the writing and photography of Neil Kramer
Before she left for Florida, I asked my mother if she wanted me to set her up a Flickr account. She said she doesn’t really like seeing photos on the computer. She prefers the snapshot that you can hold in your hand. When you can touch the photo, place it in your wallet, hang in on the wall, or prop it up on your nightstand, you are more likely to keep alive the memory.
Photos in my father-in-law’s bedroom —
I could write about what’s on my mind, but you don’t want to know. These words would create a slowly-cooked stew of disturbing images of sickness, illness, and dying, a stubborn refusal of my FIL to eat or drink or live anymore, the complete denial of reality by my MIL as she faces the inevitable after decades of companionship, a stew seasoned with my own angry emotions, feelings of frustration about my own marriage, fear of being trapped, all served with a hefty dollop of mental exhaustion and a need to live fully, to break away, to ask the lonely-looking thirtyish Russian nurse visiting right now — as i write this on my iphone — out for coffee when she is done taking his temperature, to make out in the car, and then later fuck her until we can’t fuck any longer, right on the bed next to my dying FIL, and then fuck again slowly as we listen to the calming, gentle songs of James Taylor on the radio, because he would understand what I am feeling, and my FIL would approve, and so would my father, looking down from heaven. Life is now.
I’m not in a happy place in my romantic life.
But for some reason, I remain optimistic about the potential of love, even when I am at a low point, like today, sitting in a hotel room a few blocks from my home on Valentine’s Day — and away from my wife. After a traumatic week, I decided I needed to pull away and refresh myself. The tensions surrounding this family, and my sick FIL, have become overwhelming and exhausting.
I stay positive because I am creative, and more importantly, very easily deluded by myself. Writers know that there are always new twists, new characters, and new loves as the plot grows. So, even when things turn sour — it’s no problem; it is not impossible for a bag of gold to fall into your lap the next day, on the way to work.
My interest in telling stories did not grow out of a love for language, but out of the inherent belief in the make-believe. Storytelling is myth, and as cynical as I sound at times, I embrace the bullshit of even the most corny Hollywood story. I believe in happy ending, maybe not the finale you first expected, but some ending that will allow you to leave the theater smiling.
It is Valentine’s Day.
Happy Valentine’s Day to those in love! I’ve always felt bad for those who were alone, or feeling lonely on Valentine’s Day. This was the case even when I was happily in love, being that I am a guilty sort of person. Why shouldn’t everyone be in love? It’s not fair! Money is a limited commodity, but certainly there is enough love for every citizen of the world.
We should remember that love is always right around the corner. We frequently forget that wisdom. That is why it is important to have great artists amongst us who will keep us connected to the great ideas and essential truths about love. Things will work out, and love will find a way, as is so well-documented in one of the most important works of music in the 21st Century —
I’m sick of the sound of the California rain, the pitter patter of the drizzle, the daily downpour since December. Is it over?
Once upon a time, the rain was nice. We would close shop and stay in bed and drenched with wetness would mean wicked kisses, womanly warmth, wild with pleasure, the boiling of the water for your camomile tea, and the steamy udon soup from Tanaka’s take-out, which we would eat in the sturdy wood bowls on the flannel sheets, the thick heavy noodles bursting with flavor.Â
Now it’s just an endless rain, rain go away, raindrops keep fallin’ on my head, like bitter tears. And when it pours, man it pours.
Sent from my iPhone
It was claustrophobic in my FIL’s hospital room, so I took a walk down the corridor. As I walked past ICU, an old man beckoned to me from inside his room. I was reluctant to enter. I was unsure of hospital policy, and frankly, I didn’t want to get involved, but something — a bizarre curiosity, dragged me into the room, like a rope around my waist.
“Hello,” I said. “Can I help you? Do you want me to get you a nurse?”
“No, Father. I am ready to meet my Maker. To shake the hand of Jesus. To see my wife. I want you to give me my last rites.”
I was in a rush that morning, throwing a dirty black shirt over a dirty white t-shirt, and this elderly man, with his poor vision and medicated mind, was confusing me with a priest.
The beep of his heart monitor went erratic and a red light flashed. An alarm sounded with an emergency code. I could hear running in the corridor. This man was about to take his last breath. I was not a priest. I was not Catholic. But who was I to refuse this man his last moments?
“You are blessed,” I said, in the solemn tone of a hospital chaplain. “You have been a good man. Jesus and Mary love you!”
I was winging it. I tried to remember some movie scene involving a priest’s rites, one that I could steal from, but all I could think about was The Exorcist.
“Do you have an regrets about this life you lead on Earth? Would you like to speak them now.” I quickly asked, knowing that I only had a few seconds left with him.
“Yes,” he said, solemnly. “I regret not getting retweeted more on Twitter.”
And then he died.
The ICU unit was in chaos as I left his room. A male nurse ran in and tried to revive him, but I knew it was hopeless. He had already revealed all.
Truth quotient — 0%
+++
I can understand how he felt. I have had my own regrets. I’ve been so busy in the hospital that I forgot to change my avatar on Twitter for those affected by the Haitian earthquake. I was finally going to do it yesterday, when I took a little break in the hospital cafeteria with my iphone, but I noticed that everyone had already changed their avatars to The New Orleans Saints for the Super Bowl, so I guess I missed out my chance! Life moves so fast online. I hate when I miss out on an avatar switch!
Truth quotient — 10%
+++
It was Sophia’s step-father’s birthday yesterday. All the nurses in the unit – about 25 in total – came in with a cake and sang happy birthday. It was a beautiful moment.
I posted the photo on Twitter. I asked the nurses if any of them were on Twitter, and none of them were. Eh, I probably wouldn’t follow any of them anyway. Probably not very good writers.
Truth quotient — 95%
I’ll be back soon.
I’m going to attend BlogHer again. It is my only chance to see so many of you, and it is important to me to have some real life contact to make my blogging “real.” Last year was a lot of fun, but I still have this nagging feeling that I don’t really belong — and that it might be time for me to expand my horizons. Maybe next year, I will look into SWSX, or a conference that isn’t so gender-based. But I appreciate that I was accepted so readily by everyone, as if I were one of the girls.
(Danny, if you want to argue why I shouldn’t go at all, please do! Maybe we both should go to SWSX!)
I am excited that the conference is in New York. Last year, Amy and I submitted an idea for a “room of your own” on Storytelling. We thought it was a good idea because there were no real sessions on writing.
This year, I am glad to report that there is a whole writing track, with several sessions slated.
Currently, my blogging mind is less focused on my writing (which really bothers me) than on figuring out what my online experience means to me — and whether it is even healthy.
That’s when I thought of this new “Room of Your Own.” — Blogging, Twitter, Facebook, Whatever — The Online Addict’s One Hour Support Group. I didn’t see any other session that deals with this problem. Of course, I would like to keep this discussion on the funny side — hey, we all know what I am talking about with this issue — despite the seriousness.
This idea comes out of a personal need to engage in this conversation rather than an overwhelming need to stand in front of a bunch of bloggers again who want to fight with me. I’d be just as happy hanging out with a few of you in Central Park and talking about this issue.
I hate the popularity contest aspect of these rooms, but if you want to vote for the room, you can do so here. (if you have any suggestions for improving the concept, please tell me)
The proposal —
Blogging, Twitter, Facebook, Whatever — The Online Addict’s One Hour Support Group
Blogging is a lot different today than it was a few years ago. It has become more than just writing or career development. It has become a 21st century of making friends and establishing relationships. But with this wonderful development comes a whole new set of 21st century social issues and anxieties, one of them being that our online life frequently BECOMES our life.
Are you an online addict? Take this quick quiz:
* 1) Are you writing a blog post in your head while making love to your husband?
* 2) Have you accidentally called your three year old son “Guy Kawasaki?”
* 3) Does “enjoying quality time with friends” mean playing Words With Friends on your iphone?
Is there a point where our online life becomes TOO MUCH?
We all love our blogging friends, but have you ever asked yourself, “Who are these online friends anyway? Are they our real friends if we only see them once a year at BlogHer? Are we neglecting our old friends at home because it is “easier” to deal with virtual friends? Have we spread ourselves too thin on so many social media sites? Is it even possible to follow 1000+ people? Who should we care most about? Influentials? Readers of our blog? Community members in need, even those that are strangers? When does “caring” about each other become unhealthy?”
The truth is more of us quit blogging because of this personal issue than anything to do with our writing or the branding of our blog.
Since this session is run by bloggers, not trained psychiatrists, we can’t give any professional advice, but as bloggers, we can discuss our feelings and responses to this growing problem, as well as share our solutions to keeping our sanity in a virtual world. Participants will learn methods of reducing their information overload, as well as analyzing various ways to improve the quality of their online relationships — without it taking over their lives.
A few months ago, I struck a deal with the blogger Schmutzie.  If she didn’t smoke for an entire month, I would do at least ten push-ups a month in support of her effort.  Today, she is a model of health.
This week, I noticed that Tanis of The Redneck Mommy, another fine Canadian blogger, was also trying to stop this awful habit.  What is it with Canadians and smoking? Being a good Samaritan, I made the same bargain with her.  However, unlike the loving and good-natured Schmutzie, Tanis would only agree to this deal if there was daily verification that I was doing the push-ups, as if she was the United Nations dealing with the Iraqi nuclear program. Hopefully, when she has completely eliminated cigarettes from her life, she will also learn to trust her fellow man.
Here is day one of my push-ups.  Notice the irony of Sophia (who is filming me with my iphone) saying that my “neck is getting redder” as I attempt my ten push-ups, even though she has no idea that I am doing this for a blogger named “Redneck.”
I’m taking a quick break from my one week journal, after one entry! (hey, it is my blog and I can do what I want) because I’m reading all these posts lately on “fat acceptance – yes or no,” written by some female bloggers, and the tone of some of these posts — and the comments — is unsettling.
I find it odd that in the middle of difficult economic times and horrible disasters around the world, so many people are fighting online about weight issues. Why aren’t women more supportive of each other on this topic? I though blogging was supposed to be a meeting of the minds, not bodies.
What’s going on?!
Fat Acceptance is Bullshit
Jessica Gottleib
Coming Out
Swistle
I Call Bull
Aquafit
Fat Acceptance
Immortal Matriarch
What if Fat Doesn’t Mean Miserable
She Just Walks Around With It
I’ve written about women and size on my blog in the past. In fact, someone asked me recently how I ended up with a majority of female readers. It was not my intention when I started to blog. If you go into my archives, you will see that my first three posts were dumb little items about pop culture.
My fourth post, on March 14, 2005, was a post titled OhmyGod! A Size 14 in the Beverly Center!
This post was my first “true-life” entry (90% truth quotient) about shopping with “F,” my “cousin from Israel” for size 14 clothes at a popular mall in Los Angeles. This “F” was not my cousin, but Sophia. I was still unclear at the time whether to use her real name, or even to talk about my wife at all. I was a blogging newbie. When I wrote this post, I was not setting myself up to be someone specifically interested in women’s issues. I’m not a woman, but I was MARRIED to one. I was writing it as a guy who accompanied his wife when she went shopping for clothes, and it was a pain in the ass finding clothes for her. Very few husbands enjoy shopping with their wives, including me, and I just wanted the experience to be painless as possible, but after shopping a few times with Sophia, I understood why men wanted to date women who are size 2. It wasn’t because they are “sexier.” It is because they can get in and out of Macy’s in a shorter amount of time. The size 2 clothes are on the main floor. The size 14 clothes are on the seventh floor, by the kitchen appliances, and the styles tend to look like potato sacks.
This post attracted six commenters, all of them women, which was six more commenters than my first three posts combined.  The rest is history. I started viewing my readership as being largely women, and once I tasted the forbidden fruit, I just couldn’t stop.
Throughout the years, Sophia’s size fluctuated between 12-16, depending on several factors, some health related and others just because we ate too many pastries.
Every year or so, I seem to bring up this weight issue, mostly because I saw how concerned she was over this subject. In May, 2006, I wrote a post titled “Fat People.
In this post, I compared “fat” discrimination to anti-Semitism.  The comparison was probably unfair, but the post provoked a lot of discussion.
One of my favorite posts is titled “Neilochka Sex: Boycott the Fashion Industry!”
In the post, I make fun of the lack of support between women over this weight discrimination issue. If you think about it, mothers will boycott Motrin for a silly commercial, but say very little about 3/4 of their peers unable to go into certain stores which only cater to certain sizes (and surprise, surprise, many of those NOT size 2 are African-American and Latina women!) I still get angry comments on this post, usually in support of the fashion industry. I get a sense that some fashionable women don’t think other women “deserve” to wear nice clothes.
Three days ago, I wrote a darkly “funny” post about replacing our health care system with Jillian Roberts 30-Day Shred DVDs. Some commenters got mad at me for writing statements such as:
“The fashion industry does a better job than the medical establishment in promoting HEALTH with their healthy thin, role-models. Those who insist that “real†(read fat) women should be portrayed in ads, are not your friends. These women, so-called “feminists,†are mostly lobbyists for the pharmaceutical companies wanting to promote bad health to increase profits for diet pills.”
I apologize if I hurt anyone’s feelings, even though I thought I was making fun of exercise fanatics.  In some circles, this is called “satire.” You should see what some female bloggers actually SAY without being tongue in cheek.
I’m not fat. I don’t think Sophia is fat. Neither of us have abs that are very impressive. I do think obesity is an issue in America. I do think exercise is wonderful and important, and I should try to get more healthy, no matter what my weight.
I also think education is important, and if guy drops out of high school, I don’t say he is a lazy loser, because I don’t know the circumstances of his life.  I also don’t look down him because when he becomes a plumber and makes ten times as much money as me, I don’t want him laughing at me for wasting my life with this ridiculous “writing” nonsense!
Be nice. And remember, when you get to be 75, the bigger woman will always look younger. My size 18 mother looks 60. Her size 2 friend with 20 plastic surgeries looks 90.
We should all exercise. We should all eat right. Better education, housing, and pay for all Americans will do a lot more for obesity than calling names, or dismissing people wanting to accept themselves in a society that makes them feel second class.  Rather than judging each other on weight, we should judge each other on how many orgasms we have each month. That is a better barometer of a person’s happiness.
Finally, as I said on Twitter earlier today, “God help us if they ever perfect penis enlargement and men are made to feel as insecure as women with their weight.”
Sunday, January 24, 2010
I want to try an experiment. I’m only going to write one post this week, the one you are reading right now, but I will be updating it each night until next Sunday. It will be a seven night long post.
“Why?”
I’m attracted to the idea because it is counter-intuitive. I don’t think this idea will attract readers, and the updates won’t show up in the Google Reader.
“So, what’s the point?”
The idea scares me. And I like that. Because I will be writing this for YOU. And by YOU, I mean ME.
I took this photo in the hospital today.  Sophia’s FIL is still in the hospital.  I spent the day there with Sophia’s mother. Things became worse because he had a heart attack on Friday night. This has been a three week ordeal now.   When I first made my plans to come to LA, it was discuss our relationship.  Instead, stress has moved into our home with us, like termites of the soul, eating away at the foundation of everything.
Monday, January 25, 2010
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