Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

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Not All Gays Like My Blog

April 9, 2009 / / 18 Comments

There has been a big month for the rights of gays and lesbians.  The Iowa Supreme Court found that denying same-sex couples the opportunity to marry violated that state’s constitution.  The Vermont legislature overrode the governor’s veto of a law giving same-sex couples the right to marry.

Naturally, there is a backlash.    Have you see this nutty video against gay marriage on YouTube?

Of course, there is now a backlash to the backlash, and I have not been spared.

In the last few weeks, I have received quite a few emails and comments about a post I wrote in 2006 titled “Why Gay Marriage Should Be Banned” — which was probably a dumb title, but at the time, I was a clever, bratty, and naive young blogger.

Here is a recent comment to this two year old post:

This is perhaps the most blatant expression of typical American miseducation of the masses. Your comparison between gay marriage and marriage between a goat and a man is perhaps the worst argument standpoint I’ve ever seen on this topic. There is no comparison between the two.  Homosexuals are people too – animals aren’t. Marriage is a human act, not an animalian one – idiot.  You use humour to compensate for the lack of a proper argument.  You and your supporters are a joke.

Let me say this right here.  I am a supporter of gay marriage, even those gays with poor reading comprehension.   Or those with a dislike of goats.

Editor’s Note:  Now that I read it again… I think I can see how it is being misread.   Someone might actually make this crazy argument in real life, so it isn’t that outlandish!

Matzoh Brei

April 9, 2009 / / 26 Comments

matzoh

During Passover, you’re supposed to eat matzoh, symbolizing how the Israelites ran out of Egypt so quickly, they didn’t have time to leaven the bread.

The best Passover meal is not during the seder, but the next morning.  Matzoh brei is incredibly easy to make.  It is a cross between French Toast made with matzoh and an omelete.

I love matzoh brei.  If, for example, a beautiful woman invited me up to her apartment this week, and we made passionate love all night in her bedroom, I would wake up early the next morning to make her some Passover matzoh brei for breakfast, and after taking one bite, she would no doubt be praising the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.

Of course, since she praised the Lord several times last night in bed, when I went under the covers, maybe SHE should wake up early and make me the matzoh brei!

(Gimme a break!  Like the rest of you don’t promote yourselves all the time on your dumb blogs?  –  I wrote a book!  I went to a conference!  I met Dooce!   Blah Blah Blah.  — It’s time for me to promote myself!)

Caramelized Onion and Mushroom Matzoh Brei
(via Melissa Clark)

Time: 20 minutes

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1/3 cup diced onions
1/2 cup sliced mushrooms
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
2 boards(about 2 ounces) matzoh, broken into pieces
5 large eggs, lightly beaten

1. In a skillet over low heat, melt 2 tablespoons of the butter. Add the onions and cook, stirring, until caramelized, 5 to 7 minutes.
2. Add the mushrooms and raise the heat to medium-high. Continue to cook, stirring, until the mushrooms are soft, about 5 minutes. Season with plenty of salt and pepper.
3. Add the remaining tablespoon of butter to the pan and let it melt. Add the matzoh and cook, tossing to coat the matzoh in butter, for 2 minutes.
4. Pour the eggs into the pan and season them generously with salt and pepper. Cook, scrambling the mixture, until the eggs are set, about 2 to 3 more minutes. Season with salt and pepper and serve.

Serves 2

Morning Dew

April 6, 2009 / / 29 Comments

morning

You need to grab nature wherever you can get it.

Morning.

I walk on the cracked, gray, concrete of  the New York streets  to the McDonald’s across the street, the artificially colored arches calling to me, “Coffee!”

Before I can reach my destination, I face a challenge, like most explorers must.  I need to cross over a thin strip of lawn that separates the parking lot from the drive-thru from the main entrance.  This yard is green, and well maintained.  I try not to trample anywhere beyond the pathway.  The grass is wet and sparkly.   It is my morning dew.

I know I am deceiving myself by considering it morning dew.  I am trying to be poetic, to connect to Thoreau and Walt Whitman, even though I am in modern, decaying Queens.

There is a water hose curled up like a python near the drive-in sign that advertises the latest dollar meals.  I can see the hose.  I know it is there.  I know that a staff member must water the lawn every morning.  I know God is not sprinkling his natural goodness on this god-forsaken piece of land.    I have never seen this McDonald’s employee  in action, but I know that he was there before me, probably very unhappy about getting up so early to come to work to water the grass.

Even though I know the truth, I SEE the water on the grass as morning dew.  The idea that morning dew has appeared across the street from my apartment building, in Queens, on this little plot of lawn — well, it just makes me happy.  Water and grass.  Can you get more elementary than that?  With enough water and sun, a Garden of Eden could bloom, right on this spot, right next to the drive-in window of McDonald’s.

I kneel in front of the lawn.  I always rub the top strands of grass, watching the drops of water fly into the air.  I like when a droplet hits my skin and gives me a tickle.

I always wanted a dog, but have never owned one.  When I rub the wet grass, I can imagine the wet hair of a  little dog, playful after a refreshing bath, shaking the water from his body to and fro.

The morning dew greets me like that friendly dog.  Even when I feel lonely, one touch of the morning dew can change everything.

Guest Poster Slams Mommyblogger

April 5, 2009 / / 24 Comments

Did you know that there are so-called “hate blogs” out there, that attack other bloggers, not only for their writing, but for the content and choices of their lives?  While some view this type of blog as horrendous and just plain nasty, I see these truth-seekers as important counterpoints in a blogging world so heavily tilted towards those with “power.”  Why shouldn’t another voice be heard?

GossipMaven is one of the more popular of these “hate-bloggers,” and a good friend of mine.  I respect her completely because she speaks her mind, consequences be damned.  I am honored to have her be a guest poster on my blog today.  Take it away, GossipMaven!

Thanks, Neil.  I am so grateful for this opportunity to take my views to a wider audience.

This is a post that MUST be read.  It is about that ubiquitous blogger that we call the “mommyblogger.” Let us be honest.  We all hate these people, but few of us are brave enough to speak publicly.  That is why Neil was kind enough to let me publish here, anonymously.

Enough is enough.  We must stop the insanity before this virus continues any longer.  The truth must come out, and I must NAME NAMES.  Mommybloggers are nothing more than uncreative hacks that use their own families for profit, mocking their so called “loved ones,” as IF they could ever truly love anyone other than themselves.

In my opinion, the most egregious of these mommybloggers is “Neilochka” of the blog “Citizen of the Month.”

At one time, years ago, his blog was mildly amusing.  Now, every other post is the same — and always about his MOTHER.  Monday, Mommy Blog, Tuesday, Mommy Blog, etc.  When did this once virile, confident man become such a momma’s boy — a MOMMYBLOGGER, always blogging about his mother, and exploiting this poor, hard-working woman for a few cheap laughs.  Whenever he runs out of material, he pulls his mother out of his hat, like a magician/therapy patient stuck in his latency period.

The story is always the same.  “Little” Neil is in some sort of trouble.  His “Mommy” shows to save the day.  Was it any surprise that his mother found the extra shower curtain?

Grow up, man!

This immaturity has turned this gray-chest-haired Peter Pan “boy” into a complete pervert.  He never comments on any blogs unless the blogger happens to be displaying a photo of her cleavage.

Sorry to tell you this, Neilochka, but you are too old to still be sucking on your Mommy’s tits!

And if he isn’t writing about his Mommy, he is writing about his dick.

What are you, Neilochka, — 12 years old?!

Writing about your “c*ck” all the time will not win you a date at BlogHer.  You just comes off as a desperate loser!  Women want a man who is CONFIDENT, not an insecure twirp still holding on his mother’s apron strings, singing the praises of the “juicy” brisket that she will make for Passover.

Your readers are fed up with you emailing them photos of what you promote on Twitter as “the greatest cock in the blogosphere.” As V-grrrl recently wrote in one of her posts, “I have received several of these photos, and if this is “the greatest cock in the blogosphere,” I have some investment ideas for you with this genius named Bernie Madoff.”

But I don’t really care about you, you slimeball.  You have dug your own hole and you deserve to sit in it, with nothing but your iPhone playing old episodes of “All My Children” all day.

I DO worry about your dear innocent mother, who once dreamed of you standing on the Senate floor, introducing a bill to ban poverty in America, but instead, has been reduced to the equivalent of a Rodney Dangerfield punchline.   One day, she will read these blog posts, or her friends with discover them online(you even use her REAL NAME, you imbicile!) and she will be mocked and ostracized by the others at her mah jongg game.

Mildred:  “Nice to meet you, Elaine.  My son is a doctor.  What does your son do?”

Elaine Kramer:  “My son writes about me.  He is a uh… Mommy Blogger.”

Thanks, GossipMaven.  You are always welcome back here at this blog to “tell it like it is!”

The Shower Curtain

April 2, 2009 / / 47 Comments

Blogging has become so popular that all meaning has been lost.  People call themselves “writers,” and ramble on about nothing, as if the minutia of their lives are as important as the big issues of the day, the tragedies that confront us all.

Which brings me to my story of the shower curtain.

It has always bothered me to come home from a trip, and be confronted with the house a mess.  What type of “Welcome Home” greeting is that?  I am always rushing before I leave to somewhere, frantically packing at the last minute, tossing my socks and underwear from the top drawer of my cabinet until they have flown clear across the bedroom, some brave Hanes briefs even hanging upside down from the overhead lamp, as if they are Russian trapeze artists performing in a circus act.

Before I left for Florida a few weeks ago, I promised myself, “This time I am going to CLEAN UP before I leave, so I can return to a nice, pleasant home.”  I did my vacuuming, dusting, and kitchen cleaning, using some new “green” product that promises not to kill any animals.  When I entered the bathroom for my final stop during my cleaning rounds, I realized that I had not cleaned the shower curtain in three months.  The bottom tenth of the curtain was black with mold.

“Shit, that is disgusting!” I said, turning my nose up snobbishly as I spoke to myself in the bathroom mirror, gazing at my own face, which I usually do when I speak to myself in the bathroom.

Now, I know bad economic times means frugality and making do with what you already have, but there was no f**king way I was going to touch the bottom of that shower curtain, even with a sponge in my hand and my entire body covered in a plastic six-foot condom.  I ripped the shower curtain from the hooks and tossed it into the garbage.

The next day, I flew to Florida.

Ten days later, I returned.

I was pleased.  The house was nice, clean, and inviting, just like I had hoped it would be.   I unpacked, undressed, and prepared to take a nice relaxing shower.

I bet you can figure out what happened next.  Exactly!

I walked into the bathroom, looked at my naked body approvingly, which I always do when I see myself in the bathroom mirror, stepped into the bathtub, ready for the warm water to wash away all my problems — when I realized that there was NO SHOWER CURTAIN!

I may be a lot of things, but I am not rude to others.  I COULD have attempted to take a shower without the curtain, but I was worried about the apartment below.   In the past, our downstairs neighbors had complained about leaks in their bathroom when I take a long shower.

I decided to take my first bath in ten years.

Let me just come out and say this publicly — I have nothing against baths.  I enjoy them.  As a child, I did not cry when I was told to take a bath.  Baths were fun.  I would play in the water, imagining I was in some sort of James Bond-like adventure, and I had to rescue some woman from some isolated island.  But at a certain point in my life, most of the bathtubs in the world just became too small for my six foot body.  What is UP with that?  Are most bathtubs made in Asia for petite women?  Or are bathtubs still modeled on the tubs of the 18th Century, when adults were shorter than they are today?  I don’t take baths because it is impossible to take a bath and have my entire body submerged in the water at the same time.  Either I have to keep my knees up, or sit up straight, exposing my chest and back to the cold air coming out of the vent.  Can you imagine how uncomfortable it is to have your waist down heated to a temperature of 80 degrees, while your upper half is stuck in the 50 degree wind?  You can get a cold, or a shiver.  Who needs it?

No shower curtain meant no shower, I had to take a bath.  And I did.  It was not a fun, but I managed, accepting it as something required, like a geometry class in junior high school.   Some people glorify the New York water system.  They say that it is the “water” that makes New York bagels the best.   But there is a dark side to New York water.  It appears cloudy.  When you pour a glass of tap water, sometimes you have to wait a whole minute until the water appears clear.  Taking a bath in cloudy water is depressing.    No man wants to look at his beloved penis, sitting there under the grainy, unclear water, like a long-forgotten ship wreck on the ocean floor.

The bad economy has a role to play in this story.  Until recently, there was a large “National Wholesale Liquidators” a block away from my mother’s apartment building.    Wholesale Liquidators was one of those enormous discount stores that has EVERYTHING and is always crowded with a masses of people speaking a hundred different languages, at least in Queens.  It was a great place to walk around and laugh at the  sheer amount of useless products created in this world.  Last month, the store went out of business.  The enormous store is now a boxy hulk of emptiness, a showcase for latest in the local graffiti artists and pigeon shit.

The Wholesale Liquidators was the only store within three blocks of my mother’s apartment building where I could buy a shower curtain.  Otherwise, I would have to take a bus or train to Kmart, or some similar type of chain, and that would require me to… uh, leave the house.

Some people might call this personality trait as  “laziness,” but I find that an ugly word.   I like to consider myself as “intensely focused on the trivial,” like blogging, or fighting with people on Twitter.    That is my only explanation for living in an apartment without a shower curtain for two weeks.   Every day, I would take another cloudy-water bath in the tub, until it became such a common experience, I developed a routine to wash my body:  first my upper half would be cleaned, and then I would slide up and clean my lower half.  Washing my hair proved awkward, but not impossible.  I would lower my head under the faucet-spout, carefully turning my head from side to side.  It was a difficult operation doing my hair, because if I wasn’t careful, I would end up dunking my face in the dirty water already in the tub, and that was is just as disgusting as the original moldy shower curtain.

Two days ago, I received a call from my mother.  It was March 31st.   Winter was over.  Her three month tour of duty in Boca Raton’s “Century Village” was over.  It was time for her return to the big city.

I was caught off-guard.  The house was a mess again, and I’m sure she wanted to return to a clean house, just the way I did when I came back from Florida.

The pressure was on.  I had one day to clean the house and do the laundry.  I worked my butt off.   I threw away the rancid Chinese take-out food that was in the fridge for two months.    I deleted all the bookmarks to “Librarians Gone Wild” on the desktop in the living room.   The clock was ticking.  My mother was landing at LaGuardia in an hour.   I went to the bathroom to pee, and as I was standing there — yes, you are ahead of me — I saw that there was something missing from the apartment, something that is pretty common for every bathroom to have hanging over the tub.

I saw that there was no shower curtain!

That would not be acceptable.  I did what any normal person does during a time of stress — I went onto Twitter and asked for advice.

“Where can I buy a shower curtain in an hour?”

Someone suggested Duane Reade, but when I called my local pharmacy, the guy on the phone did not seem to know what a shower curtain even was.

“Shower spray?” he asked repeatedly.

I was desperate.  I knew there was a dollar store a few blocks away, and I was reluctant to go there, mostly because everything that I have ever bought at this store has ended up being defective.  I was concerned that a dollar store shower curtain would emit dangerous fumes from the plastic, and poisoning my mother while she takes her first shower is not a very happy “welcome home” gift.   But I had no choice.   Better to have a dollar store shower curtain, than none at all.

I quickly put on my shoes, ready to dash to the dollar store, hoping to save the day, in much the same way that the guy in the movies runs to the airport to stop the girl he loves from flying to London and marrying the other guy, because he knows that  she will be unhappy with me, but instead of running to the airport, it was my mother flying INTO the airport, and I didn’t want to disappoint the woman I loved by her showing up, and seeing her apartment without a shower curtain.

But it was too late.  My phone rang.  It was my mother, calling from a cab as it pulled up in front of the apartment building.

“Can you come down and help me with the luggage?” she asked.

I went downstairs, ready to accept my fate.

As I wheeled the luggage into the bedroom, my mother inspected the house.

“Not perfect, but better than I expected.”

“There’s just one problem.”  I mumbled.  “I know this might sound weird, but we don’t have a shower curtain.”

My body froze, ready for her to ask me the journalistic questions of what, where, how, why, and when?

Instead, she shrugged her shoulders, and opened up the hallway closet.  Folded on top, were three other shower curtains.

“They were on sale a while back,” she said.  “You never know when you might need an extra shower curtain.”

I probably should have saved this post for mother’s day, because this story clearly says everything you need to know about motherhood.

Dear Vivian

March 29, 2009 / / 39 Comments

Dear Vivian,

I have never done this before — written to a blogger who I don’t know personally — but I must tell you how much your last few posts, your series on “Love and Happiness,” has meant to me.   Your words express ideas that have been in my heart for a long time, but have had no tunnel in which to escape and fly away, like a butterfly into the air.  You have shown me that path.  I have always been cynical, but now I realize that if I approach others with love, I will receive love back tenfold!

I loved what you wrote on Tuesday’s post, “Each Face is Beautiful,” — “Whenever I meet someone, hear someone, or read the writing of another individual, it is as if a piece of their wonderful, vibrant soul has surrounded me with a glowing light, and wrapped me warmly like a childhood blanket, and all I want to do is say “Thank You for being YOU and sharing YOU with ME.  I love.  I give love.  I receive love.”

Just beautiful.   As you are as a person.

Sincerely, Neil

Dear Vivian,

As usual, your latest post, “Seeing the World with the Third Eye,” has touched me beyond belief.  From this point on, I will also view the world “with my third eye.”  I will expunge all racism, sexism, and ageism from my life, and love everyone equally.  You are not only a writer, but a teacher.    In my tradition, we call that person a rabbi.

As you can tell from the link on the bottom of the email, I write a blog myself titled “Dispatch from Brooklyn.”   While the quality of my work is a far cry from your profundity, it would be a great honor if you would stop by just once and read my latest post, “Changing My Life.”  You were the muse for these brand-new insights.   I think you will get a big kick out of  reading it!

Sincerely, Neil

Dear Vivian,

Hello from New York City, also known as the Big Apple!   A few days ago, I mentioned that I wrote a post titled “Changing My Life,” which I completely based on the beautiful ideas expressed on your blog.  You are an inspiration.  You are the first blog I read in the morning, and as you must notice, I LOVE to comment on your blog every day.

I know you must be very busy, and I am sure you get emails like this every day from your many fans, but I was hoping that you might read that post I mentioned, or even comment on it.    Have you been trying, and facing some sort of  technical issue with my blog?   I hope there isn’t a problem with any of the new plug-ins.   I recently updated my WordPress template,  and you know how it goes when you update — sometimes it goes all crazy.   I apologize if that is the case.  I’m not the most tech-savvy person in the world.   If you’re having any problems commenting, please email me and I will fix it immediately.   Thanks.

Sincerely, Neil

Dear Vivian,

Hi, there.  Remember me?   How are you doing?  I’m still working on adding some plug-ins to my blog.   Recently, I added a few stats programs.  Do you use one too?   I know looking at your stats too much can drive you crazy, but I figured if I installed Google Analytics, Woompra, Site Meter, Site Counter, WordPress Stats, and StatsForever, I could get a pretty good overview of my readership.  Not that I have a big readership, like YOU, but just for fun!

I’m just curious — you still live in North Carolina, right?  I hear it is beautiful there, in that part of the country.   Hopefully, one day, if I am ever in town, we can go have a cup of coffee and gossip about blogging!

Sincerely, Neil

P.S. – so far, I haven’t seen anyone from North Carolina show up in any of my six stats programs.  Don’t be shy!!

Dear Vivian,

By now, I am sure you have seen my latest post, titled “Vivian is a Hypocritical Bitch.” I hope you realize that this is not a personal attack on your character, but random thoughts on a subject that I find fascinating — blog personality vs. real-life personality.  I consider my blog a fairly accurate representation of who I am in real life.   I do not know you, so I don’t know if you are a nice person or not.  You certainly SEEM super-nice on your blog, where you talk about “the little guy,” “those in need,” and all about love and caring and community.   I was even one of the first to go on Amazon and order your new book “Love and Caring and Community,” but sometimes I wonder if all this “loving” stuff isn’t just… well, a cheap gimmick to sell a book.

Let me ask you a personal question.   Have you ever read my blog?

I DON’T think so.

Again, I know you are busy with the book and all, but you certainly have enough time to read Oprah’s blog.    How do I know this?   Because I’ve seen you on it.  And, surprise, surprise.  Your book is going to be featured on Oprah’s show?  Of course!   That’s why you read her blog, and not the guy who has read your blog every day for the last two years and sent you cookies and that YouTube video of him juggling five oranges on your birthday!   So, that is how it works.  If it helps to sell your book, then you are all OPEN ARMS and ready to french kiss the person.  But if someone is a regular JOE,  then you say, “FUCK YOU.”   OK, I accept that.   I just wish you had been honest with me, or wrote that on your blog header,  so I would have been aware of your narcissistic game plan.   Believe me, I am not the only one who thinks  of you in this way.  You’re a fraud.  A fucking fraud!   And a bitch!”

Sincerely, Neil

Dear Vivian,

Holy shit!  I just got off all six of my stats programs, and my stats are through the roof!  Thank you SOOOO much for mentioning me on Oprah as “that crazy lunatic from Brooklyn.”  Once my blog address was outed on Facebook, I have been swamped with attention.  I even got a call from your literary agent!  I can’t believe my blog is finally getting some attention.  Like they say, the cream does rise to the top if you focus on your writing and perfect it!

Sincerely, Neil

Dear Vivian,

I have not had so much fun in all my life as I did with you during that session at Blogher on “Blogging with Authenticity.”  You can see the recap on my blog!  Everyone loved us!   Did you see what Guy Kawasaki said about us on Twitter?  He called us the “Woodward and Bernstein of Personal Blogging!”  I can’t wait to see you again at the SXSW.

And thank you so much for writing that touching blurb for my book.  “That Crazy Lunatic From Brooklyn” is already selling like hotcakes on Amazon.

You are a true friend.  When I started blogging, I had no idea what I was doing.  I was just writing little posts, navel-gazing self-therapy.  Never in a million years, did I ever expect to connect in such a powerful and intimate way with a peer as brilliant and awe-inspiring as you.    I love you, my dear friend.

Sincerely, Neil

Goat Stew

March 25, 2009 / / 27 Comments

goat

I went for breakfast at the Dominican diner down the block.  I’ve written about this place before.  They have two menus combined in one folder — traditional Dominican cuisine and the gringo menu for those who want burgers and BLTs.   During my first few visits there, I went the safe route, ordering boring veggie burgers and turkey sandwiches.   Three blogger friends, Miguelina, Astrogirl, and Victoria of Veep Veep, all women with some part chica latina, scolded me for being so vanilla.

“Try something different, white boy!” said Astrogirl.

I ordered the goat stew.  It was delicious.   Tender, spicy, in a unique sauce.   Since then, I have ordered it countless times, as well as ordering other unfamiliar delicacies, such as cassava instead of potatoes, with my scrambled eggs.

At first, the staff was unfriendly to me, but once I ordered from their side of the menu, they accepted me as one of the community.   They yelled my name when I walked in, like Norm in Cheers, and they gave me the best table in the corner.  I talked to them about the Dominican music playing on the speakers; we chatted about life back in the old country.

I was eating my breakfast late today.  It was 11:30 and customers were now coming in for lunch.   Three burly Russian guys sat at the adjacent table.  They wore grey uniforms, and I assumed they were involved in some contruction or painting project nearby.  They were earthy guys, looking hungry.  One of the men — short, barrel-chested, and sporting a mustache — called over the waiter in a booming voice.

“Over here!”  he said.

His tone might have sounded rude coming from someone else, but it was clear that this mustachioed Russian spoke this way with everyone.   He also displayed a disarming smile that made you like him.

The Dominican waiter came over.   He told me his name once, and it sounded like “Chi,” so I will call him Chi.

“So tell me, my good man,” says the thick-accented Russian to Chi.  “What’s good here to eat for lunch?”

Chi looked nervous answering this question.    I studied the situation.   It was unclear if he concerned about his boss hearing his answer or giving the wrong answer to the three Russian guys?  Maybe these men were members of the Russian Mob and Chi was sweating in his boots?

“Fried chicken is good.” said Chi.

“Nah.” replied the Russian.

Chi tried again.  “Chicken parmigana.”

“No!   Nyet!   No chicken.  I’m sick of chicken.  My wife only makes chicken.”

Chi leaned against the wall, deep in thought, his eyes flickering back and forth from the back door to the kitchen.  I was completely involved in this drama, not quite understanding either the situation or the mystery.

I decided to help both Chi AND the hungry Russian trio.

“You should try the goat stew!”  I said, proud of my multi-cultural culnary knowledge.  “It’s excellent.”

This outburst was not a usual activity for me.  Sophia might have done this, but not me.  I rarely give advice to people I don’t know, strangers sitting at the next table.  I usually read the newspaper when I eat alone, or play on my iPhone, ignoring others.   But this story was so involving, I felt like I was part of it.  The three Russians turned towards me, hearing my advice, then quickly back to Chi, waiting for his response.

“No,” said Chi to the Russians.  “Don’t eat the goat stew here.  Have the chicken.”

For lunch, all three Russians ate fried chicken.

As I left the Dominican Diner, I noticed that nobody was eating the goat stew, even the Dominicans.

The Disappearing Video

March 25, 2009 / / 18 Comments

I’m a cross between my mother and father.   My mother is optimistic, friendly, and efficient.   My late father was sarcastic, contemplative, overly-emotional, and somewhat negative.    I bounce back between my mother’s pollyannish attitude and my father’s cynicism, and for most of my life, this counterbalance in my brain has worked OK.

I think a positive attitude keep you happy and healthy, so I try to lean towards my mother’s direction, although I am stuck with my father’s chromosome.   I am not an advocate of those self-help books like “The Secret” that say positive thoughts are EVERYTHING.    I’ve seen too many happy people run over by a bus.     I do believe that your thoughts can help temper how you view the world.   We all have a soundtrack playing in our head that colors the action in front of us.   We’ve seen those YouTube videos where someone adds a new soundtrack to “The Shining” and makes it seem like a kid’s movie.   When I was in film school, I was blown away by the power of post-production.   So much of the emotional content is developed afterwards — in the sound, the cutting, the music.   This is where the director manipulates you into seeing things the way he wants you to see them.  POV is everything.

Point of view works the same in positive and negative thinking.   A butterfly comes into the house through the patio door.  Positive woman: “Oh look, a beautiful butterfly has visited us.   That must mean good luck!”   Negative guy: “Get that freakin’ insect out of here! Is there a hole in the screen AGAIN?!”

In my last post, I wrote about being discovered by old friends on Facebook during an inopportune moment in my life.

“Why couldn’t they find me on a day when I just got a promotion or a book deal?! ” I thought.

Of course, this is my father talking — the negative side.   I assume — wrongly — that everyone is doing wonderful, except me, and that all my old classmates, now smiling cheerfully on Facebook, are wondering what happened to me — (he’s living in the same apartment?!  he’s not with his wife?!)  — the guy who once gave the inspirational VALEDVICTORIAN SPEECH at our elementary school graduation, comparing our future to the NASA space program, with all of us reaching higher and higher in our goals and aspirations, until one day, we would meet again, all of us successful and happy, hand in hand with our spouses, watching OUR children graduate from their elementary school in 2009, at P.S. 1, the first elementary school on the outpost of Mars!

I was a nerdy kid.

My mother, the positive one, would say, “Perfect. What a wonderful time to reconnect with old friends!”

Negative is bad because it screws up the neurons in your brain and you start to see signs all around you that the world is against you, or laughing at you.   The black cat was MEANT for you.   It crossed the street, right in front of you, for a reason.   A positive person might not even notice the cat, or if it was black.   They would be too busy smiling at everyone passing by and enjoying the nice weather, even if the weather was crappy.  That’s what my mother would do.

I try hard to emulate my mother.

Today, I receive an email about the first ever blog proposal online!  Some male blogger was going to propose to a female blogger ONLINE!   I was invited to leave a link to one of my blog posts that related to love or marriage.  I thought it was a great idea and wanted to participate.  I love people falling in love.   I wanted to tell them that I love LOVE too.

I added a link from 2006.

At the time, I was in Los Angeles and Sophia was working on a movie in New York.   It was our anniversary.  I made my first (and only) video for the blog, where I recreated our first dance from our wedding while dancing with a mop.

Today, I started getting links from the proposal blog, and comments that read, “Where’s the video?” “No video” and “Where is it?”

“That’s weird,” I said to myself as I went to the post and clicked on the YouTube video that I had posted two years ago.

I received this message:

“This video is no longer available due to a copyright claim by a third party.”

Now the only logical explanation is that the Andrew Sisters’ “Bei Mir Bist Du Schon,” the song we used for our first dance at the wedding, was playing in the background as I did my dancing with the mop, and someone from (the record company?) found this was a violation, which is odd, considering all the illegal crap that gets put on YouTube.

A negative person might see this as symbolic, like that black cat, or the broken mirror, as if YouTube was trying to send me a message that was more personal, less about the Andrew Sisters, and more about my marriage and my life.   Why else would this personal expression of love for my wife just go POOF, and disappear from the blogosphere?

“This video is no longer available due to a copyright claim by a third party.”

Where is it?  What did YouTube do with it?   Is YouTube trying to tell me something?

I choose to go my mother’s route, the positive way, and just laugh at the irony.   I also have a copy of this video on my computer in Los Angeles, so try all you want, YouTube, but you cannot erase memories (or backups).

Sending Love to Shannon of Charming Bitch!

March 24, 2009 / / 3 Comments

Shannon, a funny and charming blogger, who writes for Charming Bitch and has commented and guest-posted on this blog, is in the hospital.  Her immune system has not been doing so well since she started doing radiation and chemo for cancer.  If you know her, or even if you don’t, you can say hello over on her blog.

Shannon, please feel better and be strong!

Bad Time For New Facebook Friends

March 23, 2009 / / 43 Comments

Nothing can lift the spirits of a man better than a long-time friend. My friend Barry called yesterday.

“I’m free tonight. You want to grab some sushi and then come coffee at the diner?”

“Perfect.”

I’ve mentioned Barry several times before. We have known each other since kindergarten. Although he has moved to the Island, his parents still live in my mother’s building, so he frequently drops by.

We have a ritual on our nights out. We eat somewhere. We drive past Shea Stadium/CitiField and talk about the Mets (well, in honesty, he talks about the Mets and I listen). We drive to the Palace Diner near Queens College. I order a coffee and linzer tart. He orders a decaf coffee and apple crumb cake. We look at the songs on the jukebox and make fun of them. We watch videos on YouTube on the iphone. We sit there for four hours.

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Barry knows very little about blogging and Twitter, but he has recently become obsessed with Facebook, mostly in reconnecting with people we knew in elementary school. He seems to have an amazing ability to find long-lost people.

“I found Josh. He sells real estate in Seattle. And I talked with Juan. He is a minister in Idaho.”

“Juan is a minister in Idaho?”

“He told me to give you his blessings.”

“How did he become a minister? All he ever did in school was smoke pot.”

“Maybe that’s how he found God.”

Now, if you recall, I closed the comments on my previous post. I titled it a “Trainwreck Post” and described how my life was falling apart. Some scholars say that God does not have a sense of humor. I should ask Juan about this issue. But I believe God IS a funny guy. Why else would Barry proceed to tell me this — ?

“Oh, I told him to friend you on Facebook. I told EVERYONE to friend you on Facebook. And I gave everyone the address to your BLOG.”

“My BLOG?! Why the hell would you do that?”

“Yeah, I thought it would be cool for them to see it. You were writing stuff even back then. They can see that you kept with it!”

“I don’t want THEM to see my BLOG!  Especially right now!”

It was too late. All weekend, I had classmates I haven’t seen in decades, happily married individuals who are now successful attorneys, professors, clothing designers, and ministers, coming to my blog and reading the post where I revealed that I am “rock bottom,” in need of medication, and STILL LIVING in the same apartment I was in elementary school.

“Interesting writing! I’ll read more.” wrote Sharon in a message to me on Facebook.  She was some girl I once dreamed about in sixth grade, now an assistant dean of a prestigious woman’s college.

For some reason, I don’t believe her.

When Barry told me this news in the diner, I knew it was going to be trouble.

“We all want to look good with old friends!  Having all these people reading my blog right now is like ME going to my college reunion with my fly open!”

“At least they’ll remember you as different,”  he said.

Barry handed me my iPhone.   As I was fretting, he had clicked onto Facebook and was showing me the current profile photo of Jane, who, back in the day, was considered the prettiest girl in fifth grade.

“Jeez, she’s still gorgeous!” I said. “Is she married?”

“To a neurosurgeon.”

I finished my linzer tart.

22

Today, on Facebook, Jane posted this photo of Barry and me in the fifth grade during the yearly P.S. 154 “Dance Festival” in the schoolyard.

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