This is a cautionary tale. I write this as a warning to other men. Do NOT do what I have done.

The trouble began, like most things in the world, in Saskatchewan, Canada.

Here’s part of Savia’s last post:

Remember when Madam Diva sent me her breast in the interoffice mail? And I challenged Neil to send me a watercolour of his talking penis? And then he said he would, but didn’t? And then I twitter taunted him and called him a watercolour c**ck tease? Well, he came through (so to speak), just for me.

Oy. A cartoon version of my talking Penis on someone else’s blog! (NSFW! — I drew this and I feel ashamed). I can only imagine my upcoming therapy session:

Therapist: “In your last post about men, your thoughts about women sound very adolescent.”

Neil: “I know.”

Therapist: “You shouldn’t let a woman sway your emotions one way or another. You need to be YOU.”

Neil: “Right. Right.”

Therapist: “And you need to learn to say “NO” to women. Don’t be a pushover and let them run your life.”

Neil: “Yes, uh… well, I wanted to bring that up…”

Therapist: “Yes?”

Neil: “Well, there is this crazy female blogger in Canada named Savia… well, she’s cute, and she, uh, likes to collect naughty drawings, and asked me to send her a drawing of my talking Penis…”

Therapist: “How immature. Of course you told her that was impossible. You’re an adult who doesn’t do those sorts of things. A college-educated man. Besides, there are no such things as talking Penises.”

Neil: “Yes, of course. Talking Penises don’t really exist, but…”

Therapist: “Oh no…”

Neil: “…but she seemed so disappointed when I said no. And you know how I hate to disappoint a woman.

Therapist: “Neil…”

Neil: “She was crying on Twitter, for godsakes! I didn’t realize that she was actually going to put it on her blog. I thought it was just for her. Thank God I’ve never made a sex video. I would never be able to go on YouTube again!”

Therapist: “Why? Neil. Why would you do something like that? Why would you send something so personal to a person you hardly know?”

Neil: “I don’t know.”

Neil’s Penis: “I know! I know. Even a Fifth Grader knows the answer to that one. He’s hoping to one day get into her pants!”

Neil: “Shut up, Penis!”

Therapist: “Who are you talking to, Neil?”

Neil: “No one… no one…”

I wasn’t going to link this cartoon, but Savia started crying and nagging on Twitter again, saying that NO ONE ever links to her, and that she would be very disappointed if I didn’t give her a link.

Damn women!

As I’m writing this post, I almost deleted it. I felt incredibly shy about this whole Talking Penis Cartoon Scandal. But don’t I write about my talking Penis all the time?! I mean, it wasn’t as if I put a photo of my real penis online? Why was I so puritanical? Was I worried about Sophia’s reaction? My mother’s? Frankly, the drawing wasn’t even a credible representation of my talking Penis. He would never wear a tie. But then, again, I rarely wear a tie, either, but I was wearing one last week when Sophia and I met a bunch of bloggers in Hollywood last week when Dave from Blogography came to town (Sophia and I came straight from Yom Kippur services).

Neil meets blogger SJ for the first time at the blog-meet!  Notice the shirt and tie!

My real problem with my talking Penis cartoon was that I felt as if I was objectifying myself. Someone might come to Savia’s site and actually think more fondly of my talking Penis than me. I perfectly understand how this can happen. How many times have I stared at a women’s full breasts, mesmerized, wanting to hold them, kiss them, do anything to them, and completely forgot that there was a woman attached? I wouldn’t want people meeting me the first time and shaking my hand and saying, “Nice to meet you, Penis… I mean Neil.”

Let this be my punishment for all the years of objectifying women and their tits and asses. Now, I understand how you feel.

Please, while I might enjoy the attention somewhat, I am not just a Talking Penis.

I am a MAN!

This post is going to veer from the original gag.  You can guess the rest of the gag yourself.   Spinach bad.   Mob blames Popeye.   Hilarious.   (go here if you don’t know who Popeye is). 

What interests me is that this cheap Popeye gag has served a more important service:  it has opened up a long-repressed memory.

Here’s the story:

As I was preparing for this brilliant humor piece, I was searching online for a picture of Popeye that I was hoping to politely “borrow.”  Then, I stumbled onto this site that had a .wav file of the famous Popeye theme song.  

I listened to it over and over.  “I’m Popeye the Sailor Man…”  It struck a nerve.  This theme became my madeleine.  (This is a reference to Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu, in English known as Remembrance of Things Past or In Search of Lost Time.  In the novel, “the narrator’s memories of childhood are awakened by the aroma and taste of a madeleine dipped in tea.”  This is an amazing literary masterpiece.  One day I hope to actually read it rather than just look it up in Wikipedia).

As i listened to the final “boop boop” in the theme song, I remembered that I used to watch reruns of Popeye on a local New York TV channel.  I must have been very young at the time and I was fascinated by the triangle of Popeye, Olive Oyl and the villainous Bluto.

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

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

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

As an only child, I was competitive with my father for my mother’s attention.  I think Freud (or Karen Horney!) would have loved to analyze my childhood obsession with Popeye, an obsession which I have pretty much repressed for years until today. 

But now I remember it.

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

Jeez, no wonder I repressed this.  How embarrassing!

I called up my mother tonight.

Neil:  Guess what I’m going to write about in my blog tomorrow?  “Popeye Attacked by Anti-Spinach Mob!”

Mom:  That’s funny.  But I always knew this bagged spinach wasn’t good.  

Neil:  And how did you know that?

Mom:  The bag always said that it was washed three times — and it came from California.

Neil:  Yeah, so?

Mom:  So?   You don’t even DRINK the water in California.

Neil:  Great.  I know.  I know.  The water in New York is the best.

Mom:  You can actually drink it!

Neil:  OK.  But that’s not why I called you.  I wanted to ask you something.  Do you remember Popeye?

Mom:  Of course I remember Popeye. 

Neil:  Do you remember watching Popeye?

Mom:  I never watched Popeye.  I never liked Popeye.  I thought he looked like a pervert.

Neil:  A pervert?

Mom:  He had this one eye.  And creepy voice.  And weird body.

Neil:  No, do you remember us?   I would be Popeye and you would be Olive Oyl and I would rescue you?

Mom:  We did that?

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

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

Neil:  I was going to ask you that!

Mom:  I don’t remember this.

Neil:  You don’t remember playing this at all?

Mom:  Maybe you played it with your friend Robert.

Neil:  I played it with YOU.

Mom:  I remember playing Scrabble.

Neil:  Oh my god!  You’ve repressed the memory, too!  Wait, hold on.

I quickly went to that website with the wav. file of the Popeye theme.  I put the phone against the speaker so she could hear the familiar tune.  “I’m Popeye the Sailor Man…”

Neil:  Listen to this!  Does this jog your memory now?  Does this remind you of anything?

Mom:  It reminds me that Popeye seemed like a pervert.

Neil:  Mom, I was Popeye!  We played Popeye together!

Mom:  Well, I think this explains a lot about what you write on your blodge.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Modern Talmudic Question