work, and I was carpooling with this woman from work. This younger woman. Debbie. She’s about 25. Very attractive. We get along really well. She’s very funny and we’re always joking with each other…”

“So… ?”

“So, on the way, we decide to stop…”

Oh my god, I’m thinking to myself. Dennis is married with two children. He is the most straight-as-an-arrow guy I’ve ever known. He actually used to LIKE going to synagogue on Saturday. He wouldn’t…

“I did it! I finally did it!” Dennis yelled. “She took out this little pipe and I smoked pot — for the first time!”

I sighed. At the same time, I knew this was a big moment for him.

“So, what did you think?

“I only had a few puffs, but I felt that floating sensation.”

“Did you like it?”

“It was OK. I’m probably not going to do it too often. Not that I’m afraid of getting hooked on the hard stuff, like heroin. It’s just, when do I have the time to smoke pot? I have work, I need to pick up the kids…”

“How much does it cost now?”

“I have no idea. I’m sure with inflation it’s gone up quite a bit since we were kids.”

“I suppose so. Well, congratulations, though. You are now officially a pothead.”

“Thanks. The Grateful Dead rule!”

After I hung up, I was jealous of him. He seemed so energized by this new experience. I bet you he got home and jumped into bed with his wife, a new fire in his eyes.

While Dennis might think I’m a marijuana expert, the truth is I haven’t smoked a joint since I was 14 years old, and I only smoked it a handful of times. And like President Clinton, I didn’t inhale much, afraid that the ashes would burn my throat or I would immediately get cancer. The first time I smoked pot was at a Yes concert at the Nassau Coliseum in Long Island. The few other times were in my friend Philip’s basement, as we listened to Pink Floyd over and over again. Just hearing “Dark Side of the Moon” now makes me dizzy.

So, as a true goody-two-shoed Citizen of the Month, I’m just one notch less nerdy than Dennis — and now with his pot-smoking, he’s leaving me behind. I’m officially the geekiest person I know!

I only felt worse when I saw this meme going around — different variations here, here, here, here, and here.

Fill in what you’ve “done”:

(x) Smoked a joint
( ) Done cocaine
(X) Been in love
( ) Had a threesome
(x) Been dumped
( ) Shoplifted
(X) Had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back
( ) Been arrested
( ) Made out with a stranger
(X) Gone on a blind date
() Had a crush on a teacher
(X) Been to Europe
(X) Been to Canada
(x) Been to Mexico
(x) Seen someone die
() Thrown up in a bar
(X) Met a celebrity
(X) Met someone from the internet in person
( ) Been moshing at a concert
( ) Gone backstage at a concert
() Lain outside in the grass and watched cloud shapes go by
() Made a snow angel
(X) Flown a kite
( ) Cheated while playing a game
(X) Been lonely
( ) Fallen asleep at work
() Fallen asleep at school
(x) Used a fake ID
() Been kicked out of a bar
(X) Felt an earthquake
( ) Touched a snake
() Slept beneath the stars
( ) Been robbed
(X) Won a contest
(X) Run a red light
( ) Been suspended from school
(X) Had braces
(X) Felt like an outcast
(X) Eaten a whole pint of ice cream in one night
(X) Had deja vu
() Totaled a car
( ) Stolen a car
(x) Hated the way you look
( ) Witnessed a crime
() Been to a strip club
(X) Been to the opposite side of the world
(X) Swum in the ocean
() Felt like dying
() Cried yourself to sleep
() Sung karaoke
() Paid for a meal with only coins
(X) Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t
() Made prank phone calls
(X) Caught a snowflake on your tongue
( ) Been kissed under the mistletoe
() Had a bonfire on the beach
(x) Crashed a party
( ) Seen a tornado
(X) Had a wish come true
( ) Gone bungee jumping
() Screamed in public
( ) Told a complete stranger you loved them
( ) Had a one night stand
( ) Kissed a mirror
( ) Had a dream that you married someone
( ) Gotten your fingers stuck together with super glue
( ) Been a cheerleader
(X) Sat on a roof top
( ) Talked on the phone for more than 6 hours straight
(X) Stayed up all night
(X) Not taken a shower for three days
( ) Made contact with a ghost while playing a Ouija board
( ) Had more than 30 pairs of shoes at a time
( ) Gone streaking
(X) Been skinny dipping
( ) Been pushed into a pool/lake with all your clothes on
( ) Had sex in a public or semi-public place
( ) Been kissed by a complete stranger
( ) Broken a bone
( ) Caught a butterfly
() Mooned/flashed someone
() Had someone moon/flash you
( ) Cheated on a test
(X) Forgotten someone’s name
(X) Slept naked

Sure I’ve done some cool stuff, but look at EVERYTHING I haven’t done!

What kind of life am I leading? I’ve never shoplifted. I’ve never made out with a stranger. I’ve never made a “snow angel.” I bet you even Dennis has made a snow angel.

Depressed, I took a walk today, hoping to meet up with some new experience, something I’ve never done before that will re-energize my life! I walked and walked, down the same old familiar streets, the same faces smiling at me, the same shadeless palm trees overhead. I decided to enter a 7-Eleven and buy the Los Angeles Times, hoping I might read about some spiffy event in town that I have never experienced before.

And then I saw it. My New Experience. Something I could check off on my “list of Life.” Something I know for certain that Dennis has never done.

After my experience, I ran home and called Dennis at work.

“Hey, Dennis! Guess what? I did it!”

“You did what?” he asked.

“I tried Beef Jerky for… like for the very first time!”

“Beef Jerky? Yuch. Where?”

“At 7-Eleven?”

“You mean the stuff they keep on the counter? Is that stuff kosher?”

“I doubt it, but I’m not kosher anyway.”

“Yuch. Was it any good?”

“It was awful. Like a cross between a cold rubbery hot dog and a gummy bear. I took one bite and threw out the rest.”

“You are a brave man.”

“Yes, I am.”

Although he didn’t say it out loud, I knew he was impressed.

Dennis can keep his pot smoking. Today, October 9th, I tried beef jerky, something I’ve seen in convenience stores all my life, but never had the nerve to try.

And frankly, it is probably more dangerous to put into your body than pot.

I’m Neilochka, a Rebel with a Beef Jerky Cause.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Welcome to the Hotel California

Promotional Awareness

October 8, 2006 / / 54 Comments

Pinklid.jpg 

After I made my blog “pink” for Breast Awareness Month, I received a surprising email from someone who is against the whole concept of “awareness” month.  It seems as if there are quite a few people out there who think corporations are using their support of breast cancer for their own profit and brand awareness.  Are yogurt brands really interested in breast cancer or are they just marketing to women?  

From the blog  I Blame the Patriarchy:

But where’s the activism? The ostensible focus of all this pseudo-philanthropic pink jockeying is a kind of nebulous breast cancer ‘awareness’, rather than any serious effort at prevention or investigation into what actually causes breast cancer in the first place. Furthermore, once all this ‘awareness’ has produced, via mammography outreach programs or self-exam propaganda (both masquerading as ‘prevention’), a positive diagnosis, there’s not any great push to secure treatment for underserved women.

I don’t agree with this type of reasoning.   A lot of money is going to good use and all this corporate sponsorship is surely helping.  Or is it?

Politicians support virtually unopposable ‘bipartisan’ breast cancer funding initiatives as directed by behemoths like the massively influential and reactionary Komen Foundation and come out smelling like a rose. The rank and file, conditioned by now to believe that there’s no problem shopping can’t solve, are invited to feel virtuous and altruistic whenever they buy a Yoplait yogurt or a pink KitchenAid mixer.

My question for these naysayers:  would it be better if it were the other way — and there was no corporate sponsorship?  And isn’t this exactly what progressives have been asking for — for corporations to be more responsive to their consumers?  You think supermarkets (and Walmart) are completely altruistic because they have started to carry organic foods?  Or Starbucks carrying coffee from certain countries?  Of course they hope to make profits while doing some “good.”

But, I thank you, e-mailer, for opening my eyes to an interesting topic.

This mix of promotion and politics was on my mind last night when I thought about going to the movies by myself.   With Sophia in New York for October, I thought about finding the movie with the most sex in it.

I read about Shortbus, a film by the director of “Hedwig and the Angry Inch,” which is supposed filled with actors having real-life sex.  Perfect!

Now, once upon a time, moviegoers used to go to pornographic movies because they were horny or wanted to have some fun.  Things are different today.  You buy Yoplait yogurt because they support breast cancer awareness.  And you go to a porno movie because it is anti-Bush.  I read this before heading out the door —

A US film featuring actors performing real sex is a “call to arms” against President George W. Bush, the director told journalists at the Cannes film festival.

“Shortbus,” an explicit, largely improvised arthouse flick is a direct provocation, director John Cameron Mitchell admitted.

“It’s a little bit of a cri de coeur to us, a little bit of a call to arms” against the prevailing conservatism, he told a media conference, adding that his country was living in “the era of Bush, which is about clamping down, being scared.”

The 43-year-old, whose previous work was “Hedwig and the Angry Inch,” about a transsexual rock singer, said the film was his own small act of defiance against Bush.

“If you can’t do elections you might as well do erections,” he said.

Oh, I see.   So, now the Whole Foods crowd, doesn’t have to feel guilty about going to see a SEX movie.  They are going to see an anti-Bush film.  In fact, by going to see to this movie — it’s a vote against the administration.

Yogurt as a breast cancer awareness tool.   Dislike of George Bush as a reason to see people f***ing.

I decided against going to the movies.  I went to a local juice bar wearing my pink breast cancer bracelet, met a cute girl, and asked her if she wanted to come back to my place to “protest the policies of the current administration.”

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Survivor: Santa Fe

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