“I love you.”
“I love you.”
“Let’s get married.”
“I have a better idea. Let’s walk into the middle of a highway, hand in hand, waiting for a eighteen-wheeler to run us over!”
Page 69 of 187
Part Two
William looked for his keys in the usual places, under the couch, on the kitchen table, in the side pocket of the red cardigan sweater that he wore during his long walks on Sunday dusk at the beach, where he was always the last person on Earth to watch the sun set on another weekend.
It was 11:45 PM. Time was speeding towards the New Year, and William had no car keys. Was God sending William a message? Was it preordained that he would always be the last? William laughed to himself. Even if he found the car keys, he knew what would happen next.  The car wouldn’t start! The battery would be dead. There would be no gas. It was his destiny. He could not break out of his status quo. There was no one to offer him a friendly hand or a kind word. There was only… himself, Willam Z. Zweig, a simple man who always came in last, an outsider with curly brown hair, now with a wisp of grey, ten fingers imperfect from his habit of nail-biting, and two large feet. William looked down at these feet and for the first time in his life, acknowledged them as his dear friends. William could depend on them for help. He could run!
Pebbles and dust flew into the air as William raced down Itu Asau Road. He could feel the shadow of the approaching New Year barreling towards him with every step. The revelers of the world had long gone home from Times Square and Trafalgar Square, and the First Moment of 2009 was ready to call it a day in Samoa, like the overworked postman stumbling through his final stop on his daily rounds.
William race, controlling his breathing, maintaining his focus.  He need to pass his neighbor’s house so he would not be last. Up ahead, he could see a glimmer of light. It was the lantern that his neighbor, the cocoa exporter, kept on his front porch. Pa’aga, a silver-haired life-long bachelor, an avid gardener of tomatoes, was sitting outside, in his favorite rattan chair, comfortably waiting for the arrival of the New Year.  William slowed his pace, not wanting to create any suspicion, hoping to walk past Pa’aga without even a conversation. William pretended that he was taking a leisurely nighttime stroll, although his tense posture was a sure giveaway of something else. As William passed the home of Pa’aga, William stepped on a twig and it cracked. Pa’aga switched on a flashlight, the bright ray striking William in his sweaty and anxious face.
“Oh, it’s you William,” said the friendly Pa’aga. “How are you, my neighbor? Happy Almost New Year!”
“Happy Almost New Year to you,” replied William, still walking, not missing a beat.
“Where are you going at this hour?” asked Pa’aga, the ultra-curious intonation in his voice making William’s stomach turn.”
“Just taking a walk.”
“What a pleasant way to bring in the New Year. I’ll join you.” he said.
William almost fainted from the tension.
It was 11:54. William and Pa’aga were now walking side by side. If William stepped up the pace, so did Pa’aga. His neighbor’s breathing was erratic, as if the speed was too much for him, but he gave no indication of slowing. William liked the good-natured Pa’aga, and had no problems with him. In fact, Pa’aga has always been the most gracious neighbor, even coming over once to help capture a feisty lizard that had once made his way into William’s kitchen. William’s only concern now was not to be the last… again.
Pa’aga was a talkative man, and as the two men strolled together in a perfectly even line, like soldiers marching in unison, they chatted, mostly about local gossip. Did the local pastor really have an affair with the rugby coach’s wife? Will coconut prices skyrocket after the bad summer?
William’s mind drifted. He was younger than his Samoan neighbor and could probably outrun him, but Pa’aga was in good shape from years of physical labor in the fields, so William could not be assured of beating him in a foot race. William thought of tripping Pa’aga; he would have the element of surprise on his side. Pa’aga would stumble and fall on his face, while William would race towards the New Year, reaching it a split second before his friend. While this plan seemed practical, this idea, and the very fact that he thought it, saddened William. He was not a violent man, and pushing Pa’aga went against everything he believed in since childhood. William’s darker self berated his moral stance, stating quite forcefully that this inability to take the necessary action was William’s biggest problem. Was he afraid of doing “what it takes” in order NOT to be last?
“It’s 11:58.” said Pa’aga. “It’s almost New Year’s. Are you making any resolutions, my friend?”
William’s demeanor changed. He heart was warmed by Pa’aga’s caring concern for his well-being, and his own icy scheming melted away. William smiled at his neighbor.
“I would like to change some things in my life,” said William. “I don’t know if I would call it a resolution, but I would like to take more action in my life.”
“I have been thinking the same about my own life.”
William nodded. Perhaps the two neighbors, the Samoan and the outsider, were soulmates after all. William came up with a new idea for the final moments of the year, one of compromise. They would enter the New Year together, hand in hand, side by side, so NO one would be last. They would face the future in unison, like musicians playing a duet, each guiding the other, helping him achieve his personal goals.
“I read a good book this year about taking action,” continued Pa’aga. “It is called “Rich Samoan/Poor Samoan: Stop Being a Loser.” Have you read it?”
“No,” said William. “But I know it was a best-seller.”
“In the book, the author says that the world consists of winners and losers, and it is your action that determines your position in life…”
As he spoke those words, William noticed a gleam in Pa’aga’s eyes. He had seen this look before in a few of the villagers after they drove into town and attended that free self-help seminar with the newly successful author of “Rich Samoan/Poor Samoan: Stop Being a Loser.” When they returned back to their farms and tiny homes, they all had this same look, as if they had gone through a major transformation. Their new gaze exuded power and confidence, but read icy and cold, something foreign to this tropical island.
Pa’aga looked at his watch.
“It is almost the New Year, my friend. 10-9-8-7…”
At the count of seven, Pa’aga reached down and grabbed a fallen palm tree branch, then strongly whacked it against William’s knees. William fell down in excruciating pain.
“I’m sorry,” said Pa’aga, “I’m a winner.”
Pa’aga walked several feet ahead of William.  William tried to stand up, but he couldn’t move. He fell into the wet mud. Pa’aga stared at his watch again.
“…3…2…1. Happy New Year to me!”
Pa’aga paused for a split-second.
“And now, Happy New Year to you! Even though you are last, William, I hope this is a healthy and happy year for you.”
Pa’aga helped William up, shook his hand in the friendly manner of most Samoans, and returned to his home. William stood there, dead to his feelings.
New Year’s Eve had arrived in Samoa. William was the last to celebrate, as usual. This was his fate. Distraught, William refused to return home. He didn’t want to look at his face in the mirror, to sit alone in the last house on the last plot of land, in the most Western corner of the last island. He shook off the pain and staggered into town. If there ever was a night to go to Sammy’s, the local Tiki bar, and drink himself to a stupor, tonight was the night.
It took William an hour to get to Sammy’s bar. Broken champagne bottles and confetti covered the parking lot. There had been a lot of partying going on earlier, and now most of the Samoan revelers were back home, safely tucked in bed with their loved one, content with their lot in life, and positive about their future.
William Z. Zweig entered the bar and sat at the counter. He ordered a drink. The only customer still there was Aysa, the woman who ran the village coffee shop. She had dirty blond hair and attractive features, but there was a sadness to her posture. She had just finished her fourth mojito. William didn’t know Aysa very well. He rarely went into coffee shops, since he was always the onew being served last.
Aysa ordered another drink.
“You sure?” asked the bartender.
“Bring it on.” she slurred.
Aysa was alone on this New Year’s Eve. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have offers. Men asked her out all the time. Even the mayor’s brother, N’iao, had invited her to black-tie even at the town hall sponsored by the sugar industry. But Aysa didn’t click with the local Samoan men. She went on dates out of obligation, because she was hopeful. She had needs, just like all women. She wanted love, companionship, and sex, but the men she met were selfish.  They didn’t listen to her needs, or care about her satisfaction.
“Better to just drink mojitos at Sammy’s on New Year’s Eve,” she told herself earlier in the day. And now she regretted the decision. The loneliness was overwhelming, and no amount of liquor could fill the emptiness within.
“Happy New Year” grumbled a sarcastic William to Aysa as he paid for his first drink.  He left the bartender a nice tip, figuring someone should be happy tonight.
“Yeah,” said Aysa. “To you, too. Happy New Year.”
As a man who was always last, William understood pain, and and he could feel Aysa’s unhappiness surrounding him, touching his skin.
“It’s a new year. Time to start anew. Did you have a bad year?” asked William, trying to get her to open up, thinking this would help her move on to a fresh start.
“Yeah, bad. Bad Choices. Bad Men. No love. No comfort. Selfish men who cared only about themselves.”
Aysa hadn’t had an orgasm in three years. Although she blamed the men in her life, she knew deep down that this was her own fault as well. She didn’t know how to relax, even after a drink.
William bowed his head in shame. It was as if Aysa saw right through him. He was a selfish man like the others, only caring about his position in life. His lastness had consumed his every thought, drove him from his childhood home, isolated him, and almost made him push Pa’aga onto the ground, going against his own very nature.
Aysa didn’t know William very well, but she had seem him around town, usually avoiding coming in to her coffee shop.  He seemed interesting, but eccentric.
“And what about you?” she asked. “What are you doing alone on New Year’s eve in an empty Samoan bar? What’s your problem?”
“My problem?” William sighed. “My problem is that I always come last.”
That night, Aysa had three orgasms. William was in her bed, and came last.
“I love you, William Z. Zweig,” she said.
As the two lovers snuggled in Aysa’s thatch-covered home, William embraced his lastness, finally understanding God’s will and His plan for his future. It was a Happy New Year.
William Zweig was always last. In elementary school, his teachers always called his name last.
“…and finally… William Z. Zweig. Last but not least,” said Miss Donavan, his second grade teacher, trying to give him a boost of moral.
This concern for William’s self-esteem ended quickly.  By the fifth grade, Mrs. Apple, wanting to speed up the attendance roll call, simply wrapped things up by saying, “…and finally… the last one is William Z. Zweig,” as if now his least-ness was an accepted fact among the school board.
The youngest of three boys, William was constantly picked on by his older brothers, Andy and Ben, for being the last one to be born in the Zweig family. William was always picked last in any playground games. In Little League, he batted last for the last place team. When William graduated from high school, the last in his graduating class, he left his hated childhood town, moving as far away as possible. With his last dollar, he bought a small house in the Western portion of Samoa, a group of volcanic islands covered in lush tropical vegetation and surrounded by magnificent reefs. It was quiet and isolated, but fate is cruel, and despite the great effort he made to run away from his cursed life, William still remained last because of Samoa’s positioning just east of the International Dateline. Each December 31, on New Year’s Eve, celebrations occurred throughout the world, from Sydney to London to New York, with Samoa being the last place in the world to celebrate New Year’s Eve. Even worse, William lived in the last house on the last plot of land, in the most Western corner of the last island, making William Z. Zweig the very last person in the world to celebrate New Year’s every single year.
For the first few years in his new home, William accepted his miserable lot.  Samoan culture is centered around the principle of vÄfealoa’i, the relationships between people. Samoans make few distinctions between “first” and “last,” and William was accepted as a member of the community.  But with an influx of pop culture from America, Samoans abandoned their gentle customs and became as individualistic and self-centered as Westerners. In fact, the two best-selling Samoan books of 2008 were both business-oriented, “Rich Samoan/Poor Samoan: Stop Being a Loser,” and “Using the Art of Samoan War to Become #1 and Crush the Competition!”
Residents of Itu Asau, William’s village, were influenced by these books, and began to mock him as a loser, acting in a manner not unlike the residents of William’s childhood town.  Samoans grew superstitious about William, as if his bad luck would rub off on them, and he was always served last — at the fruit stand, at the bank, and even at the post office.
William vowed to make a change in his life. Ever year, right before New Year’s Eve, William would make the same resolution – to stop being the “last,” but every year, he inevitably caved in, stuck forever in inactivity, like a hapless goose stuck in the Saleaula Lava Fields once produced by the mighty Mt. Matavanu.
At 11:40 PM, on December 31st, William Z. Zweig was asleep. He always went to sleep before midnight on this night.  New Year’s Eve was too depressing. He was alone. Even time was slow to arrive at William’s doorstep, as if he was a mere afterthought. What was there to celebrate? He was the last one.
But something different happened on this New Year’s Eve. Perhaps it was the sound of a tropical bird calling for his mate, or a coconut falling in the near distance.  William awoke from his sleep. He glanced at his old alarm clock. In twenty minutes, the new year would arrive.
“I might as well make a resolution,” he said to himself. “The same one I always make. I vow not to be the last…”
William bowed his head in shame, mumbling the statement, knowing that whatever he said was meaningless, a phony vow never to be taken seriously. A true New Year’s resolution requires action.
“I must take action. I must take action. I will take action. I will take action.”
William repeated these “behavior statements”over and over again, just like his therapist, Amataga Poese Gildow Liuga, had recommended that he do during times of indecision. William had just seen his doctor on Friday, which was, as usual, the doctor’s last appointment of the week.
William berated himself for his failure of inaction over the years.
“When will I take this action? When will I stop talking and just do it?  Why do I wait for the future to do anything? Why do I always make a resolution for NEXT year? What is wrong with THIS year?  Why can’t I do something RIGHT NOW?!”
William looked at his alarm clock. It was 11:44 PM. The second hand clicked away. A cool breeze blew in through the window and grazed William’s sensitive face. The clock sputtered, ready to spit out the arrival of 11:45 PM. It was at that exact second that William decided to act.
Pa’aga Neri Lee Hang, the cocoa exporter, lived a quarter of a mile closer to town.  Every week, William drove by his home on his way to his food shopping.
William plotted the rest out carefully:
If he could drive his car PAST Pa’aga’s home tonight before midnight, William would officially be nearer the center of town, closer east — and he would be able to celebrate New Year’s Eve a split-second BEFORE his neighbor. Pa’aga would be the LAST ONE.  William’s curse would be broken! A new era would begin.
William Z. Zweig would never be the last one again!
“Now where are my car keys?” he wondered, as he searched his living room.
(to be continued)
2008 was a difficult year for me.  My personal life was chaotic and, in my opinion, my blog wasn’t that good this year.  Thanks for continuing to read Citizen of the Month. I know there are 700 billion other blogs out there to read.  I consider your input and comments as much a part of each post as my own writing.
I went through my archives and chose the posts that best exemplified the events of my life during 2008.
Citizen of the Month 2008
Things fall apart with Sophia
(“The Last Few Days,” February 2008)
I go to a therapist
(“Therapy is Making Me Into a Humorless Twit,” March 2008)
I become obsessed with women’s bras
(A Birthday Chick Lit Tale:Â The Royal Bra, March 2008)
I think about retreating to New York City for a bit
(“A Five Minute Long Wild Sex Comedy,” April 2008)
I DO retreat to New York City
(“Saturday Night’s Alright for Writing,” June 2008)
Relatives visit us in Queens
“The Wrong Apartment 1H,” June 2008)
My plans to attend BlogHer are screwed up by Dockers and JCPenney
(“My Conversation with TLC Marketing Customer Service,” July 2008)
I create an imaginary BlogHim in NY
(“Sex in the Male City in Honor of BlogHim 08,” July 2008)
A blogger stays over in Queens and meets my mother
(“Meeting Mother Kramer,” August 2008)
I almost get into a fight with an Orthodox Jew outside the supermarket
(“The Orthodox Jewish Guy Outside the Supermarket,” August 2008)
My writing partner and I argue over a bar scene in a screenplay
(“Are Mojitos Gay?,” September 2008)
I spend too much time in McDonald’s drinking coffee
“Searching for My Identity in a Queens McDonald’s,” September 2008)
I attempt my first sexy email exchange with a female blogger
“The Sexy Email Exchange,” September 2008)
Obama’s campaign makes me focus on “change” in my own life
(“Change,” October 2008)
I remember my father’s love for Santa Claus
“I Believe in Santa Claus,” December 2008)
ETC.
The Biggest Selling Post
(“The Great Interview Experiment,” January 2008)
The Most Comments On a Post For the Least Amount of Work
(“Name Your Sandwich at Neilochka’s Virtual Kosher Deli,” March 2008)
Weirdest Fake Story
(“Giving Head,” October 2008)
Weirdest True Story
(“Neilochka vs. Archie,” May 2008)
See you in 2009!
In the past, I’ve made jokes about myself.   About my lack of “masculine” interests.  I don’t watch football or hockey or NASCAR. I enjoy Broadway musicals and ABBA. And I love chatting with the mommybloggers about their bra-shopping.
But now I realize it was all an act, my true nature being hidden out of fear. As a co-dependent personality, I take on the traits of whoever I live with at the time. So, when I share a space with a girlfriend, a female roommate, Sophia, or my mother, my male inner soul becomes feminized. The pheromones of the female are such a powerful and hypnotic force that they domesticate my animal instincts, like the aliens do in The Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
My mother has now been in Florida for two days. I have not spoken with Sophia in two days. I am left by myself, the way God intended when he created Adam. I have returned back to my true nature, and my apartment in Flushing is my personal Garden of Eden. Yes, I have become a Man. For years, because of the negative influence of the so-called “weaker sex” I lost what the Chinese call the “ch’i,” the natural energy of the Universe.  I have returned to what the 18th Century French philosopher, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, called natural man — a savage man, “living dispersed among the animals.” To Rousseau, natural man is more or less like any other animal, where “self-preservation being his chief and almost sole concern” and “the only goods he recognizes in the universe are food, a female, and sleep…”
I have become that man. I eat Chinese food from the carton, I sleep ten hours a day, and I think about f**king.
In the two days since my mother has left, the once spotless apartment is a mess. I have not made the bed or done the dishes. Just like a real man. No more watching “All My Children.” On Christmas, I watched the FULL James Bond marathon, dreaming of my own fancy watches, fast cars, and Pussy Galore. I have completely stopped wearing clothes in the house. It saves me from having to do a laundry. I like it. I am like a wild boar roaming the jungle/two bedroom apartment, searching for his next prey. Whenever I pass the large bedroom mirror, I stop and admire how hairy I have become, like King Kong. I have stopped shaving and showering. My only concession to vanity is flossing my teeth and trimming my public hair so my penis looks more prominent when I pose in the mirror. It is looking good. Life is good.
Leah of Daily Piglet clearly wants to sleep with me, which is not surprising.  Who doesn’t?  Why else would she send me a tin of Christmas cookies, with each cookie delicately wrapped in fine paper. I admire the feminine touch of the gesture, because I would never do anything so nice. I ripped open the box, grabbed seven cookies, and wolfed them down for dinner. I’m not going to thank Leah for the cookies. I’m figuring that the real pleasure was all hers.
After devouring these tasty cookies, I wanted some ice cold milk. I took the container from the fridge and was about to pour the liquid into a glass, when I was struck by the flower design on the glass set that my mother recently bought at Pottery Barn during their Holiday sale.  I stopped in my tracks because I was falling from the manly wagon. What guy drinks milk from flower-decorated drinking glasses?
I immediately did what I’ve seen in countless unfunny movies and TV shows — I drank directly from the carton, letting some of the non-fat milk dribble down onto my hairy chest, like the blood of a gazelle as the lion, the King of the Jungle, feasts on the raw flesh of his recent kill.
Now it was time to leave the house, to go forth into the world on my own terms, and to do something dangerous and reckless, as men are adrenaline junkies wanting to push their bodies and minds to the next level of pain and competition. But what insanely crazy activity could I do, something that would make a squeamish female like my mother or Sophia say, “Why the hell would you want to do that?”
I found it. I would sail around Manhattan in the freezing December cold when most mortals just want to stay inside like weak hibernating bears, watching the Yule Log on TV
(I should add that I didn’t go by myself, or do any of the actual sailing. And you could sit INSIDE the boat if you wanted to and drink hot cocoa and sing Christmas carols. )
But I would have none of that pansy stuff. I ordered a whiskey and stood outside, enjoying the icicles forming in my nostrils, like in the sea-faring tales of yore.  I would have even stood outside naked, but there was a family onboard visiting from the Ukraine and didn’t want to give them the wrong impression of New Yorkers. Or start an international competition with the father, who was way more hairier than me, and the type of guy who I bet would SWIM in the water in December.
Merry Christmas! Peace and Joy and hopefully, good presents for all!
Thank you to everyone who participated in the Holiday Concert.  The talent was amazing.
My mother is now at the airport en route to Boca Raton. She will be there until the end of March, “trying out Florida” during the winter months. She will be fine there. She has already been invited to a Florida New Year’s Party, as well as to be part of a weekly mah jongg game in her complex.  The six month chapter of me running home to Mom has come to a close. I’m back on my own.
Metalia complained about the lack of Hanukkah songs for women to sing. I think the holiday is too geared for children, in an attempt to compete with Christmas. It is especially difficult to find a sexy Hanukkah song for a rocking woman.  So I came up with something for the hot Jewish babe to sing to her man after lighting the Hanukkah candles:
Menorah
(sung to the tune of the Kinks “Lola”)
midi accompaniment here
I met him in a deli down in ol’ Soho
Where we ate corned beef and we read the temple’s To-rah.
T-o-r-a Torah
He was tall and strong with eight candles in hand
I asked him his name and in a New York voice he said Menorah
Me-me-me-menorah  Me-me-me-menorah
Well, I’m not the world’s most religious gal
But when I lit his candle, it really made me go, “Wow.”
Me-me-me-menorah  Me-me-me-menorah
Well, I’m not dumb but I can’t understand
How he made me as hot as a latkes pan
Me-me-me-menorah Me-me-me-menorah Me-me-me-menorah
Well, we spinned the dreidel and we kissed all night
Under the flickering candlelights
He took me home so not to end our date
And he kept it up for eight nights on straight!
Well I’m not the world’s most religious gal
But when I looked at his lights, well I almost fell for my menorah
Me-me-me-menorah Me-me-me-menorah
(fade out)
“A “Bloggy” Santa Baby”
performed by Kristy of She Just Walks Around With It (via San Francisco)
“Grown Up Christmas List”
performed by Allison at Maple Mama (via Vermont)
“Winter Wonderland”
performed by Redneck Mommy (via Alberta, Canada)
“The Little Drummer Boy”
performed by Abbersnail of Bright Yellow World and The Horse Whisperer (via San Francisco)
“Mary Did You Know”
performed by Gingersnaps (via Nashville)
“iPhone Ocarina Silent Night”
performed by Aimee of Greeblemonkey with Bryan and James (via Colorado)
“Greensleeves”
performed by Sarah of Whoorl (via Southern California)
“Hava Nagila”
performed by Fancy of Fancy Schmancy (via Connecticut)
“Wishing You a Very Merry Christmas”
performed by Mr Lady (and family) of Whiskey in My Sippy Cup (via Canada)
“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”
performed by Sarah of Sarah and the Good Squad and Ian (via Washington D.C.)
“It’s a Very Penguin Christmas”
performed by Marie and Family of The Snake Charmers (via Texas)
“Good Tidings”
performed by Loralee of Loralee’s Looney Tunes (via Salt Lake City)
INTERMISSION
photo by Metalia (via New York)
“Mi Yamalel”
performed by Psychotoddler (via Milwaukee)
photo by MommaKnows (via Alberta, Canada)
“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”
performed by Saucybritches and her husband, Tim (via Oklahoma)
photo by Margalit (via Greater Boston)
“Hayo, Haya”
performed by Otir of Un Jour a la Fois (via Northeast U.S.)
photo by Jamelah (via Michigan)
“Caroling, Caroling”
performed by Merry Mishaps (via Annapolis, Maryland)
photo by Leesa of Piece of My Mind (via Montana)
“White Christmas”
performed by Backpacking Dad (via Menlo Park, CA)
Photo by Poppycedes (via New York)
“What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?”
performed by Ms. Sizzle of Sizzle Says (via Seattle)
photo by Catheroo (via San Francisco)
“It’s a Marshmallow World in the World in the Winter“/ “Merry Christmas Polka”
performed by Not Fainthearted (via Minneapolis)
photo by Secret Agent Josephine (via Southern California)
“Sevivon”
performed by Danny of Jew Eat Yet? (via Los Angeles)
photo by Karlababble (via Texas)
“Coventry Carol”
performed by Alejna of Collecting Tokens (via Northeast U.S.)
photo by NoireBettie (via Los Angeles)
O Come, O Come, Emmanuel
performed by Suzannesez (via Florida)
photo by Ali of Cheaper Than Therapy (via Toronto)
“Burning Bright”
performed by Mommymae (via Missouri)
photo by Maggie Dammit (via Wisconsin)
“Merry Christmas, Darling”
performed by Laurel St. Clair (via St. Petersburg, Florida)
photo by Kim of 180/360 (via Las Vegas)
O Holy Night performed by Maitresse (via Paris)
photo from Ry at Arts and Dafts (via New York)
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer
performed by Mommy Melee and kids (via Florida)
Photo by The Bloggess (via Texas)
I never thought to tell this story on the blog, mostly because it didn’t seem like anything special, but when I told a blogger about it, her response was surprising, so maybe my experience was more unique than I thought.
When I was a child, I believed in Santa Claus.
Remember, I am Jewish. Of course, there are many Jewish parents who tell their children about Santa Claus so the children don’t feel “different.” There are others who avoid mentioning Santa completely, worried that their kids will lose their Jewish identity to the mainstream culture.
My father loved Santa Claus. It was sort of an odd obsession. He dressed like Santa for the children in the hospital where he worked. He shouted with excitement when Santa appeared at the end of the Thanksgiving Day Parade.  If my father was alive today, one of the question I would love to ask him is, “What the hell was it with YOU and SANTA?”
Our family did not celebrate Christmas. We never had a Christmas Tree. We never made eggnog. I never felt like I was missing out. We always celebrated Hanukkah. But for some reason, my father loved Santa Claus, and told me that Santa really existed.
Now here is where it gets interesting, because my father was an eccentric guy.  He told me that there WAS a Santa Claus, but that he didn’t come to OUR HOME because we were Jewish.  He skipped over us like the angel of death on Passover.
“It isn’t our holiday, so Santa doesn’t come to us,” he said.
In retrospect, this might seem like child cruelty. Why even say there IS a Santa, if he isn’t coming to visit you?  But it never bothered me or made me upset. It made logical sense.  It wasn’t my holiday, so this bearded guy and his reindeer didn’t bother schlepping to me!  My father was able to create a whole different meaning for Santa Claus, making him seem mystical, but from afar, like a visiting baseball team’s cool mascot.
So, I believed in Santa, even if he didn’t show up at my home.
“What about Anthony?” I wondered, referring to the Italian Catholic kid down the hall. “How does Santa get to him since our building doesn’t have any chimneys?”
“Santa comes through the terrace door.”
“OK.”
It seemed sort of odd, but I figured that Santa had to deal with a lot of modern urban obstacles, like telephone wires and satellites.
Every year, my father would drag me downtown to Macy’s 34th Street to visit the “real” Santa Claus. We would wait in this Disneyland-sized line. Wide-eyed children from throughout the city were eager to meet their hero. I was more excited about going to Nathan’s for hot dogs afterwards, but I saw my father’s happiness over ME meeting Santa, so I played along.
“There he is! Can you see him?” he said, pointing to Santa sitting on his throne. My father’s voice had the same enthusiasm of someone feasting their eyes on the Pope at the Vatican. “It’s Santa Claus.”
After an hour, it was my time to go face-to-face with jolly St. Nick. I would sit on his lap, which always made me feel uncomfortable. Why did I have to sit on his lap just to talk with him?  When Kissinger went on diplomatic “talks” he never sat on the Chinese Premier’s lap. But I was respectful to Santa and did what he asked, because — after all — this was Santa Claus. And I knew our meeting was a special moment, and needed to be recorded for posterity, which explained the elf with the KISS shirt taking our photo with a bright flash.
“And what would you like for Christmas, young man?” he asked me.
“Well, nothing really. I’m Jewish.”
“Ho Ho Ho, Jewish boys and girls also get presents from Santa.”
“No, we don’t.”
“So, what do you want for Hanukkah?” he retorted, already trained to handle the annoying smart-aleck Jewish boys.
“I don’t know. Whatever my parents get for me.”
“Do you want to whisper to Santa something you really really want and I will put in a good word for you?”
I leaned in. Santa had bad breath.
“Hot Wheels Stunt Track…maybe.”
“Very good. And were you a good boy this year?”
“Yeah,” I said, with a “Duh” tone to my voice, considering that Santa should already know this answer. Hadn’t he been taking notes all year on who was nice and who was naughty? I was beginning to doubt the authenticity of this department store Santa. Years later, I had a similar experience in Hebrew School when I questioned why God had to ask Adam if he had eaten from “The Tree of Life.”
“Why would he have to ask Adam this question?”
“He was testing him,” said grouchy Rabbi Ginsburg.
“It makes no sense.” I replied, using my young Talmudic knowledge. “If he was God, wouldn’t he already know this?”
As I left Macy’s, I told my father that I was not impressed with this Santa Claus. I asked my father for the truth. Was this red-suited guy with the fake beard and bad breath really “Santa Claus?”
“No. This Santa was a BAD one. Even I play a better Santa Claus. And I’m not even that fat.”
Something clicked in my head. If my father dresses as Santa, and the guy in Macy’s is a fake, then…
“There’s no Santa Claus, is there?” I questioned. “It makes no sense.”
“Nah,” he admitted, a little sad at the myth being put to rest. “There is no Santa Claus.”
He paused for a moment, and then took one more final stand, like the soldier climbing over the hill in a suicide mission.
“But maybe… just maybe… I AM Santa Claus!”
I didn’t buy it.
“If you were Santa Claus, you wouldn’t be living in Flushing, would you?”
I stumped him.
“No,” he said.
And that was the end of me believing in Santa Claus. It was fun while it lasted.
My father and I walked down 34th Street and went to Nathan’s for some hot dogs, then we went home, just in time for sunset and watching my mother light the Hanukkah menorah.
The Holiday season is all about joyful music and giving. As many of you know, music means everything to me. My friends never see me walking downtown or on the subway without my trusty iPod at my side, playing the latest tunes, an ABBA classic, or some duet from an old Broadway show. One of the best aspects of living in Queens is that this borough has some of the finest stores in the country. I bought my iPod and all the accessories at J-OK Electronics in Flushing, Queens. They sell EVERYTHING at terrific prices, and their knowledgeable sales staff, led by Jonathan Lui, treat their customers with respect. From their lovely pre-war building in downtown Flushing, to their festively decorated “listening room,” J-OK Electronics “gets it right!”
Jonathan is the coolest guy. When he received the latest iPod in his store, he wanted to give me one — for FREE! I’m sure you are all anxious to read my upcoming review on this hot new product. But then I felt a little guilty. Why should I be the only one to have a happy iPod Holiday?!
I went to Jonathan and told him, “I want to thank all my readers during this season of giving. I want to give away a brand new iPod to one of my online friends!”
And you know what — Jonathan of J-OK Electronics agreed to find me another iPod!
(editor’s note: iPod giveaway is subject to availability. If iPod is NOT available at time of giveaway, a photo of a PEAPOD with Neil’s face photoshopped inside will be substituted (signed by Neil AND his mother!)
So, how can you win a iPod*** from “Citizen of the Month” and J-OK Electronics?
(***editor’s note:Â From this point on, the term iPod signifies either an actual iPod, or the photoshopped PEAPOD photo.)
Through music! After all, this is the season of GIVING and MUSIC.
The rules:
1) Record a Christmas or Hanukkah song.  Sign up here.
2) Send it to me by Monday, December 22, 2008. I must have it by Monday!
3)Â On the following day, on Tuesday, all entries will be part of the Third Annual Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert.
4)Â My readers will then pick which entry best captured the “spirit of the season.”
5)Â The winner will receive a brand new iPod from JOK Electronics!*** (see note above on restrictions and definition of iPod)
CONTACT ME IF ANYONE IS HAVING A PROBLEM RECORDING THEIR SONG!  This will be the last reminder until the concert.
Also, please send me some Holiday photos of your homes for decoration of the Holiday concert post!
I don’t know if it is stress, loneliness, the upcoming Holiday season, or economic fears about the future, but I thought about religion today. Perhaps, it is the book I am reading, “The Jew and the Lotus,” or the pizza slice I had for lunch. Although I’m a rational person, in another place, under different circumstances, I could see myself as a person involved in spirituality and mysticism, which to me, is the logical extension of creative writing. After all, f irst a man talks to his Penis in silly sex stories, and soon, he is inevitably conversing with God.
I like to read YOUR posts where YOU write about your religion, no matter what your faith. Even if I don’t believe in Jesus Christ or the holiness of Buddha, these are all human attempts to understand the world, which is… well, human. I know it is cool to make fun of religious people, and they sometimes deserve it, but I respect those who think about the deep questions, such as “Why do shitty things happen to good people?” and “Will praying increase my traffic on my blog?” I regret that I don’t have more spirituality in my life. The “community” of Twitter is fun, but it doesn’t truly connect me to the ethical and spiritual thinkers of the past and present.
When I hear a religious person talk, my mind’s first instinct is to say “bullshit,” but my heart believes that there is an energy out “there.”  Even when I encounter one of you online, available on IM, I can feel YOUR energy. What is this energy? Is it in my brain? Why do I have a special connection to certain people? Is it random or for a purpose? Is there a universal energy — a God? And what does this mean in reference to ethics or day to day life?  As for my own religion — how should a Jew act? What does being Jewish mean? Do I have to believe everything in the Torah? Do I HAVE to eat gefilte fish?
I’m not going to bored you today with the crap that sometimes fills my mind when I’m not blogging or watching Judge Judy.   And don’t worry about me suddenly changing my blog title to “Scientologist of the Month.” I don’t get involved in any religion which doesn’t joke about itself. But I do think my “rational self” suppresses my more spiritual and mystical side, the one born a Pisces, the Neilochka who isn’t so straight-arrow logical, who might EVEN believe in the supernatural power of words.
OK, enough. Â Back to the empirical world tomorrow.
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