Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

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My Week According to Me, 9/16/11

September 16, 2011 / / 11 Comments

As sure as a Republican candidate saying something stupid during a nationwide debate, summer changes to fall, and I just took out out a sweater stored in the back of my closet.  I am currently in New York until — I think — November 1st, when — I think — I will return to Los Angeles.  Maybe.  It depends on work.  And money.

As a quick recap, just in case you missed a few episodes of the soap opera,  Sophia and I filed for divorce.  There are still some loose ends to figure out, like moving out of the house, and joint auto and medical insurance.   Maybe California is smart to have a six month waiting period before it is all final because it takes six months just to unravel the ties that bind.  Sophia and I are on good terms, except for the times that we discuss subjects like moving out of the house, and joint auto and medical insurance.   For now, it is healthier that we are 3000 miles away from each other.

On Monday, I attended my once-yearly game of the New York Mets with my friend Rob.  The Mets lost, even though they played the Washington Nationals, a team that is worse than the Mets.

But it was fun to just sit in a half-empty stadium, drinking overpriced beer and eating hot dogs, watching a game where the only importance was to see who which team was going to be eliminated from the pennant race first.

It was Taiwanese Heritage Night at Citifield.   Fans came waving Taiwan’s flag, director Ang Lee threw out the first pitch, and a terrible Taiwanese rock band performed during the seventh inning stretch.

I was proud to see another new immigrant group disappointed by the New York team that is not the Yankees.  Bring your huddled masses to our shores, oh Miss Liberty, where the Jews, the Italians, the Greeks, the Germans, the Cubans, the Taiwanese, can all have Heritage Nights at Citifield and watch a crappy baseball team lose another game.

I love this old Pepsi sign at Citifield.

When I posted it on Twitter, I was immediately followed by @pepsico.   Today, as I was walking in the Village, I noticed this:

I think I might also send this to @pepsico on Twitter, so we become buddies.  Don’t tell me that I don’t have any kickass networking skills?  If I keep up this pandering, I might be a Pepsi Blogger Ambassador any day, annoying you with Pepsi tweets all day.   Note:  please don’t tell @pepsico that I still ask for a “Coke” at ALL fast food joints, forcing the cashier to say for the 100th time that day, “We only have Pepsi,” with my inevitable reply being, “OK, fine. Pepsi. Whatever.”

On Tuesday, I met an old friend visiting from Montreal, and we ended up making out in a parked car at a Holiday Inn near JFK.   It was an eye-opening experience, since I had never made out in a car before, not owning one until I moved to Los Angeles and bought an old Toyota Corona.   Alas, things are too complicated.   Life is complicated.

One friend told me that I should wait six months before dating.  Another said to have as much sex as possible as soon as possible.  Can I compromise and go for three months waiting period with just a little sex?

On Wednesday, I met Marinka at her favorite bar/restaurant in the village.  While she insists that she loves this restaurant because the food is good, I have a feeling she is fond of it because they refill her wine glass with her having to ask.  We were joined by the delightful Margaret from Nanny Goat in Panties, who regaled us with stories of her glamorous life now that she is officially CBS Sacramento’s Most Valuable Blogger of 2011!

You also might notice that after a two and half year hiatus, I have reemployed my Blog Crush of the Day into action.  You can see it both on my sidebar and my links page.

My intention is simple:  to remind myself about all the special people in blogosphere, and how they have enhanced my life through their writing, friendship, or kindness.

My first three “Blog Crushes” are Schmutzie, V-Grrrl, and Slouchy.

The Blue Thumbtack

September 13, 2011 / / 10 Comments

A cardboard reproduction of this picture, Portrait of the Artist’s Son, Jorge Manuel Theotokopoulos, by El Greco, is on the bulletin board over my desk, stuck to the brown cork background by a bright blue thumbtack.   I bought this reproduction at a museum gift shop during college.  I was intrigued by the subject’s sly expression.

Jorge Manuel Theotokopoulos has travelled a lot with me, between several tiny apartments in New York and Los Angeles, far far away from the grandeur of his former home in Toledo, Spain.   Right now, he is living in Flushing, Queens.

Jorge’s eyes remain mischievous, although the cardboard stock has yellowed over the years.   A dozen thumbtack holes pepper the edges.  Jorge has been shuffled around the perimeter of the bulletin board, depending on the priorities of the day and year, and his standing in our relationship.

During grad school, he was pushed to the bottom, denigrated to the bottom right, the 8×10 of a smiling brunette music student taking the starring role.   Six months later, after the photo of the woman has been retired, Jorge would be back in his former glory, like an old buddy always ready to take you out for a beer after a heartbreak, not expecting an apology.

Jorge has travelled in planes and suitcases and buses and cars.  He has faced towards Beijing and Jerusalem, depending on the feng shui of each apartment layout.  But wherever we made our home, he was fastened to the bulletin board by the same blue thumbtack that secured him on the day we first met.   Jorge is that special to me.

But this is not a story about Jorge.  It is a story about this —

I’m staying the month with my mother in New York. She is a big fan of Antiques Roadshow, the long-running show on PBS, which is ironic, considering that we have an even longer-running inside joke that we have NOTHING of value in Queens.  Guests on Antiques Roadshow are hand-picked, so the ones who make the cut tend to have a wood desk that Paul Revere’s brother carved with his own hands, or a Van Gogh hidden behind the a framed poster of a Pepsi ad from 1969.

I was in my room, on Twitter, when my mother screamed out from the living room.

“Neil, come here!”

I ran into the living room, expecting an emergency, like a mouse climbing the walls.

It was Antiques Roadshow on the TV, coming from San Antonio, Texas.  My mother was in her favorite chair.   On the show, they were talking about a local photographer, E.O. Goldbeck (Eugene Omar Goldbeck, 1891-1986) who was known for doing panoramic photos in the 1920s and 1930s.

Goldbeck worked as a “kidnapper.”  Similar to the annoying photographer who takes photos of you as you enter a cruise ship or a hotel in Disneyland, Goldbeck took free pictures of large groups of people, then sold prints to the individuals in the photographs.  He was also the “unofficial photographer of America’s military” because he was adept at shooting large groups, which at times numbered up to 23,000 people arranged in intricate designs. Goldbeck used a Cirkut Camera that held film that was up to 10” wide by 48” long, and the camera revolved on a tripod while the film advanced at the same speed.  Imagine what he could do with an iPhone.

Goldbeck was particularly fond of taking photos each year at the Galveston Beauty Contest.  As Goldbeck’s 1922 Galveston “Bathing Girl Review” appear on the screen, I immediately knew why my mother was excited. This exact photo, framed and signed, was hanging over my bed, given to my mother years ago as a gift.  I immediately went online to search for information, and discovered that the framed photo in my room was worth, at auction, from $1200 – $3500.

My mother was happy.  Yes, we DID have something of value in the house.  Maybe she couldn’t buy an apartment in Manhattan with the money she could make, but at least she could impress the neighbors.

The funny part of the story is that I never gave this photograph much thought.  I glanced at it through the years, and liked the retro-flavor of the Texan beauty contestants, but I never took the time to read the photographer’s name.   I’m not big on panoramas.  They seem too gimmicky.

I appreciate the photo after reading more about Goldbeck and his technique, but I can’t say that I like it any more of less now than I did before I knew it had any value.

Is it ridiculous for me to veer off and connect this story with matters of the heart?

Soon, I’m going to be dating again, which brings up the issue of “Who is Right for Me?”  On paper, it is easy to plan for a woman with certain attributes, or let the views of others color my views on who would be “good for me,” as if a stint on Antiques Roadshow makes you more worthy, like a Goldbeck photo.  But love never follows a plan, and Goldbeck’s Bathing Girls, while attractive, mean little to me other than eye candy hanging over my bed.

Does it make sense to be in love with an El Greco cardboard reproduction of Portrait of the-Artist’s Son, Jorge Manuel Theotokopoulos when a valued Goldbeck sits nearby, on the opposite wall?   It is all mysterious and oh so personal.   I can’t explain how love works.  Or why one attracts us more than another.   Or why I still keep Jorge Manuel Theotokopoulos safely secured with a blue thumbtack.

What Mario Lopez Taught Me About The Five Emotional Stages Of Divorce

August 31, 2011 / / 21 Comments

Just because I haven’t been writing a lot on my blog doesn’t mean I haven’t been online. Ever since Sophia and I filed for divorce, I’ve been receiving advice from online friends near and far about how to proceed with my life.  Some of this advice has been as wise as that of Buddha, while other tidbits have been pure idiocy.

I should take up yoga.
I should keep my distance from Sophia.
I should have rebound sex with women born no later than the Clinton Administration.
I should take up French cooking.
I should write a book.
I should travel.
I should date nice girls.
I should not date at all.
I should run in a half marathon.
I should go to “Burning Man.”
I should get a tattoo.
I should start a blog for divorcing men.
I should start binge drinking  (another serious suggestion, proof that I have some really bad friends).

To complicate matters, I have my own internal voices putting THEIR two cents into the hat, and as usual — my head, my heart, and my dick are not on the same page.

This morning I had breakfast with Danny from Jew Eat Yet.  He has been a great blogging friend since 2005, a super-intelligent guy, with a broad range of knowledge.  I knew any advice that HE would give me would be something worth listening to in earnest, unlike some of my OTHER readers.

As we ate what is considered “The Best Pancakes in LA” (at Du-Pars), I talked about my hopes and fear, and some of the issues still remaining with Sophia.   Danny rubbed his chin, like a clever rabbi, and told me how divorce is like a death.  He explained that  I would need to go through a transition period of grief, namely the Five Emotional Stages of Divorce: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance.

I found myself unable to relate to what he was saying.

“You must still be in the denial stage,” he noted. “It’ll come to you.  Give it time and you will understand.”

Our conversation has been so weighty, and the pancakes so heavy in our stomachs, that we decided to take a little walk.   As we strolled over to the Grove shopping center next to the Farmer’s Market, we discussed the new fall TV season.   It was a relief to talk about nonsense.

We noticed a crowd gathering in the center square adjacent to the Barnes and Noble bookstore.   We went over to take a look.   It was TV personality Mario Lopez doing a remote for the show EXTRA, interviewing a few special guests, including the infamous Snooki from Jersey Shore.

Danny and I stood there for twenty minutes, watching the crew — the high strung producer, the bored sound man, the unionized grips eating donuts.  Mario Lopez seemed to be a seasoned professional.  The director would give him one quick rehearsal for each segment, and then he would jump right in.

As I admired Mario Lopez’s TV skills, I thought about my faltering Instagram photography.  In New York, I was taking fun photos of NYC life, but in Los Angeles, my photos have been  stale.   There are few opportunities for a spontaneous photo in a city where you are always driving in your car.

But here was an opportunity to redeem myself.   What could be more LA than a photo of Mario Lopez, with his perfect hair, teeth, and body?

I took dozens of Mario Lopez photos from different angles, searching for the ideal Mario Lopez instagram shot.  And as I melted there under the hot LA sun, I had a revelation.  It was as if God himself was sending me a message through the expressive facial gesturing of TV personality Mario Lopez.  When I looked at Mario Lopez speaking into his microphone, I was understanding what Danny had said earlier about divorce.   It was his face… Mario Lopez’s Hollywood chiseled face.   His facial expressions were like elements in a Powerpoint Presentation on The Five Emotional Stages of Divorce: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance.


Denial


Anger


Bargaining


Depression


Acceptance.

I understand.  And now I must move on to the next stage.   Thank you Mario Lopez.

Medical Insurance

August 19, 2011 / / 22 Comments

I hope you don’t mind these smaller throw-away posts. They are not great writing, but little diary entries for my sanity. Maybe they will get me off of Twitter.

Over the winter in New York I developed this cough that wouldn’t go away.  My mother kept on insisting I see a doctor, but since I had an HMO in California, I could only see my primary doctor 3000 miles away in Los Angeles.  Considering that I was paying for health insurance out of pocket, it seemed like an incredible waste of money, but I am too much of a nervous-nelly to go without insurance.

I called my insurance company in California asking for advice on seeing a doctor in New York, and they told me that I was covered in New York only if I went to the emergency room or an urgent care center.

I had never gone to an urgent care center, but I read up on it and learned that it was a place where you could walk in and see a doctor for a non-emergency medical problem.

I found a urgent care center nearby in Queens that was associated with a major hospital. After waiting an hour in the hallway (the waiting room was filled), I was called in to see the frazzled doctor, who seemed exhausted jumping from one patient to another like a frog in a white coat.  I told him about my persistent cough, and he looked inside my mouth.  He noted that there was no infection in my throat.

“You have a bad cough,” he said, giving his professional opinion.

He prescribed a stronger cough medicine, one with codeine.

If you followed me on Twitter at the time, you might remember me making several jokes about me taking this codeine cough medicine and ultimately seeing Jesus in my tea cup.

Two weeks later, the cough disappeared.

This morning,  my mother called me from New York.  She was upset.   She just received a letter from the urgent care center.  The entire fee was paid by the insurance company.

“That’s great,” I said.  “So why do you sound so angry?”

“Do you know how much your visit cost the insurance company? A thousand dollars! Six hundred for seeing the doctor and four hundred for the presciption!”

“Jesus. What a rip-off.  But at least WE don’t have to pay for it.”

“What do you mean we don’t pay for it. We DO pay for it. That’s why your medical insurance is a thousand dollars a month!”

She was right.   Why was this five minute visit to a doctor costing the insurance company a thousand dollars?   And why was the insurance company paying such an outrageous amount?

I mentioned this to a friend in the medical field, and he said that it is unlikely that the insurance company paid this amount for my measly visit. The urgent care might have asked for a  thousand dollars, but the insurance company paid a reduced amount.

“So, if they didn’t pay that amount, why did the urgent care center send me a receipt saying that the insurance company paid them a thousand dollars for my visit?” I asked.

“So you don’t leave your insurance company,” he said.  “It’s all a shell game.”

Giving Birth to Myself

August 19, 2011 / / 17 Comments

I want to be politically correct with my large female readership and say right off the bat that as a man I will never fully know what it feels like to give birth to another human being. But, to be devil’s advocate, let’s imagine that I DO KNOW.  And I am giving birth… to myself.  To a  new version of Neil.  The man who is not married to Sophia.

You will notice that I didn’t used the word divorced. Divorce has connotations of loss to me, as if I lost my wallet.  I will not walk around with the self identity of a divorced man.  I will be a man who learned important life lessons during his first marriage, a man now better able to love.

But this person is yet to be born.  He is inside me, growing.  And as most woman know, giving birth is a bizarre combination of pain, blood, joy, and medication. And it takes time.

But soon.

Irreconcilable Differences

August 11, 2011 / / 74 Comments

On the night before BlogHer, Sophia and I filled out the paperwork.  There were four forms to complete.   It was more complicated than I thought, forgetting for a moment that filing for divorce is a serious legal matter and not an episode of “The Marriage Ref.”  The moment was friendly, but tense, not unlike the times we attempted to complete the NY Times Sunday crossword puzzle together.

Filing for divorce.   We peeked into my blog archives and discovered that we have been “separated” for six years, coming back and leaving each other more times than Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor.  It was time.

We enjoyed a quick nice laugh when we came across the options you could choose as the reason for the divorce —

A) Irreconsolible differences.

B) Reasons of insanity.

Yes, I want a divorce because my SPOUSE IS CRAZY!

The next day, I put my luggage in the car, ready to go to San Diego.  But before I left LA, I drove to the courthouse.  I stood in a long line outside the court, hanging with my peers, the gang members and rapists of the City of Los Angeles.  Apparently, getting a divorce puts you in the same line as an armed robber.    I got patted down by a burly police officer after going through the metal detective, proving that ending a marriage requires a symbolic ceremony as traditional as breaking the glass under the chuppah in the beginning.

The clerk at civil court clerk’s office was an androgynous woman with short blonde hair in the style of Annie Lenox, circa 1985.  Filing for divorce is as glamorous as going to CVS pharmacy to pick up some Q-tips.  I handed the clerk the forms and paid my $390.

The only setback was that I couldn’t hand in Sophia’s papers on the same day as I did mine.  She had to be “served” by a third party, much as they do on “Law and Order.” Oh yeah, and another $390.  You would think with such a high divorce rate in California, the state wouldn’t be bankrupt.

I left the court feeling good.   The process was only half completed, so the full impact of the action hadn’t yet hit.  Why worry? I wasn’t officially filed yet.  Or divorced.  If a meteor slammed into earth that day, I would die a married man.

I enjoyed BlogHer, only mentioning the filing for divorce with a few close friends.  It didn’t seem appropriate to make a public announcement during the Keynote Speech.

When I returned from San Diego, we asked a friend to “serve” Sophia, so the process would all be official.   It was felt rather silly, as if we were playing Charades.  So “legal.”   The legal divorce was less a concern than the emotional fallout.  We had gone through a lot during our marriage — happiness, sex, laughter, anger, stress, illness, and the death of three of our parents. Clearly there was a bond. We gave it a good shot — six years after the initial separation — but we had changed over the years.  We didn’t fit together anymore.   We had become brother and sister, not husband and wife. And that is no way to live your life.

On Monday morning, we had breakfast.   Sophia asked me to go to recycling center on the way back from the court, proving that a husband’s chores never end, even to the final moment.  There was a huge collection of soda and beer bottles sitting in the garage. My first instinct was to ask her why she didn’t do this herself, but I shut myself up.   Why go there?  It was the petty little snips that had done the most harm over the years.

“Sure,” I said to my wife, the person I shared so much with for so many years. “I’ll bring in the recycling stuff after I go to the court.”

I returned to court, waiting in line with a new set of gang-bangers.  The androgynous court clerk was absent, which made me sad.  I was hoping for the comfort of repetition.

The new clerk was a smiling black woman in a bright red dress. She smiled as she took Sophia’s response form and charged me another $390 dollars.

She stamped the form, and it was done.   I hoped for an uplifting good-bye, something like, “That’s it! Have a great rest of your life filled with love and happiness.”

But no.

“Next!” she announced.

I went to the car. I was feeling pretty good, even relieved.  I could now go on with the rest my life.   Even date other women!

It was time.

And then I threw up on the parking lot floor.

After that, I drove over to deliver the cans and bottles to the recycling center.

BlogHer ’11 Recap

August 8, 2011 / / 76 Comments

This year, my experience with the BlogHer conference was all about the individual conversations and connections.  Held in beautiful, sunny San Diego, the conference was as mellow and inviting as the host city.   The weekend gave me an opportunity to meet up with some of my closest friends, and bond with a few of my personal idols of the blogosphere.

++++

In the Lobby, by Starbucks, Thursday Night

I am sitting at a table, drinking coffee.  My head is tiled down, my face reflected on my iPhone screen.  I am on Twitter, avoiding real people.

An attractive, confident woman approaches, her hand outstretched.

“Hi there, just wanted to say hello.  Love your instagram photos.”

“Hi. uh, do we know each other?”

“I’m Ree.”

“Ree?”

“The Pioneer Woman.”

I stand up, being polite.

“Oh, wow.  The Pioneer Woman,” I say.   “You’re big….”

I pause for a moment, slowing down my thought process.

“…I don’t mean big in size.  I mean big in popularity,  It would be stupid to call a woman “big” at a woman’s conference, knowing how body image problems is such an issue nowadays. Even though, quite frankly, I like a woman with a little meat on her. Some curves.  Again, I’m not saying you are too thin. You are naturally thin. You look great.”

It was time to change the topic of the conversation.

“Oh, my friend Diane invited me for dinner recently and she tried out one of your recipes from your blog!”

“Which recipe?”

“I don’t remember.  But she didn’t have any rice in the house, so she substituted Ritz crackers, and it came out awful.  But of course, that isn’t your fault.”

“No.

Another awkward pause.   She extends her hand again.

“Uh, well, it was great meeting you, Neil.”

“Yes.  See you at your session.  I’m looking forward to it.”

“It is over already.”

“Oh.  OK, take care.”

+++++

Outside the Lobby, by the Valet, Thursday Night

I pass by “The Bloggess,” one of the funniest women online.  She is sitting on a bench, her suitcase standing in front of her.  I seem a whole lot more excited to see her, than vice versa.

“Hey, it’s Jenny, the famous Bloggess!”

“Uh, hello, Neil.”

I point at the suitcase.

“Where you going?”

“I’m going home early.  I’m exhausted after the People’s Party.”

“I can imagine.  Hey, when is the book coming out?  I’m so excited.”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Why don’t you sent me an advanced copy?  I’d love to read it.”

Jenny pauses for a moment.

“My publisher decided not to send out advanced copies,” she says.

“You mean when the book comes out, you want me to BUY the book?  It’s going to be like $25 dollars in stores!”

“That’s how much books cost, Neil.”

“C’mon, Jenny.   Surely your old blogging friends will get a reader’s copy in the mail.”

“No, sorry.”

“Not even Laura?”

“Well, Laura read it already.  But she’s more of a real friend than a blogging friend.”

“What is this shit? I’m not going to pay $25 bucks on your book when I can read your blog for free.”

“The book is going to be very different than the blog.  It is about my real life.”

“I see.  So the plan was to put your shitty superficial material online, and then force us to buy your f*cking book?”

“Well, I do have a family to feed.”

“You’ve changed, Jenny.  You come off as a sweet cutesy Texan mom, but you are a fucking shark.  I bet Willian Shatner was part of your marketing plan all along.”

You know, f*ck you , little man.  I could destroy you in a second with my Twitter followers.

“Suck my c*ck, Jenny.”

“Yeah, I already saw your tiny c*ck in that photo you sent me last year. Don’t make me laugh.  Be happy I didn’t put it on Flickr.”

“Go to hell.”

++++

In the Hallway, Convention Center, Friday Afternoon

I sit on the floor, in the corner by the men’s room, hidden from view, playing on Twitter rather than talking to real people, as usual.

Tanis, the Redneck Mommy, notices me.  She is one of my favorites from Twitter.   She approaches, a smile on her face.

“Hi, Neil.”

I don’t bother to look up from my iPhone screen, trying to show my disapproval.

“Well, LOOK who’s coming to talk to me TWO DAYS after the conference has started.”

“I’ve been busy, Neil.”

“Oh yeah, BUSY chatting with Backpacking Dad.”

“You are such a passive aggressive asshole.  Maybe if you didn’t hide in the corner like a p*ssy”

“You know my Klout score is higher than his.”

“Not everything is about Klout scores,” she says.  “I’ve been friends with him a lot longer than you.”

“You know, I was just talking with Jenny the Bloggess, and we both agree that your blog has gone downhill. You used to be funny, but you’ve LOST IT.”

“Bullshit.  She would never say that.   And by the way, she showed me the photo of your tiny dick.  Pathetic.”

“Have a nice conference, fake “redneck” with your expensive iPad2 and expensive shoes!”

Tanis walks off.  After a moment, I tweet her with an apology.

++++

Expo, Convention Center, Saturday Afternoon

I reluctantly enter the expo center, crowded with companies selling products and women with overflowing swag bags.  It is chaotic and I feel an anxiety attack coming on.   I pass by the large booth sponsored by Hillcrest Farms lunch meats.  There is a staff of smiling young spokespeople manning the booth, all with the energetic look of  cheerleaders from a Midwestern high school.  A blonde young man of about 25, with the whitest of teeth, beckons me over to the booth.

“Hello, would you like to try a Hillcrest Farms sandwich, made of only the freshest ingredients?”

There are two silver trays on a display table, with signs reading turkey and ham.   There are only 4″ sandwiches on the ham tray.

“You only have ham?”

“The turkey is out.”

“Eh.  Don’t like ham.”

The spokesguy doesn’t give up easily.

“Our ham is USDA…” he continues.

“Nah, it is just a weird thing of mine,” I explain.  “I’m not kosher, but for some reason I don’t like the look of ham.  I’ll eat pork if it is hidden in a Chinese soup, or bacon, but ham just seems so goyish.”

“Goyish?”

“Not kosher.”

“Kosher what?”

“It’s a Jewish thing.”

The spokesguy cups his hands in joy.

“Ooh.  I’ve never met a Jew before.

“No?  Where are you from?” I ask.

“Boise.”

“Is that where Hillcrest Farms is located?”

“No.  I don’t know where they are located.   Just got this job online at monster.com.   But it’s so cool meeting a Jewish person.”

“Thanks,” I sheepishly reply.

“I appreciate you because Jesus was Jewish too.”

“Yes, he was.  He probably wouldn’t eat Hillcrest Farms anything.”

“He wouldn’t?”

“No, Hillcrest Farms isn’t kosher.”

“You mean Jesus wouldn’t be promoting Hillcrest Farms?”

“Probably not.”

“Holy Lord of Lords.” cries the spokesguy.  “Should I quit?  What would Jesus do?”

“Well, take it easy.  This is just a job.  I’m sure Jesus will understand.  You have a family?”

“A wife and two kids.”

“So, you are doing good.,” trying to ease his guilt.  “You are helping your family.”

“I always heard that Jews are smart. Are you a rabbi?”

“No, just a blogger.”

The spokesguy looks down at the badge on my shirt to read my name.

“Bless you, uh, Citizen of the Month.  It was as if Jesus himself spoke through you.”

I notice that the other spokespeople are handing out bags filled with swag to the other attendees that are passing by.

“Can I have one of those Hillcrest Farms bags?”

“Oh, sorry. I was told I can only give our swag bags to moms who fit our demographic audience of 25-35.  But nice to meet you, Jewish man.”

++++

SeaView Room, Marriot Hotel, Aiming Low Party, Saturday Night

I’m on the patio with seven of the most prominent Daddy Bloggers.  We stand in a circle of brotherhood, each drinking a beer.  It is so great to finally bond with men.  I spend way too much time chatting with women online, and although I love my female friends, there are issues and choices that are unique to our gender.

A young female coupon blogger walks by, wearing high heels and short skirt.

Jake:  “She’s a 10.”

Sean:   “Nah.  Only a 7.5.”

Another woman passes, on her way to the Latina party.

Sean:   “Now SHE’S a 10.”

Afro-Dad:  “What?!”

Sean:  “I’m a Latino. I like big asses.”

I look over at the Latino woman.

Neil:   “Forget her. She’s crazy. I know. I once sent her a photo of my c*ck and she went nuts.”

Warren, a Mormon father of six,  is mesmerized by one of the HOT keynote speakers.

Warren:  “Man, can you imagine taking her on that Sabra Hummus sponsored appetizer table right now.”

Jake:   “So, any of you guys get lucky yet?”

We all look around, embarrassed with our lack of success.

Stephan:   “Not me. Brought the ball and chain along.  And my stupid step-kids.”

Stephan gives me a caring nod, and pats my arm in a paternal manner.

Stephan:  “Take my advice, Neil.  If you ever get remarried, don’t marry a chick with young kids.  It’ll ruin your life.”

Neil:   “C’mon, Stephan.  You’re a lucky man.  Susan has a great rack.”

Stephan:  “I’ll give you that.  But she’s like a helicopter, always hovering around. And she has a spidey-sense when it comes to me f*cking other women at work.  She just knows.”

Jake:  “Women know that shit.”

Warren:  “You see all the sex toys the women got from Eden’s Fantasies this year in their swag bags?  No wonder we ain’t getting lucky.”

Neil:  “Exactly.  Why bother with us when the women can just go to their rooms and use vibrators on each other.”

Sean:  “It’s a sad commentary on modern technology.   Some things ARE better old school.”

Jake:  “Damn right.  No vibrator, even the most technologically advanced, will ever replace our real life hard-ons!”

Neil:  “You said it, brother.  I love you guys.”

We all have a group hug.  I have finally found my “tribe.”

Austin Mom of Twins, well-know with all the men for her “Boobie-fest” October photos, goes to the bar for a drink.

Afro-Dad:   “Whoa.   There’s “Austin Mom of Twins.”  I’d like to hit her stat counter, if you know what I mean.”

Truth Quotient:  12%  (Honestly, it was a great experience, and loved speaking with so many intelligent, passionate, and funny women… and men.  Believe me, I’m not sure you want to read my heartfelt, overly-emotional authentic reaction to meeting so many cool people during the last few days, because it would just sound very corny).

The Music Conference

July 31, 2011 / / 29 Comments

As a professional musician, I am excited about attending this music conference next week in San Diego. It gives me a chance to meet my peers.

A friend is going for the first time. She is excited about meeting a certain rockstar, and can’t stop talking about her. I shrugged when she mentioned the rockstar’s name. I’ve never been much into her music. Her songs are OK, but she’s too commercial for my taste.

I do like pop music. I even downloaded the latest song by a popular boy band. But I don’t use fame or money as a deciding factor in what artist to buy on iTunes.

I’m a fan of indie bands, some unknown. One of my faves is a band that only plays small clubs in Brooklyn.

I listen to different music depending on my mood. When I get angry, I blast this guy from Spokane who is keeping Punk alive. During one concert in Phoenix, he smashed his guitar on his head and vomited on the audience. He is wild!

I seem to best relate to the folksy female singer-songwriters who create introspective songs about motherhood and marriage. Some of my own songs have that “sensitive guy” quality. My hipster friends find this type of music overly-precious, as if you need to commit suicide to be a real artist, but I find honest storytelling so much better than the manufactured corporate rock you hear on the radio.

Sadly, the music industry has become all about money. Even this music conference I’m attending has changed throughout the years. The conference is less about the music than the product placement. All the big record companies and talent agencies show up, and much of the community spirit has been shattered by envy and jealousy.

When I started playing music, I promised myself that I would never sell out to the “man,” but it is getting harder and harder to resist the corporate sponsorship that has infected the music industry.

All I know is that when I read someone talking about a “rockstar” online, I tend to shrug.

I like country music. I like rap. I like Barry Manilow. If you go to a music conference just to talk to the rockstars, that tells me that you’re not really into the music.

In the Limo

July 27, 2011 / / 13 Comments

“Do we tip the driver?” I asked Sophia. We were in the backseat of a limo, part of the fleet from one of the most famous of Los Angeles livery services.

“I’m not sure. I suppose so.” she answered, sipping her champagne. “We certainly don’t want to be called cheap for the next six years, like we have been on that old post about splitting a salad at Olive Garden.”

We both laughed, and ate more of the caviar, included with our VIP package.   I still get angry comments on that post at least once a week from waiters at Olive Garden, calling us cheapskates.  Even at our lowest points in our marriage, Sophia and I could take a breather to read the latest bitter response to the post and chuckle together.  It was our form of marital therapy.

“It’s my favorite post,” I said.

“Me too.”

We were relaxing in the limo, dressed in our finest clothes.  I was wearing a rented tuxedo. Sophia wore a pearl necklace. The idea was to feel like a modern-day Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn, on our way to the court to file our paperwork for divorce.  We were sophisticated, urbane, shelling out the witticisms like in a Noel Coward play.

Wait a minute.  Didn’t we file for divorce already? If you remember last season in this long-going series, I left town to go to New York City. Final shot: The signed paperwork sitting on the coffee table as I closed the door in the background.

New season.   Surprise.  It was all a trick, as clever a gimmick as finding out on “Dallas” that it was all a dream.

Somehow the paperwork got lost or misplaced so we need to do it all over again.   What I will do just for blog fodder.

But it is all good.   Better to file the papers in STYLE, like we always wanted to do. We would go to court via limo, and then head out to a swanky nightclub for 300 of our closest friends for the ultimate LA party of the year.

“Would you enjoy some music while you relax in the back?” asked the livery driver.

“Sure,” said Sophia.

The driver played some Barry White, which somehow seemed so wrong that it was right.

But the low sultry voice of Barry White was quickly drowned out as we approached the downtown courthouse. Waiting for us on the steps was the full USC Trojan Marching band playing our wedding song.  It cost me a fortune to rent them.

Sophia laughed.

“Perfect, Neil.  This is going to be the best filing for divorce in the history of Divorce!”

“I made an appointment so we don’t have to wait.” I mentioned to Sophia.  “All we have to do is hand the piece of paper in, pay a fee, and the process has started.”

“I’m sure your blog readers will be relieved,” she added.  “This neurotic plotline has been going on for so long. It’s time for a new story twist.”

We had it all arranged, as precisely as a movie heist.   We would approach the clerk in the courthouse.   I would hold the right side of the filing paper, and Sophia the left side —  and hand it in together.  Like a team!

Because marriage is all about teamwork.

“Do you have the paperwork?”  asked Sophia.

“I think you put it in your purse.”

“No. You said you were going to take it yourself.”

“Not true.   I distinctly remember asking YOU if I should take it, and YOU said that YOU would put it in your purse so I wouldn’t have to fold it in eights in order to put into my shirt pocket.”

“Why would I care if you folded it in eights or not?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe because you are a perfectionist.  That’s what you said!”

The limo was parked directly in front of the downtown Los Angeles court.  The USC Trojan marching band was playing our wedding song, our first dance, for the fifth time in a row.  The livery driver was getting impatient.

“We can always get another piece of paper in the courthouse.” I suggested.

“And wait in line again? No way!  Why don’t you just come back tomorrow and hand it in yourself.”

“Because we are supposed to be doing this together.”

“Stop being so co-dependent.”

“We’re a team!  A team to the end.  Like the USC Trojans   Even though we are separated for years!”

“How can we be a team if you are always forgetting the paperwork back at home. So irresponsible?”

“Me? Irresponsible? This whole thing would be over by now if you had just handed it in a year ago like you were supposed to do!”

“F*ck it.” said Sophia. “Let’s just do this another day. I’m walking over to Chinatown and having some lunch.”

“OK, I’m hungry too.   But I’m doing this by next week.”

Sophia and I left the limo, the marching band repeating the refrain of Bei Mir Bist Du Schoen, our wedding song.  I guess I would have to pay them overtime, just like I did the swing band at the wedding reception.   As we walked to Chinatown, we gently stepped to the music, still remembering the swing dance lessons we took before the wedding, so many years before.

The limo driver rolled down his window and spit on the floor.

“Assholes,” he snarled. “They didn’t even tip me.  Cheapskates.”

Truth Quotient — 2%

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