Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

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Yenta the Matchmaker for the Day

September 27, 2006 / / 78 Comments

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In the old-country, Jewish marriages were arranged by matchmakers.  Perhaps the most famous Jewish matchmaker was Yenta.  Yenta was the name of the matchmaker in Sholom Aleichem’s stories, several of which were collected into what became the musical “Fiddler on the Roof.”   The word “yenta” has taken on negative connotations in the modern word, and it is usually used to describe a “busybody.”

I’d like to defend the good name of matchmakers.  Being a busybody was part of the job.  A matchmaker HAD to sneak around and ask a lot of questions because she was a detective — always looking for clues that would help her make the best match.   In the Jewish tradition, it is also a mitzvah (good deed) to help make a successful match.

(from Matchmaker, Matchmaker — Fiddler on the Roof) 

Hodel:
Well, somebody has to arrange the matches,
Young people can’t decide these things themselves.

Chava:
She might bring someone wonderful—-

Hodel:
Someone interesting—-

Chava:
And well off—-

Hodel:
And important—

Matchmaker, Matchmaker,
Make me a match,
Find me a find,
catch me a catch
Matchmaker, Matchmaker
Look through your book,
And make me a perfect match

I’d like to revive the spirit of Yenta the Matchmaker right here on this blog — on these special days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.   Tomorrow, Thursday, will be a special day on “Citizen of the Month.”  Tomorrow, we shall all become Yenta the Matchmakers. 

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I will be making blog matches between 10 pairs of bloggers.   These are not romantic pairings.  These are pairs of bloggers who I have never seen read each other’s material (I’ll check their blogrolls), but I think should give each other a try.  Using an ancient technique passed down from my grandmother, I will try to match bloggers by their sensibilities and interests. 

Recently I was successful in introducing Danny and Elisabeth to each other.  At first glance, they have nothing in common.  But a true matchmaker realizes that they are both brainy bloggers with a twisted sense of humor.   Now they are on each other’s blogrolls.  

This is not easy for me.  I do have a jealous streak.   I used to get upset when my “blogging friends” became friends with each other.   One day, I’ll be reading Blogger X and I’ll be surprised to see my friend Blogger Y writing a comment.  Before you know it, Blogger X and Blogger Y are taking a trip to Las Vegas together, without even sending me a postcard.

But the week before Yom Kippur is one of reflection and self-improvement.  I’m going to fight my jealousy and spread the love.   So, if I match you up with someone, give their blog a chance.  I know matchmaking is not a perfect science. 

Please join in tomorrow with some matchmaking of your own, maybe even mix and matching blogrolls.   Are you the type who is always saying, “These two bloggers really need to read EACH OTHER!”   If so, tomorrow is your chance to do a mitzvah by becoming a Yenta the Matchmaker for the day.

Update:  The matches.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  A Shanda (Yiddish for Shame)  (I really get Jewish at this time of the year, don’t I?)

 

Popeye Attacked by Anti-Spinach Mob

September 26, 2006 / / 52 Comments

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The title of this post is misleading.  I was going to write a humor piece about Popeye, but as I sat down to watch an old Popeye cartoon on YouTube, a long-repressed memory was awoken, much as the memories of childhood of Proust’s narrator in “Remembrance of Things Past” was awakened by the aroma and taste of a madeleine dipped in tea.”

As i listened to the final “boop boop” of the Popeye closing credits, I went back to my childhood, when I used to watch reruns of Popeye on a local New York TV channel.  I must have been very young at the time and I was fascinated by the triangle of Popeye, Olive Oyl and the villainous Bluto.

The plot lines in the animated cartoons tended to be simple.

A villain, usually Bluto (later renamed Brutus for a time), makes a move on Popeye’s “sweetie”, Olive Oyl. The bad guy then clobbers Popeye until Popeye eats spinach, which gives him superhuman strength.

I especially liked it when Olive Oyl melted in Popeye’s arms at the end, after he defeated Bluto.

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As an only child, I was competitive with my father for my mother’s attention.  I think Freud would have loved to analyze my childhood obsession with Popeye.

I would ask my mother to cook some frozen spinach.  After they were cooked, I would have her  put the cooked spinach into a used can of Spaghetti-Os so I could make believe that I had a can of spinach like Popeye.  I have no idea why we just didn’t use a can of spinach!   Once I had my can of spinach as my acting prop, I became Popeye — in the same way Sir Laurence Olivier became Hamlet.  My mother was Olive Oyl.  She would go into her bedroom or the kitchen and cry for help.  I would eat some spinach out of the can with a fork, flex my bicep, and rush in to save her from whatever danger she was in.

Jeez, no wonder I repressed this.  How embarrassing!

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I called up my mother tonight.

Neil: Guess what I’m going to write about in my blog tomorrow?  “Popeye and spinach!”

Mom: Really?  Be careful with spinach.  There’s all that bad bagged spinach coming out of California.  Remember to wash it first.

Neil: I’m not calling you about spinach.  Do you remember watching Popeye?

Mom: I never watched Popeye as a child.  I never liked him.   He had this one eye.  And creepy voice.  And weird body.

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Neil: But you watched him with me.  Remember?

Mom: Did we?

Mom: Mom, it was a big deal for me back then.  I would be Popeye and you would be Olive Oyl — and I would rescue you?

Mom: We did that?

Neil: Yes!  Don’t you remember you would cook frozen spinach and put it in a Spaghetti-Os can?

Mom: Wouldn’t it make more sense to just buy a can of spinach?

Neil: I was going to ask you that!  Why did we do that?

Mom: I don’t remember this at all.  Maybe you played it with your friend Robert.

Neil: I played it with YOU.

Mom: I remember playing Scrabble with you.

Neil: Oh my god!  You’ve repressed the memory — just like I did!

Mom: And well… maybe it’s better that way.

The Rosh Hashanah Challenge

September 25, 2006 / / 62 Comments

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MC: It’s The Rosh Hashanah Challenge, the game show where you decide the winner! And here’s your host, fresh off her third-failed game show, former MTV star Kennedy!

Kennedy: Thank you. Welcome to The Rosh Hashanah Challenge. You know the rules. We bring out two contestants and they each tell us about their Rosh Hashanah, and the one with the most wild, exotic story wins. And you’re the ones who vote for the winner! So, let’s meet our two contestants. He’s a blogger from Los Angeles — Neil Kramer. And she’s a Russian dialect coach from Redondo Beach who is separated from her husband but still debating her next move — Sophia Lansky! Welcome, Neil and Sophia. Now, we flipped a coin before the show and Neil gets to tell his Rosh Hashanah story first.

Neil: Well, Kennedy, at first, I didn’t have anything special to do on the Jewish holiday, so Danny invited me to go to temple with his family. It was a very nice gesture, but the really surprising twist was — listen to this — they attend a gay and lesbian synagogue! Even thought they are straight, they like the rabbi and the service. When I heard about this “gay synagogue,” I was too excited for words. What a blog post I was going to write! What funny stories!

Kennedy: Oh, wow! Talk about a wild and exotic Rosh Hashanah. How were the rabbi and cantor?

Neil: Very nice. They were both women.

Kennedy: Oooh-hooo, do I hear make-out session during the service?

Neil: Actually, they were both pretty conservative.

Kennedy: What about the choir? Were they dressed like the Village People?!

Neil: No, they were normally dressed. They had very nice voices. It was a very pretty service. One of the best I’ve attended.

Kennedy: I guess all the crazy Queer Eye for the High Holy Days activities took place in the congregation?

Neil: No, everything was pretty much the same as every other Rosh Hashanah service I’ve ever attended. If you walked in, you wouldn’t even know it was a gay and lesbian congregation. My biggest surprise was how “normal” the whole thing was.

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Stained Glass at Beth Chayim Chadashim

Kennedy: That’s the story?

Neil: Pretty much.

Kennedy: That’s the wild and exotic story about going to a gay and lesbian temple for Rosh Hashanah?

Neil: Yeah.

Kennedy: (sighing) OK, let’s now turn to the second contestant, Sophia Lansky. Tell us about your Rosh Hashanah in New York.

Sophia: I also didn’t have anything planned, but Neil told me about this temple on the Upper West Side that was supposed to have a very nice service. I was sure they didn’t have any tickets left, but I asked Neil to find me the phone number online. He ended up mistakenly gaving me the phone number of one of the TEMPLE MEMBERS rather than the temple itself. So, this is how the phone conversation went:

NY Woman: Hello?

Me: Hi, I’m visiting from Los Angeles and I’m looking for somewhere to go for Rosh Hashanah. I was wondering if I can still come to you.

NY Woman: Uh… sure. That would be fine.

Me: Great! What time do things start?

NY Woman: I would say around 6:30.

Me: O.K. Could you do me a favor and just give me your address.

NY Woman: Yes. We are on XXX 79th Street, Apartment 3D.

Me: Apartment 3D?

NY Woman: Yes. Just ring the buzzer downstairs and take the elevator up.

Me: I don’t understand. Am I calling Congregation B’Nai Jeshurun?

NY Woman: Huh? You’re calling me — Millie Schwartz! Are you asking to come over for Rosh Hashanah dinner?

Sophia: After we both laughed about the misunderstanding, Millie and her husband invited me over for Rosh Hashanah dinner anyway! So, I went to a stranger’s house for dinner. It was amazing. There were a whole bunch of musicians there, and after dinner, everyone took out their guitars and started to sing.

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Kennedy: What a terrific story! It’s just too bad that you never made it to that synagogue!

Sophia: Oh, but I did. That same day, I was working on the film and someone mentioned that one of the actors was a member of this temple and that he could help get me a ticket! What luck. So, I went over to the actor to thank him, and I took one look at him — and I instantly recognized him as the actor who played billionaire Alexander Cambias on All My Children, my favorite soap opera. So, I went to temple using a ticket given to me by a character on All My Children!

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Billionaire Alexander Cambias Sr. (aka Ronald Guttman)

Kennedy: This story get better and better!

Sophia: While at temple, I sat next to a woman who happened to be, of all things, a Spanish court interpreter! So after services, she invited me to accompany her to dinner at another person’s home! So, off we went, to a home of two young opera singers/students — after I kissed the cheek of the actor who played Alexander Cambias for helping me get a ticket to temple!

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Kennedy: Holy Moses! That story blows my mind.

Neil: Uh, gay temple over here! What could be more wild?

Kennedy: Yeah, right. Now it is up to you — the audience. The Rosh Hashanah Challenge. Which story is more exotic and wild? Neil’s story of the “gay” temple where nothing “gay” happened or Sophia’s tale of dinner at the homes of strangers and her kissing Alexander Cambias from All My Children? You decide!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Ode to the Coffee Shop

Hey, Dad

September 22, 2006 / / 78 Comments

This week is the first anniversary of my father’s passing.  When I started writing this blog, I didn’t expect my usual nonsense and sex jokes to be interrupted by a phone call asking Sophia and I to fly home to New York.  I certainly didn’t expect to blog about the experience and receive so much comfort from bloggers.  And I most definitely in a million years did not expect bloggers to help us decide what to write on my father’s stone!  Thanks.

Hey, Dad. 

Happy New Year.  Shana Tova.  

You always had a quirky sense of humor, but this takes the cake.   When we all agreed, including my blogging friends, that “Be of Good Cheer” was ideal for the stone in the cemetery it was because that was your “tagline” whenever you said goodbye to someone on the phone.   I figured you picked up that phrase from one of those old British war movies you loved to watch.  Today, I did some research on Google, and guess what?  You got the last laugh! The phrase was popularized by… Jesus!  Of all people, this is who I’m writing about on Rosh Hashana?!  Well, at least he was Jewish.

The idea of “good cheer” is derived from the Greek word tharsei, and the meaning of “cheer” is very different from what we associated today with that word.  Tharsei meant “to dare to be bold,” “to take courage,” “to replace fear with hope.”   The word tharsei is so old, it can even be seen in Homer’s Odyssey. 

The phrase is also found in the Septuagint version of the Old Testament, as when Moses is at the Red Sea: 

Two million people were trapped between the sea and the approaching Egyptian army. Escape was humanly impossible. In that moment of supreme crisis, Moses cried out to the people, “Fear not! Stand still and see the miracle of the Lord!” (Exod 14:13).

The idea of “cheering up” now had a slightly different meaning: “Take heart!”

Repeatedly through the Old Testament, God’s people were encouraged to take heart, based on who God is and what God would do. “Fear not, O Zion . . . the Lord your God is in your midst” (Zeph 3:16-17). “Take courage . . . I am with you . . . My Spirit is abiding in your midst; Do not fear!” (Hag 2:4-5).

In the New Testament, tharsei is constantly on the lips of Jesus. 

A helpless paralytic heard Jesus say, “Take courage, My son, your sins are forgiven” (Matt 9:2). A hopeless woman was told by Jesus, “Daughter, take courage; your faith has made you well” (Matt 9:22). Blind Bartimaeus lived in utter despair until Jesus came to Jericho and they summoned the blind man, saying, “Take heart, arise! He is calling for you” (Mark 10: 49).

This is all fascinating stuff to me because it now makes more sense why you said “Be of Good Cheer.”  I always thought it was odd that you used that phrase, mostly because I interpreted “good cheer” as meaning “go have a good time” or “live it up by drinking a lot of eggnog at the Christmas office party”   You were always a conservative man and you were not the type to tell anyone to “live it up.”  You were too much of worrywart for that.  You worried a lot about everyone — mostly everyone except yourself. 

Your “Be of Good Cheer” was not about fun, but about courage.   As a practical man, you were telling people to be strong, despite the challenges they might meet.  That sounds EXACTLY like something you would say!  Be strong.  Like Penelope warding off suitors as she waits for Odysseus’ return.  Or the Israelites trusting Moses to walk into the Red Sea.  Or a sick beggar trusting that Jesus will make him healthy.

In all these examples, those in need got “cheer” — “courage” — by knowing that something bigger than them was on their side, looking over their shoulder.  You were saying something similar.  You weren’t saying “Don’t Worry, Be Happy,” and putting all the responsibliity on them.  You were saying, “Don’t Worry.  If you ever need me, I’ll be there.”  

And you were always there, for so many people. 

I can certainly get courage knowing that you are looking over me and Mom.  I will certainly have “good cheer” knowing you will always be around.

Even so, we miss you.

You can read all posts about my father here.

I Used to Be Lonely, Now I’m Not

September 20, 2006 / / 85 Comments

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(from bedjump.com)

I was down.  I was depressed.  I was lonely.  At night I would sit alone, listening to the wind.  Or watch an informercial for a product I didn’t need — with the TV sound off. 

We’ve all been there.  Some of us are there right now. 

Thank you kind bloggers who “shared their bed” with me to ease my loneliness. 

My father never spoke to me about marriage or sex, but he would always say “it is good to have someone to hold around in bed.”  (he really said that — ask Sophia!)

This week is Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year.  My New Year’s wish is that during this year, everyone I’ve met online who doesn’t have somebody should meet someone worthwhile to “hold around in bed.”

THEY SHARED THEIR BED WITH ME:

CAITLIN’S BED

Caitlin’s bed is in New York.

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Caitlin (of Caitlinator) has gone back to school, does not eat at McDonald’s, and loves her pet chicken.

 

LAURIE’S BED

Laurie’s bed is in Los Angeles. 

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Laurie (of Crazy Aunt Purl) is a popular knitting blogger who has inspired me to start making my own socks.  She does not need an alarm clock to wake up in morning because her bright orange bedspread does that for her.

 

DAGNY’S BED

Dagny’s bed is in Berkeley, California.

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Dagny (of Dagny’s Empire) is out dancing the night away so often that her cat spends more time on the bed than she does.

 

DAISEY MAE’S BED

Daisy Mae’s bed is in Indianapolis, Indiana. 

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Daisy Mae (of Daisy Mae was here…) is well-known for making beautiful blog templates.  She is such a talented graphic artist, that she has made a cut-out of herself to fool her children while she blogs at Starbucks.

 

FELICITY’S BED

Felicity’s bed is in New York.  

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Felicity, of Zelos, is not a shy woman.  In fact, she’s thinking of taking up pole dancing.  For some reason, her bed intimidates me.

 

HEATHER’S BED

Heather’s bed is in Orange County, CA.

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Heather works and takes care of her kids, and doesn’t have time to blog.   Her bed reflects her “do it all” lifestyle — a little messy, but very homey.

 

LAURA’S BED

Laura’s bed is in Los Angeles. 

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Laura is in the process of starting up her first blog.   I’m guessing there were many sleepless nights in this bedroom with the crib right next to the bed!

 

LIZARDEK’S BED

Lizardek’s bed is in Sweden.

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Lizardek (of Lizardek’s Obiter Dictum) works, has a family, and sings in a choir.   Look at the exquisite European craftsmanship of her bed!  (and no, she didn’t get it at IKEA).

 

ROBERTA’S BED

Roberta’s bed is in New Jersey. 

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Roberta (of Roberta’s Voice) is the only blogger I know who is both Jewish and Wiccan.   She’s also pretty funny.  I’m still trying to decide if her bedspread looks more Jewish or Wiccan.

 

SWEET’S BED

Sweet’s bed is in Washington D.C. 

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Sweet (of Sour N Sweet) co-blogs with Sour, but her bed is all hers.    I love the relaxed, lived-in look, and the retro wood-grain wall, which reminds me of the time I slept in the basement of Rachel Kinder’s parent’s home in Merrick, Long Island.

 

TARA’S BED

Tara’s bed is in Iowa City, Iowa.

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Tara (of Scruffylooking) is a mother and a lover of literature, and she lives in a city with a rich literary life.  Her bed has an Asian, Zen-like feel to it, a perfect place to meditate or read Dicken’s Great Expectations.

 

MR. FABULOUS’S BED

Mr. Fabulous’s bed is in Gainesville, Florida.

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Mr. Fabulous (of Pointless Drivel) is a brave man.  Not only was he recently fired because of his blog, he is the only man MAN enough to send me a photo of his bed.  Why do I have the feeling that Mr. Fabulous — and not Mrs. Fabulous — bought that dark blue comforter?

 

VISCOUNTESS OF FUNK’S BED

The Viscountess of Funk’s bed is in Seattle.

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The Viscountess (of Postcards From Somewhere) is a mother, a lawyer, and a writer of great imagination.  I also think her bed is large enough to fit my entire blogroll.

 

DEEZEE’S BED

Deezee’s bed is in Venice, California.

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Deezee (of Confessional Highway) is the coolest Mom ever.  She just took her son to see his first rock concert — the Red Hot Chili Peppers!  As you can see, Deezee is not afraid of showing herself in her bed, although she is clearly upstaged by her sleeping dog.

 

LATER ADDITIONS:

TWO ROADS’S BED

Two Roads’s bed is in Atlanta, Georgia.

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Two Roads (of Lindbergh’s Crossing) is from Atlanta and has some “Scarlett O’hara” in her, which means she frankly gives a damn about having a very nice bed  (I know it’s Rhett’s line, but I liked the way it sounded).

 

MARI’S BED

Mari’s bed is in the United Kingdom.

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Maria (of Argentine Babe)  is Argentine-born artist in the UK, who gets her best artistic ideas in bed while working with her assistant (shown).

 

CHARMING’S BED

Charming’s bed is in a Southern city.

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Charming (of Charming but Single) is a Southerner who likes both her drinks and her boys tall, but her bed nice and soft.

 

The Blogosphere is Like Orange County, 1969

September 19, 2006 / / 84 Comments

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I had been reading Sarcastic Fringehead for a few weeks. We even emailed each other with funny stories, but something was “off” about my visualization of her. There were details that didn’t fit. Finally, I asked her, “Are you a black woman?”

Yes, she was. She is. Was I wrong to ask her that?

One of the pleasures of blogging is that we can be invisible to each other and just focus on each others’ words and thoughts. We judge someone more on a clever line than how one looks or what “group” someone belongs to. Even we do include photos of ourselves, we don’t reveal many of the cultural or regional quirks that might separate us from each other.

While this lack of context can unite us, it can also make the blogosphere bland. I have no idea of the ethnicity, religion, or sexual orientation of most of my fellow bloggers. Should it matter? Not really, but sometimes I wonder if my online life is LESS diverse than my real life. I thought of doing a demographic study, just for fun, but I was worried that someone would be upset. Even the hip New York city bloggers seem to live less in the real New York City, than in an all-white Orange County, circa 1969. I hope the blogosphere isn’t turning out to be like my high school cafeteria was, with everyone hanging out by ethnic and racial group.

I was actually excited to learn that Sarcastic Fringehead was black. Can someone please introduce me to a black mommyblogger?! I know it may not be fashionable to say so, but I like differences between people. I though it was funny when Rhea wrote in a comment that she would share my bed, even though she was a lesbian. I had no idea! How cool. Rather than separating us, I feel “closer” to her now, knowing this intimate fact (don’t worry, Rhea — I won’t get too close and ruin your lesbian credentials).

I love accents. I love Sophia’s accent. I love to hear the Southern accent of Laurie from Crazy Aunt Purl when she makes a video. After all, we all can’t speak proper Amercian English like we do in New Yawk.

Although I don’t consider myself a “Jewish blogger,” I haven’t been shy about babbling about Jewish stuff. In fact I do it so often, that Leesa from Montana is now fluent in Yiddish.

I think I’m even changing my mind about this year’s Survivor Maybe the race gimmick is a clever idea. By acknowledging our “differences,” maybe we can better see that at the core, there aren’t MAJOR differences — everyone who plays Survivor is as dumb and selfish as the next guy.

Last Friday, there was a special 20/20 on racial stereotypes. What struck me as the most interesting part of the program wasn’t that racism still exists, but how far we go to make believe there aren’t ANY differences at all.

In my post about colleges, I noticed that a few women are still upset about ex-Harvard Dean Lawrence Summers and his speech about women and science. Although he was quoted as saying “women thinkers were inferior to men thinkers,” he never actually said that. From Wikipedia:

In January 2005, Summers suggested at an economic conference that one reason there are fewer women than men in science and engineering professorships might be innate sex differences in the distribution of intelligence. The suggestion was that variation in intelligence (in particular with regard to science and math ability) is higher in males, resulting in a higher number of highly intelligent males, resulting in more men at the very high levels of “intrinsic aptitude” that scholarly jobs required. An attendee made his remarks public, and a firestorm followed in the national news media and on Harvard’s campus, which incorrectly implied that Summers argued that men are somewhat more intelligent than women on average.

20/20 brought up this issue, as well as the controversial subject of black athleticism. It was amusing to see coaches coming up with complicated reasons for why blacks predominate in sports — none of them having to do with genetics. Is it really racist to suggest that African bodies may be built differently? Or is it wrong to suggest that men might have a stronger instinct for spacial learning? How can anyone live with a woman for one day and say there aren’t fundamental differences?

Of course we are all individuals. I cry at movies more than Sophia, blowing that myth. I just think a total color blind attitude towards life — and the blogosphere — doesn’t really create the diverse society we are hoping for. Why shouldn’t there be differences among groups? Ignoring it doesn’t promote tolerance. If there are no cultural differences between us, than there is really nothing to tolerate. I’m all for making my part of the Blogosphere like Queens, NY rather than Newport Beach, CA.

So, yes, I will share a lesbian’s bed. As long as she doesn’t snore.

Update:  Interesting case study about a website’s diversity.  (via Petrona and Cognitive Daily) 

 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Anonymous Sources

I’m Not Horney!

September 18, 2006 / / 60 Comments

Sophia saw my last two posts about the beds and thought the idea was pretty dumb.  She also thinks it is not going to “kill me” if I wait a few more weeks for her to come back to Los Angeles.

“Besides, we’re separated.  Just because you moved back in for now doesn’t mean we’re together again.  So, you know what that means.  We can sleep in the same bed, but I’m not sure it is a good idea…”

“But…”

A few minutes ago, Sophia emailed me a photo from New York as a gag, taken with her cameraphone on the street.  I think it is supposed to be funny because I tried to make her feel guilty by telling her I was “horny.”

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(close-up)

However, I don’t think Sophia knows how accurate she was with this photo.  As a graduate of a fancy college, I actually KNOW who Karen Horney is — one of the most famous psychotherapists, known for her theory of neurosis.

Horney’s theory is perhaps the best theory of neurosis we have. First, she offered a different way of viewing neurosis. She saw it as much more continuous with normal life than previous theorists. Specifically, she saw neurosis as an attempt to make life bearable, as a way of “interpersonal control and coping.” This is, of course, what we all strive to do on a day-to-day basis, only most of us seem to be doing alright, while the neurotic seems to be sinking fast.

I haven’t spoke to Sophia yet.  Do you think she is saying I am too horny OR that I am too neurotic, aka Horney?  Or both?

Here is a list of Horney’s “neurotic needs.”  It is scary how many of them I have. 

What about you?

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Karen Horney

The neurotic needs are as follows:

1. The neurotic need for affection and approval, the indiscriminate need to please others and be liked by them.

2. The neurotic need for a partner, for someone who will take over one’s life. This includes the idea that love will solve all of one’s problems. Again, we all would like a partner to share life with, but the neurotic goes a step or two too far.

3. The neurotic need to restrict one’s life to narrow borders, to be undemanding, satisfied with little, to be inconspicuous. Even this has its normal counterpart. Who hasn’t felt the need to simplify life when it gets too stressful, to join a monastic order, disappear into routine, or to return to the womb?

4. The neurotic need for power, for control over others, for a facade of omnipotence. We all seek strength, but the neurotic may be desperate for it. This is dominance for its own sake, often accompanied by a contempt for the weak and a strong belief in one’s own rational powers.

5. The neurotic need to exploit others and get the better of them. In the ordinary person, this might be the need to have an effect, to have impact, to be heard. In the neurotic, it can become manipulation and the belief that people are there to be used. It may also involve a fear of being used, of looking stupid. You may have noticed that the people who love practical jokes more often than not cannot take being the butt of such a joke themselves!

6. The neurotic need for social recognition or prestige. We are social creatures, and sexual ones, and like to be appreciated. But these people are overwhelmingly concerned with appearances and popularity. They fear being ignored, be thought plain, “uncool,” or “out of it.”

7. The neurotic need for personal admiration. We need to be admired for inner qualities as well as outer ones. We need to feel important and valued. But some people are more desperate, and need to remind everyone of their importance — “Nobody recognizes genius,” “I’m the real power behind the scenes, you know,” and so on. Their fear is of being thought nobodies, unimportant and meaningless.

8. The neurotic need for personal achievement. Again, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with achievement — far from it! But some people are obsessed with it. They have to be number one at everything they do. Since this is, of course, quite a difficult task, you will find these people devaluing anything they cannot be number one in! If they are good runners, then the discus and the hammer are “side shows.” If academic abilities are their strength, physical abilities are of no importance, and so on.

9. The neurotic need for self-sufficiency and independence. We should all cultivate some autonomy, but some people feel that they shouldn’t ever need anybody. They tend to refuse help and are often reluctant to commit to a relationship.

10. The neurotic need for perfection and unassailability. To become better and better at life and our special interests is hardly neurotic, but some people are driven to be perfect and scared of being flawed. They can’t be caught making a mistake and need to be in control at all times.

Sharing Your Bed #2

September 18, 2006 / / 22 Comments

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Royal Bed, Versailles

Wow, I learned so much about beds in such a short time. 

A few people sent me emails that they would love to send me a photo, but unfortunately, it is too personal to share a photo of their bed with the world.   After all, your bed is the place where you sleep, make love, and are vulnerable…

Man, I would love to see what is on their webcam!

Here’s another tidbit I learned: 

Did you know that the bed is so powerful a symbol that some women actually throw out their mattress every time they break up with a man?!  Talk about living expenses!

I perfectly understand this infusing of meaning into an inanimate object.  I spent the weekend cleaning up the house, trying to make more room for the stuff I brought from my apartment.   It is so hard to throw out some things.  I know they are inanimate objects, but they have so much “meaning,” especially when there is a story associated with it. 

Since my father used to visit LA a lot, he kept two suitcases here with his clothes.  It was hard giving some of it to Goodwill yesterday, but what am I going to do with it all?  He had lousy taste in clothes anyway!  (sorry, Dad — I hope you are NOT wearing Haggar polyester slacks in heaven)

And Sophia, don’t get mad, but I finally tossed those three old office chairs.  We can talk about that later.

So, thank you those who DID send a photo of your bed.  Realizing how intimate the bedroom is — it makes your gesture even more special. 

Or should I just assume that those who sent it to me do ALL their lovemaking on the living room carpet and in the shower — so they don’t romanticize their bedroom?

(on request — my infamous bed before I moved to Sophia’s (NSFW))

Will You Share Your Bed With Me?

September 17, 2006 / / 50 Comments

Tonight I asked Sophia if she wanted me to come to New York for a visit. She said… uh, no. I would be too much of a distraction. They’re already shooting the film and she’s insanely busy.

She’s probably right. I am a distracting person. I’m very needy. I’m lonely and miserable. But I just want what everyone wants — someone to share a bed with.

But wait. I completely forgot — I have YOU, my dear blog reader.

Will you share YOUR bed with me?

That’s right. You can share your bed with me by emailing me a photo of YOUR BED. I will post it later in the week.

Here is an example — the bed of the generous Two Roads at Lindbergh’s Crossing:
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If enough people share their beds with me, I think I will be sufficiently satisfied until Sophia’s return.

Men, I don’t mind if you share your bed with me, also — but we’re just going to spoon, OK? (it also might be a good way for the chicks to check out your bedroom, if you get my drift — so make the bed first)

Update, Monday morning, after reading the comments: You women are so picky about what your “Neilochka” must look like, I might just hang out in the guys’ beds. They’ll sleep with anyone.

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Update: Both Rhea and DaveG pointed me to a New York Times article today titled, “People Who Share a Bed, and the Things They Say About It,” which only goes to show that bed-sharing is the hippest thing in town!

A Year Ago in Citizen of the Month: When I’m Sixty-Four

College Days

September 16, 2006 / / 48 Comments

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Imagine there are two bloggers.  One went to a fancy expensive Ivy League college.  The other went to Podunk University.   Could you tell which one is writing a blog about international affairs and which one is writing about pandas and panties?

I don’t think the college you attended years ago tells much about who you are other than how much of a geek you were in high school.  High School!  You were 16!   And people still talk about their college as a way to impress you!

I studied ALL THE TIME in high school, mostly as a rebellion against my father, who was always telling me it didn’t matter what school I went to, as long as I was “a good person.”  (he attended classes at the University of Hawaii during military service).  I’m serious.  Can you believe that someone in the modern era still said things like “be a good person?”  I used to think he was nuts!  Luckily, I had my mother to take me aside and tell me “not to listen to him” and do my homework. 

My father used to push me to do more social activities rather than my homework.  I thought he was trying to sabotoge my life.  The irony is that he was the squarest 1950’s guy you would ever meet — one who would want you to sit home and do your homework. I think he just wanted me to enjoy life more.  I’m not sure where he got these “hippy” values from.  In retrospect, he might have been right.   If I had spent as much time going out and learning what it was like to feel up a girl as I did on AP Calculus, I would be a lot more normal today.

The big advantage to going to a private elite college is supposedly the networking — the so-called old-boy network (not that I’ve been smart enough to know how to join it).   I was talking to Sophia on the phone about this because I’ve been interested in this new book “The Price of Admission:  How America’s Ruling Class Buys Its Way into Elite Colleges – and Who Gets Left Outside the Gates” by the Pulitzer-prize winning Wall Street journalist Daniel Golden  (You know he went to some elite college just by seeing how long that title is!).

The books focuses on all the admissions advantages gives to children of alumni and to the offspring of big donors and celebrities.   I needled Sophia because so many Republicans talk about personal responsibility and moral values, then use the back door to get their family members into college.  Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist’s dopey son Harrison was admitted into Princeton.  Do you think the $25 million dollars for Princeton’s Frist Campus Center helped?  Five generations of Bushes have gone to Yale, including our current President.  Does he seem like Yale material to you?

I always thought it was bad for America to have these old-boy networks that keep the power out of the reach of so many others who don’t have an “in.”   Why should so many of our business leaders and Senators have gone to the same colleges?  Wouldn’t it be better to get some new points of view?  I know for a fact that there are those who attend city colleges who are as bright as anyone at Princeton, yet don’t have the ability to pay for it, or don’t want to take out loans for the rest of their lives.

Sophia agreed with me, but didn’t take my insulting of Republicans lightly.  Within the hour, she called back and told me to look at Truthdig, the web magazine of Robert Scheer, one of the most prominent progressive journalists on the left.

Sophia:  “Look on the About Page of this very liberal web magazine.  Talk about insular.  The entire staff went to expensive private colleges.  Why do they even bring it up?  What does this have to do with their progressive credentials?  I’d rather see that they worked with the unions or something rather than had parents pay for their education!  Is it because liberals don’t trust anyone unless they go to some elite school like Columbia, Princeton, or USC…?”

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Neil:  “Well, USC is not exactly an “elite” school.”

Sophia:  “Well, it is certainly more fancy than where the publisher got her bachelor’s — UC Santa Cruz.  Do you notice that information missing from the About Page — as if a graduate of that school isn’t something to be proud of.  Why are only the private schools listed for everyone to ooh and ahh over?  They’re a bunch of elitists, with an old-boy network as bad as the old fogies on Wall Street!”

Neil:  “That’s ridiculous.  What is this a conspiracy theory?  Maybe the web designer just forgot to add where she went to college.   If you look, they don’t include the college of Robert Scheer either, and he is the main reason for the whole website.”

Sophia:  “OK, let’s see what school he went to.”

We clicked on his link.  Robert Scheer went to City College of New York, which was also somehow missing from the About Page, too. 

Sophia:  “Well now, care to dismount your high horse?”

Uh… maybe Sophia had a point.  Maybe it didn’t matter what side of the political spectrum you are on.   People will always promote themselves and make themselves look better to others…

So, dear readers, have I told you that I went to a prestigious private college… and did very well in Calculus in high school.  And despite a late start, I now know how to feel a woman up.  My father would be proud.

(thanks Dad for paying for college)

 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Sophia Made Me Gay

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