I’ve been sleeping in the living room for the last few weeks.  On Saturday, I woke up a 3AM and I couldn’t handle it anymore.  I’m a man, with manly needs.  I climbed the stairs to the bedroom.  I was naked.  I pushed open the door, my body tense with want.  I slid into the bed.   Sophia woke up.

“What are you doing here?”  she asked.

I didn’t care if she protested.  I was getting what I came for, even if I had to take it with force.

“No one’s hugged me in a month.” I said.  “Do you know how unhealthy it is for a man not to get hugged?  I read that male babies — if they don’t get hugged after they are born — just die.”

“You were supposed to have moved out already.”

“I am moving out.  But do you really want me to die?”

“You’re not a baby who needs to be hugged.  Well… maybe you are.”

“If you don’t want to hug, I can just go back downstairs.  I know plenty of hot women who will give me a hug on Facebook.”

“OK, shut up and I’ll hug you.”

We hugged.

“But will you set up Dance Dance Revolution on the wii tomorrow?” she asked.

“Deal.”

(in retrospect, the hugging may have not been a good idea, considering the argument the next day, after neither of us could figure out how to use Dance Dance Revolution)

– starring Neil, Sophia, Neil’s Mom, several half-naked girls from Queens, and introducing Moondog, as Neil’s surfer dude buddy.

FADE IN:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS - REDONDO BEACH - DAY

Neil and Moondog have just finished hanging ten at Redondo and are now chilling at Don Carlos’, the sweetest joint in town for fish tacos. Hot girls in bikinis are constantly walking by. All the girls seem to know Neilochka (his surfer name) and Moondog.

Neil: “I think it is time, Moondog. I’m gonna find me my own place and move out.”

Moondog: “About time, dude. My ear was burning like the hot sand hearing this every week after week… for three years…”

Neil: “Maybe I’ll first go to New York for a few weeks cause I still don’t have any digs. Just feeling as down as GeekDude without his Red Bull. I’m feeling major wipeout over my babe.”

Moondog: “Sure, man. We’re all bummed about you and Sophia. But maybe it’s time to move on. Time to ride the next big wave. Definitely go to New York for a trip.”

Neil: “Yeah, I can go see some of that, what do you call it, art. At that museum from that movie. That museum rocks. They got the stuff from the posters… but they’re real!”

Moondog: “Hell no, forget the old dead white dudes. You need to get over Sophia. You got to start schtupping everything is sight. There’s some pretty hot skirt over there in New York.”

Neil: “Sweet. But can’t I do the same here in LA?”

Neil looks over at a buxom beauty in a tight bikini as she rollerblades by, her breasts a bouncin’!

Moondog: “Dude, surfer dudes like us are a dime a dozen at the SoCal surf and turf. In Gotham City, we’re exotic. They hear your LA accent and your Hollywood style, and they’re already getting wet from the tide. It’s time for you to get on that plane, and shine off your own Big Apple hidden away down there…”

Neil: “And where do I meet this chicks? I don’t have the Benjamins for those Samanthas and Mirandas.”

Moondog: “LOL, dude. NYC is P***y Grand Central. They’re everywhere. East side, west side, all around town! Just look at a map of Manhattan. It’s shaped like a giant breast with the nipple pointing out to Brooklyn.”

Neil: “That’s no nipple. That’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Moondog: “I’ve felt up two girls from Brooklyn and there must be something in the water there because Brooklyn nipples could slice a pizza pie. No wonder the Dodgers had to move to LA. They couldn’t concentrate on the game. All those Brooklyn nipples.”

Neil: “Well, I won’t be in Brooklyn. I’ll be in Queens. And I’ll be staying with my mother. That’s not a very good spot for a little romance.”

Moondog: “Hey, I met your mother. She’s cool. The babes won’t even know she’s there. But be strong. This is for you… to live it up… don’t call Sophia… for anything…”

CUT TO:

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - NIGHT

Neil is making passionate love to Freya Aaronson, the once Orthodox, now Reform, Jewish girl he loved in high school but never looked his way, but is now a an assistant editor at Random House and currently submitting her fiction to the New Yorker Magazine.

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me harder, Neilochka! Nothing could feel as good as you f**king me, Neilochka… maybe except getting published in the New Yorker! F**k me, Neilochka!”

Neil: “Could you just be a little quieter? My mother is sleeping next door. She has to go to work tomorrow early.”

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! Wasn’t your mother written about in the New Yorker because she’s been working forever at Farrar, Straus, and Giroux? Would she mind if I left behind a few of my stories, Neilochka? They’re perfect for the New Yorker. F**k me, Neilochka! Your mother is amazing. F**k me, Neilochka!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed, being ridden by Yvonne, the flirtatious black girl from the local stationary store, a brainy grad student at Fordham. The bed is pounding against the wall.

Yvonne: (as she rides him) “Oh my god, dinner was amazing, Neilochka. So good. And my friends consider me a foodie! I can’t believe your mother’s secret ingredient for her brisket is… ketchup. I never would have guessed. How long does she cook the brisket for? It was so tender. So soft.”

Neil: “Can we talk about this later? A conversation about soft, tender meat is not something a man wants to hear when…”

Yvonne: “Do you think she would mind if we went for seconds of the brisket? I can’t stop thinking about it! That brisket was so good. I need to get the recipe. Will she be serving this brisket for Passover?”

Neil: “Passover was last week.”

Yvonne: “Too bad. Try to come fast so we can go have some more brisket.”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed with the petite Emily Ning, a divorced mommyblogger. She lives on the third floor of the same building as Neil’s mother. She works in PR for a Hong Kong-based bank downtown. She is an ardent blogger and loves reading Citizen of the Month. She is giving oral sex to Neil.

Emily: “Do you like how that feels? Do you like that? Am I making you dizzy? You didn’t expect me to know how to do that, did you? How about if I use BOTH hands on your?”

THE CAMERA PULLS BACK

to show that Emily not only giving oral sex, but is also throwing punches in the boxing ring on Neil’s Wii-connected TV, and talking to her opponent, another mommyblogger, via cell phone.

Emily: (into phone) “You didn’t expect to go right, left, did you? You’re going down!”

Emily continues on with her oral sex, looking bored, then leans over to her laptop and sends a quick message to her opponent via Twitter.

Emily: “Knockout, sucker!!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM - QUEENS - THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil’s head is between the thighs of Anna Castro, his long-time friend from elementary school, who he has liked ever since they danced the Tarantella together at the fourth grade dance festival. Anna is lying in the bed, her legs apart, waiting impatiently for Neil to take some action. Now, Neil is on the phone, looking frantic:

Neil: (into phone) “I know what I said, Sophia. I said I wouldn’t call you. But I’m telling you… it’s not in the right place with her. I can’t find the spot. Yes, I have my glasses on. Isn’t it in the same place on every woman?… You don’t have to be sarcastic! I didn’t complain when you called me with that stupid computer problem about Photoshop Elements… Yes, she’s nice… It’s none of your business… OK, her name is Anna. .. Yes, the one from the fourth grade dance festival. .. No, I didn’t step on her feet… Yes… yes… Yes, I’m taking the damn cholesterol medicine… Listen, I didn’t call you to chat…”

Neil’s mother opens then door to Neil’s room, carrying a tray of Oreo cookies and low-fat milk.

Neil’s Mother: “Would anyone like a snack?”

Anna quickly jumps out of bed.

Anna: “Thank God. Yes!”

Neil’s Mother: “I’m watching “Dancing with the Stars” on Tivo, Anna. Would you like to join me?”

Anna: “Absolutely!”

Anna exits with Neil’s mother.

CUT TO:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS - REDONDO BEACH - TWO WEEKS LATER - DAY

Neil and Moondog are chilling at Don Carlos’, chowing on fish tacos and drinking Coronas. Moondog is shaking his head in disbelief.

Moondog: “Dude… never tell this story to… anyone.”

The End

Don’t make your spouse your best friend.  Who do you talk to when you want to talk about your spouse or your best friend?

It’s not easy being a modern man.    You try to be a good male feminist by promoting a woman candidate to be the first female President, until all the women you know start telling you that it is the MALE candidate who is better at understanding the needs of American women.   What next?  A male speaker at BlogHer?!

And then, if I ask for photos of female bloggers’ bras for my birthday, I’m a sleazy, typical male.   But if I profess my love for ABBA, I get emails like this one, a list of the “50 Gayest Songs Of All Time” –

20. Dolly Parton “9 to 5″
19. Coming Out Crew “Free, Gay And Happy”
18. Village People “In The Navy”
17. Frankie Goes To Hollywood “Relax”
16. Village People “Macho Man”
15. Judy Garland “Over The Rainbow”
14. Bronski Beat “Smalltown Boy”
13. Diana Ross “I’m Coming Out”
12. Cher “Believe”
11. Gloria Gaynor “I Am What I Am”
10. Alicia Bridges “I Love The Nightlife”
9. Madonna “Vogue”
8. Olivia Netwon-John “Xanadu”
7. Kylie Minogue “Better The Devil You Know”
6. Pet Shop Boys “Go West”
5. Kylie Minogue “Your Disco Needs You”
4. The Weathergirls “It’s Raining Men”
3. Gloria Gaynor “I Will Survive”
2. Village People “YMCA”
1. ABBA “Dancing Queen”

Now, I actually like ALL of those songs (other than #19, which doesn’t sound familiar to me), but so what!

This was not the first questioning of my sexual orientation this week. 

On my birthday, Sophia gave me the best present she could have given me – she was super-nice to me.  Although things haven’t really changed between us — I’m still moving out — at least we don’t have to glare at each other as we pass each other in the morning.  I give her a lot of credit for making things better. 

I always complain on Valentine’s Day that the woman gets flowers, while the guy nothing, so I was surprised when Sophia brought me flowers for my birthday.  How thoughtful.  I know it is corny for me to ask for flowers, and sort of ABBA-ish, but I appreciated the special gesture. 

Later, I told Sophia about this old Italian restaurant nearby that a friend recommended, so we went there for dinner.  Wow, was it a bad choice.  It was the worst food either of us ever had.  Open since 1945, the restaurant’s menu only had two items — spaghetti and lasagna, and each was awful — soggy pasta and ketchup-tasting tomato sauce.  The patrons seemed to have been bused in from a convalescent home.  Normally, a bad restaurant choice on my part puts Sophia in a bad mood, but this establishment was so lousy, that it was quite amusing.  When our hapless waiter asked us if we would like to have bibs with our spaghetti, we both laughed out loud.  It was that type of place.  Sometimes bad experiences turn out memorable.

On the way home, I called my friend and asked him how in the world he could RECOMMEND this place.   I told him how much Sophia hated it. 

“Dude,” said my friend, being one of those guys who says “Dude.” “This is totally your fault.  I said this is a place where WE should go.  You don’t bring a girl there.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” I asked.  “And why would I want to go there even without Sophia?  It’s terrible.”

“Yeah, I know it sucks.  But they have cheap beer.  And it isn’t fancy.  You know, it is a place to go with the guys.  Like having a chilburger at Tommy’s.” 

The last time we met, we had a chiliburger at Tommy’s.

“So you think that when I’m with Sophia, I go to a nice place with good food, but when I’m on my own, I just go to Tommy’s for a chiliburger?” 

“Sure, don’t you?” he asked.

“No, I actually don’t like eating crap either.  I like good food.”

“I can’t stand those fake Beverly Hills Italian restaurants where they give you little portions and put pesto sauce on your pasta.  That is so gay.”

“I like pesto sauce,” I stated.

Silence.

Why do some men still use that “gay” term to describe something they think is “unmanly?”  And is pesto sauce really that unmanly?

Anyway, back to the body scrub.

Now that Sophia and I reached a detente in the house, we decided to get our lives a bit back in order before I start my apartment searching.  The house was in a serious mess.  Neither of us had done the dishes in days.  The patio, once a haven of beauty, was in a state of disarray again.  I threw some of the old pots and scrubbed some of mud away.  Skanky water filled some hanging pots without the proper filtration.  I emptied them out, holding my nose, hoping not to catch malaria.

While I dealt with the patio, Sophia met with the cable guy, who had come over for the third time this week, trying to fix the spotty TV connection. 

After helping outside, all I could think about was… a shower.  I felt utterly disgusting, with all this mud all over me.  I went into the bathroom upstairs, undressed, and turned on the water in the shower.  Now, I love showers, for a whole number of reasons.  They are relaxing.  I can think.  I can sing.  I can dance.  Who doesn’t love a shower?  But today, it was all utilitarian.  I wanted the dirt off.   But there was no soap!

I jumped out of the shower, soaking wet, ready to grab the soap that is usually by the sink.  But it was another casualty to our in-house tensions during the last few weeks.  No one had put out any new soap.  I was about to open the bathroom door and run to the other bathroom for soap, when I heard the cable guy working on the TV in the next room.  I jumped back into the shower. 

That is when I discovered Sophia’s “body scrub” sitting on top of the railing, next to the shampoo and conditioner. 

I had seen it there a hundred times before, but like a workaholic who never stops to smell the flowers, I had never thought to actually try something called a body scrub.

The liquid was grainy and reminded me of the texture of some long-forgotten acne medicine.  Unlike that teenage elixir, this liquid was fragrant, making me feel as if I was running naked through a grove of wild apples.  I put the body scrub all over me — my back, my feet, my face — and scrubbed away.  When I was all done, I had never felt cleaner or more refreshed. 

Body scrub, I don’t care if you are in the same category as ABBA and pesto — you have won me over!   If YOU are considered gay to enjoy… well, then I am proud to march in your parade.

I just came out of therapy. This is how it went with my therapist, Brenda.

Therapist: Hi, Neil.

Neil: Hello, Brenda.

Therapist: How are you doing?

Neil: I want to show you something on the computer. My blog post today. I wrote it last night.

We both sit by her desktop.

Neil: Friday is my birthday.

Therapist: Happy early birthday.

Neil: This is sort of embarrassing, but I asked readers to send in photos of their bras.

Therapist: I’m reading that.

Neil: Now, I’m thinking the whole thing is just crazy. Why would I ask for women’s bras?

Therapist: Why do you think?

Neil: Maybe I’m just feeling horny and lonely now that I’m moving out soon.

Therapist: Then you wouldn’t just ask for bras hanging on towel racks, would you? It probably is deeper than that.

Neil: Well, what else could it be?

Therapist: Maybe the bra represents… women… blah blah… nurturing… we all… blah blah… need love… you are a man… blah blah… sexuality important… need comfort… mother… and breasts… blah blah…

Neil: Hmmm… if I asked you to show me your bra, would you do it?

Therapist: Sure.

Brenda lifts up her blouse to show me her frilly pink bra.

Neil: Thanks, Brenda.

Therapist: Anytime, Neil. But time’s up!

OK — I’ve heard some grumbling about my bra birthday idea. I don’t want to seem like I am disrespecting women or getting female bloggers in trouble with their husbands. But I do want you to celebrate my birthday with me. And I don’t want the guys to feel left out. So, I’m going to expand my photo idea to things THAT MAKE ME HAPPY.

These include, PHOTOS OF:

1) Bras (with or without the women in them)

2) Bagels

3) NYC Street Scenes

4) Pizza

5) ABBA

6) Books by Charles Dickens

7) Cool Men’s Belts

An Interview with Yusuf Khatibbi
(reprinted from Britain’s Pandora Magazine)

Reporter:  Yusuf, we’re sitting here in your apartment in Amman, Jordan.  You’re looking very content and at peace with yourself, but your former life was actually quite different, wasn’t it?

Yusuf:  Yes, very much so.

Reporter:  You were actually born as Neil “Neilochka” Kramer in Flushing, New York to Jewish parents.  What happened to you that spurred this dramatic change to your life?

Yusuf:  First of all, moving to Los Angeles was a low point.  Los Angeles is a den of iniquity.  I lived in an area called Redondo Beach, where young women would shamelessly walk around displaying their nubile bodies, causing me to constantly have immoral thoughts, which I would write about in my weblog, or “Devil’s Log,” as I now call it.

Reporter:  But surely, converting to Islam and moving to Jordan was an extreme step for a so-called “nice Jewish boy from Queens.”

Yusuf:  First of all, Amman and Los Angeles are not that different, so it was an easy transition.  They have the same stores.  Starbucks, Jiffy Lube,  and Bed, Bath, and Beyond on every block. 

Reporter:  But what made you reject your Jewish heritage?

Yusuf:  Reject it?  It rejected me!  Everything bad in my life was connected to being Jewish.  I was always worrying and kvetching about everything, and who’s to blame?  My Jewish mother!  Even her “Jewish food,” like her pot roast, was so laden with fat, that I ended up having to take cholesterol pills.  

Reporter:  Weren’t you also married to a Jewish woman? 

Yusuf:   A Jewish woman… who made me sleep in the car.   A shiksa would never do that.  I read the blogs of these shiksas.  They’re always catering to their men, serving them healthy meals, doing the laundry, and giving their men oral sex whenever they asked for it.   Jewish women are so materialistic.  Every time I offered to take my wife out for dinner, all she ever said was, “Can’t we go to a real restaurant… without the 2-1 coupon?!”  Non-Jewish women enjoy bargains, especially Muslim women.  They’re used to bartering at the Arab market.  And what about all the nutty Jews in Hollywood?   On Rosh Hashanah, there was this Jewish CAA agent sitting right behind me in temple, and he wouldn’t shut up about his lunch with Nicole Kidman!  Name-dropper!  You just don’t see that craziness going on at a mosque. 

Reporter:  But surely your mother must be upset at your rejection of your Jewish religion?

Yusuf:  Eh.  Maybe years ago.  Now, everything is publicity for her.  She’s currently trying to get the New Yorker magazine to write another article about her titled – Jewish Mom, Islamic Son.   That’s all Jews care about.  PR! 

Reporter:  And how do you now stand politically?  How do you feel about Israel and it’s relations with the Arab world?

Yusuf:  Phooey!  Israelis are pains in the asses!  Back in LA, my Israeli hair stylist, Aharon, would charge fifty bucks for a cut, extra for a shampoo, when I could have gotten the same thing done at Supercuts for ten.  And then, in Encino, the Israelis are always touting their falafel, as if it was THEY who invented it.  We’re the ones who created falafel — the Muslims, not them!   They’re a bunch of egomaniacs.

Reporter:  Yusuf, this is fascinating.   So many insights from a man who has crossed over from one culture to another.  Clearly you have finally “found” yourself by leaving behind your home, your family, and your religion –  and embracing Islam and moving to Jordan.

Yusuf:  Absolutely.  I just hope one day to see what my new girlfriend looks like when she takes off her burka. 

My mother was a little worried about me today, so I decided to take some action to make her feel better. Luckily, I’ve gotten pretty proficient in Adobe Photoshop over the years. Here’s a handy little tutorial in using Photoshop to change your emotional state from sad to happy. Try it yourself!

original emotion — SAD

Now, open up Photoshop, and follow these specific directions:

As a final step, SAVE AS Happiness. You’re successfully used Photoshop to enhance your life!

new emotion — Happy

Come back for more FREE Photoshop Tutorials!

P.S. — By the way,  Communicatrix deals with the issue of happiness in a slightly more mature way.

“Where Do You Go to Go Away” by Gale Garnett

Beyonce Says: Call me, Neilochka!

You’re not going to believe this. Remember a few days ago, I wrote a post saying how insecure women were, and I said that since I am a male, I’m more confident than you. I gave you the example of how I was watching Beyonce on the Grammy Awards, and saying to myself that if the circumstances were right, I could totally woo her.

You’re not going to believe this, but RIGHT NOW I’m sitting in a Coffee Bean on Sunset Boulevard, and Beyonce (note: accept this as a fact at your own risk) just walked in!

She is more beautiful in person than on TV or the movies.

She is by herself, dressed in lavender velvety pants and a light leather jacket. She is sitting at the table next to me. She is carry a paperback copy of “Eat, Pray, Love.”

She just looked at me! She smiled at me. This is my chance. How many more opportunities am I going to get to woo Beyonce?

I’m playing solitare now, trying to come up with perfect opening line.

There are some completed interviews that I haven’t added to the list yet. Let me do that first, then say hello to Beyonce. I don’t want to seem rude to people online.

As you probably have figured out by now, I’m probably going to be moving out of Redondo Beach soon. Sophia and I have both been under too much stress. I think it is the best thing for both of us. If anyone has any leads on rentals here in LA, send me an email.

I probably should be looking for a place rather than sitting here at the Coffee Bean, even if I have lucked out by sitting next to Beyonce.

I wonder if I could live with Beyonce? I bet she has a nice place. I could be her friend/roommate/lover/personal blogger.

I’m on Wikipedia, looking up Beyonce. It says she is from Houston. I bet you she’s been to the Nasa Space Center in Houston on a school trip.

What if I accidentally drop my coffee on the floor and then say laughing, “Houston, we have a problem.” She’ll laugh, too, thinking me very witty and a “soul mate.” And then we’ll start talking about the Johnson Space Center, and I then I can tell her about this science report I once did about Skylab. She’ll find that interesting… coming from Houston.

Doesn’t that big Chinese guy play for Houston?

Sophia’s calling. The toilet won’t flush. Damn, I gotta go fix it!

I could have totally wooed Beyonce.

Next time.

Truth Quotient for gullible Ms. Sizzle: 32% — actually in Coffee Bean, played solitaire, spilled coffee, looked up Beyonce in Wikipedia, did report on Skylab, moving out, toilet won’t flush (actual Beyonce not included)

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Live-Blogging the 1987 Academy Awards