Today I had lunch with Miriam, an old college friend from my undergrad days at Columbia. She now has a PhD in Art History and is a curator at a major New York museum. She’s a great person, but she can also be a little snooty. But that’s OK. I like snooty. We haven’t seen each other in a few years, so we spent the meal catching up with each other.

Towards the middle of the meal, I suddenly blurted out, “Oh, I almost forgot one of the most interesting things going on in my life. I started a blog last year! And now I have all these people who come and read it every day!”

Her response was, “Why in the world would anyone want to read YOU?”

Now I know this sounds insulting. But I didn’t take it like that at all.  I knew exactly where she was coming from — academia. She has been taught the importance of cultural standards — the “great books” and the “great works of art.” In her world, only someone canonized by an authority is worthy of someone’s time. That’s why the paintings of August Renoir are studied in art history classes. The paintings of Tony Curtis are not.

This is a pretty common way of seeing things. I know many people who will not read a book unless it was already well-reviewed in the New York Times. Otherwise, what’s the point of reading it?

“I don’t get blogging at all, Miriam said. “If I wanted to read something interesting, why not read “War and Peace” instead of your blog?”

For a second, I sat there and thought, “You know, that’s not a stupid question. Why should I read Retropolitan’s latest blog post when I could be reading “War and Peace?”

Of course, in my case, blogging hasn’t replaced my time reading “War and Peace.” It has replaced my time watching “The Apprentice” and socializing with real live human beings. But, I could be reading me some Tolstoy! Maybe Sophia could even read it to me in the original Russian!

Yeah, but then I would have to take Sophia away from watching her “24.”

But I do get where Miriam is coming from. I studied “the liberal arts” in college and grad school. But despite the years you put in, you’re never treated with the same authority as a doctor or a lawyer. Miriam told me that being a museum curator can be frustrating, because everyone thinks her job is mostly about placing the frames on the wall. I’ve heard similar complaints from web designers, where clients think they can just have their daughter do the job for free because she knows a little HTML.”

So, unless you go to law or business school, the only real pleasure you can get out of your expensive liberal arts degree is lording it over everyone about how smart you are.

Now that I’ve finally read half of one book by David Sedaris, I bring him up all the time in conversation.

“You mean you haven’t read David Sedaris?” I say, snickering.

It feels good to be part of the cultured class. I remember coming home during my freshman year in college and scolding my mother, “How can you read these trashy novels when you should be reading Plato’s Symposium instead!”

Almost all my friends from college now work as members of this cultured class –publishing, media, television, etc… the arbiters and critics of what we should watch, see, buy, and read.

But the internet is screwing things up.

The academic world does not prepare you to think of a housewife in Ohio as a “writer” or a blogger/fireman as having anything interesting to say. No one expect two teenagers from Taiwan to make a compelling video and put it on YouTube. Hey, they didn’t even go to NYU Film School!

I actually love this democratization of the media.  And I get something from blogging that I can’t get from a novel.  I can’t interact with Tolstoy.  And as long as I wait, he’s never going to write a snarky comment back on my blog, acknowledging my existence  — although he will probably do it before Dooce does. 

But many find the growth of the individual blogger as scary, especially those who already work in the media. Is a newspaper columnist really that much more interesting than some political blogger — other than the fact that one gets paid and the other doesn’t?  Should we depend on cultural arbiters to decide what is considered “worthy” of our time, or should we let the “American Idol” spirit of “Hey, let’s vote on the next superstar!” be the new ideal? And if everyone considers themselves a creative writer, videographer, cultural critic, etc. - what happens to the experts? Does what they say still count?  Or could a housewife’s blog be as worthy reading material as something published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux?

So, the answer to Miriam’s question to me, “Why in the world would anyone want to read YOU?” is obvious.

It’s shorter than “War and Peace.”

P.S. –

Immediately after writing this, Sophia tore apart my entire argument. She said that it’s human nature for people to want an “expert” to show them what to read, watch, and “what NOT to wear.” Look at the home design “experts” on TV. Look at all the “expert” advice given in magazines.  Look at all the blogging sites telling you what blog to read. 

Sophia even told me about this new ABC show, How to Get the Guy, where “love coaches,” will help single women meet men.

“Teresa Strasser is one of love coaches,” she said, knowing that she is on my short list of cute Jewish brunettes who appear on television.

“Oh, yeah?” I said, my eyes widening.  “Didn’t she used to be a home design expert on another show?  And a fashion expert on another show?”

“She must be very educated,” Sophia joked.  “But what makes this single woman a love coach? If anyone should be a love coach, it should be my mother. She’s been married for forty years!”

Sophia gave me one example after another of how Americans love to take advice from experts — even if these experts don’t know any more than anyone else.   Look how one word from Oprah can make a book an instant bestseller.  Or how people wait in line to hear advice from “experts” at seminars.

“Hmmm…..,” I thought to myself as Sophia spoke…

P.P.S. –

Announcing:  (from the producers of BlogHim)

Meeting Hot Women Through Blogging

A Three Day Seminar by blogging and relationship expert Neil Kramer

July 14-15-16

The Valley Inn
Ventura Boulevard (adjacent to Burbank Bowling Alley)
Burbank, CA

Cost: $4000

Special for readers of “Citizen of the Month”: $4500

Single women and previous “blog crushes of the day”: Free!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Online Dating Works for Some

Today I wrote a poem titled “Supper Party.”   I have heard some criticism that my poem is nothing but a plagiarized version of Lynn’s poem titled “Dinner Party,” which she wrote on her blog, Sprigs.  

That is absolutely ridiculous.  I know plagiarism is all in the news today because Harvard student, Kaavya Viswanathan, “supposedly” copied a large portion of her book, “How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life” from a book by Megan McCafferty. 

So, now it’s witch hunt time.  Frankly, I think everyone is just jealous of Ms. Viswanathan because she was written about in the New York Times, received a two-book deal worth $500,000, and Dreamworks bought the film rights.

And now the green-eyed monster of envy is focused on me!

This is my poem, not Lynn’s. 

Don’t you people understand writers and writing?  While it is true that there are many similarities, so what?  Don’t you realize that there are only six original stories out there?  How many novels begin with “It’s a dark and stormy night…?”  Is that so-called “plagiarism” also?”  How many times during a movie chase scene do the bad guys fall off a cliff into the water?  Or into a fruit stand?  Plagiarism?  Of course not.

I think Ms. Viswanathan clearly explained it all in her touching public comment:

“While the central stories of my book and hers are completely different, I wasn’t aware of how much I may have internalized Ms. McCafferty’s words. I am a huge fan of her work and can honestly say that any phrasing similarities between her works and mine were completely unintentional and unconscious. [note:  many of the paragraphs were stolen verbatim]  My publisher and I plan to revise my novel for future printings to eliminate any inappropriate similarities.  I sincerely apologize to Megan McCafferty and to any who feel they have been misled by these unintentional errors on my part.”

Case closed. 

I am a big fan of Lynn and her poetry.  Perhaps I “internalized” some of her words, but this poem is ALL MINE.  Please enjoy it.

SUPPER PARTY

They don’t know she can hear them.
Drunk in the next room, they
think she’s playing in the FRONT yard.
But she’s slipped in through the sliding
glass doors and listens to their every word.

She loves to eavesdrop on adults.
Makes her feel grown up just listening.
Usually they complain about the President
or taxes. Sometimes her father entertains
the guests with stories about Korea
or, if drunk enough, by singing a ELVIS tune.

See for yourself how completely different Lynn’s poem is from my poem (and to be perfectly honest, much inferior to mine).

As for Kaavya Viswanathan, how much do you want to bet that this notoriety will only help her sell books?

Moral of the story:  Deceit and lying is morally OK, but only if you’re young, hot, and from an Ivy League school.

Most of my blogging friends think of me as a sophisticated bon vivant, a modern-day Oscar Wilde, known for his wit and clever wordplay.  So when a fellow blogger recently asked me for my opinion of David Sedaris, one of America’s best known humorists, I immediately said, "He’s excellent."  This is not the first time that I’ve given someone my whole-hearted approval of a writer that I’ve never read, heard, or seen.   Have you read Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow?  It’s an amazing novel!  I never read it.

Today, I was driving past my local Barnes and Noble when I said to myself, "Maybe today’s a good day to finally read some David Sedaris."  There were four reasons I decided to read him today:

1)  I have some socializing planned.  What if David Sedaris comes up in a conversation and I have to say something smart?

2)  I’m interested in impressing women, and I know women like it when a man is "sensitive" enough to enjoy reading a "gay writer."

3)  I know David Sedaris writes essays, which are usually short and easy to read, so his writing won’t take too much time away from "Dancing with the Stars."

4)  I could  read the book right in Barnes and Noble and save myself fifteen bucks!

I entered the bookstore and found David Sedaris right in the "Funny Gay Essayists" section.  There were a number of his books there, but I chose "Me Talk Pretty One Day," mostly because the light green jacket cover matched the color of the Zen Green Tea that I had just bought at the in-store cafe.  I settled down at a table and started to read the book –

It was a mistake to read David Sedaris.

The first story, Go Carolina, was about Mr. Sedaris’ experience in his elementary school’s Speech Therapy Lab, which he was forced to attend because he lisped.

"Shit," I said to myself, "He’s screwing up one of my stories that I was saving to put on my blog!"

When I was in elementary school, I lisped.  My friend, Rob, and I used to go visit Mr. Fox, the speech teacher.  We would repeat the same ridiculous statements over and over: 

"Silly Sally sat by the seashore and something something something…"  

Sucked Some Sailor’s Salami.  Or something like that.

When I went to sleepaway camp, I was nicknamed "Juice," because at breakfast, I would lisp, "Please pass the juith."  Even when the lisp disappeared (thanks to orthodontal work), I still was called "Juice."  I loved my nickname.  Recently, I got an email from someone I haven’t seen since I was thirteen years old.  He went to camp with me and found me via my blog.   He is currently a therapist with two children.   He still called me "Juice."

So what can I do with my lisping story now?  I certainly can’t write a blog post about my speech class.   I just know some jerk is going to write in the comments, "Hey, did you rip that idea off of David Sedaris?"  Or someone will send me an email, "What’s the matter, Neil?   So desperate for blog ideas that you’re stealing stuff hoping we don’t notice?  Well, I noticed!  And I’m taking your off my blogroll.  There’s no place for cheats and crooks on my site.  I’m disgusted with you.  I spit at my monitor — and at your second-rate blog."

You can imagine how upset I was, sitting there in Barnes and Noble.   A great personal story, gone to waste. 

I moved on to the second essay in the book, titled, "Giant Dream, Midget Abilities."  In this essay, Sedaris’ father, a jazz aficionado, pushes his children into learning musical instruments.  David Sedaris is pushed into guitar lessons, but he isn’t very interested in the guitar.

"This Sedaris guy is a real bitch." I said to myself.  "He’s screwing up another one of my great stories!"

When I  was a kid, my father pushed me (and my friend, Rob, again) into taking guitar lessons.  I found learning to play guitar incredibly boring.  My father kept on telling me that when I got to college, I would appreciate knowing to play the guitar.

"All the girls will gather around you in the dorm as you’re playing some beautiful song — and I promise you - they all will be falling in love with you." 

His image was more Peter, Paul, and Mary than Van Halen, but even so, as a twelve year old, I had little interest in girls "loving me."  I quit my guitar lessons.  My guitar still sits in my room in Flushing, years later, leaning against the closet.

Giving up the guitar was probably the dumbest, stupidest thing I ever did in all my life.   In my Columbia College dorm, I had an ugly neighbor who used to have sex all the time with the most gorgeous girls, all because he would play Springsteen songs for them on his guitar, melting their hearts right into his bed.  I once tried to impress a sophomore girl by playing the "Theme from Star Wars" on my clarinet, but it just didn’t have the same effect.

I love my guitar story.  But now it is as good as dead.  Thank you, David Sedaris!    I know I could get in trouble with the gay community for saying this — but I hate your guts!

After reading this second story, I spit out my green tea and ran to the bookshelf.  My goal:  to skim through every essay that David  Sedaris has ever published.   My biggest fear as a writer is being told that "someone already wrote something exactly like you just did."

Luckily, my next post is safe — a terrific autobiographical slice of life that really happened to me.  Thank God David Sedaris never wrote an essay about his experience going out to sea to kill a giant whale.  You’re going to love this story.

For a writer to be parodied and mocked is one of the greatest honors.  Or is it?  Although it’s not much of a parody if I’ve already said most of these things about myself. 

This is a post from Douchebrity, an actual new site:

God, I’m So Fucking Brilliant

I was so excited when the folks from Douchebrity asked me to write for them this morning. I thought to myself:

“Now here’s a great opportunity to try and pump my stats and link back to myself constantly”

You see, I spend ALL day refreshing my statcounter. As a matter of fact, my imaginary Ex-Wife that I made up so people wouldn’t think I was a complete loser, has tried to pry my swollen fingers away from the F5 button, to no avail. I can even find it in dark. Cause I like to turn off the lights and look at hot blogging chicks and pretend they might actually be interested in me.

The other day, while my mom was making me noodle koogle, I thought to myself:

“Thank god my female readers don’t look into my archives or else they’d find out the truth about my appearance. Then they’d laugh at me when I try to talk sexy with them in the comment section. Or when I ask to be nominated for the World’s Sexiest Blogger. Or stop cyber-sexing me on AIM. And who are we kidding, that’s the only action I get.”

But that’s what it takes to be a problogger. Technorati’s my real bitch…links, links, links. Say it slowly with me now (hold on while I get out my astroglide) OH YEAH LINKS, OH OH OH PLEASE MORE LINNNNNNKS.

Holy Kishkas, that was good.

by NCramer | No Comments | tags: Penis Envy

Today on Blogebrity:  Personal Blog-a-rama:  Kris’ Best of 2005, The Carnival of the Mundane

I know… I know… I’ve called them the spawn of Satan in the past, but the people at Blogebrity asked me if I wanted to write about the world of personal/storytelling blogs.   I wrote my first post today.  The guys there are pretty nice, so I’m trying it out to see if we’re a good fit — and we’ll see how it goes.  

Frankly, most "blogs" about "blogging" are extremely tedious.  They always write about the same blogs and subjects.  Most of the cool stuff that we do as personal bloggers is usually ignored.   It’s only my first post there, so I’m not exactly sure what I’m going to write about or how long I’m doing this for, but if you come across an interesting post or site that you think deserves some attention, tell me about it.   I’m also open to any suggestions or ideas that could help all of us be better recognized in the community of bloggers.

If you have a chance, go check out the first post about JordanBaker (her site).

And, of course, "Citizen of the Month" is still a major priority of my life, right under arguing with Sophia and talking to my penis.

Like everyone else, I get most of my reading done in the bathroom.  

First up was Psychology Today.  I was half-way through reading a cliched article about how cohabitation is bad, when I read this sentence:

"Charles, a 44-year old New Yorker (who asked that his name be changed) admits that in his 30s, he almost married a live-in girlfriend of three years for reasons having little to do with love."

Bored, I started thinking about Charles himself.   Why didn’t he give his real name?  Who is this guy?  How did the writer find this guy?  Did he just happen to perfectly exemplify the point the writer wanted to make?  Is this "Charles" her personal friend or did she meet him on the street?  Or does he even exist? 

Let’s make believe I want to branch out into writing articles for magazines or newspapers.  Let’s say I want to write an article on adults who love… say… Curious George books  (I’m looking at one on my bookshelf).   Where am I going to find people to quote?  How do I find someone who will tell me "I love Curious George."

Well, I do know this guy from college who used to have a Curious George keychain.  I guess I could call him up and ask him if I can quote him.   What if he doesn’t want me to use his name?  I guess I could change it to "Roger."

Or, to make it really easy on me — I can just make up a person:

Roger (his name changed), a stockbroker in New York, admits that he loves Curious George to this day, even carrying a Curious George keychain.

But that would get me fired, right?   Maybe that’s why I’m not writing articles.

Anyway, while I was still in the bathroom, I tossed aside the Psychology Today (does anyone remember when it used to be an legitimate magazine?) and opened up the New York Observer.  I love to keep up with the latest trends in New York. I started reading this article about how blue-eyed men were the flavor of the day in Manhattan, and tons of men were getting blue-colored contact lenses.   "How intriguing!" I thought.  But, then I reached this quote:

"I think blue eyes, on an unconscious level, create an impression of being sincere and trustworthy," said one 32-year-old female writer who pleaded anonymity, still nursing wounds inflicted by one blue-eyed bastard.

What’s this?  Another anonymous person who just happens to prove the writer’s point?   Is this luck or coincidence?

Looking to learn more, I asked Jill (not her real name), the 34-year-old editor-in-chief of a popular New York magazine, who told me that part of the writer’s job is finding people to quote.

"Interesting," I answered.  "And do you think I would be suitable for writing a freelance article for some big magazine."

"Absolutely," said Jill (not her real name).  "I’ve been reading your amazing blog and think you would be perfect for many assignments.  Hell, if there was an opening in my magazine, I would make you editor right now.  I would recommend you to any EMPLOYER out there.  Have you thought of working in TV again?  There’s more money in that."

Jill (not her real name) had a point. 

I decided to ask Trevor (fake name also), a 41-year-old TV producer of three top rated shows.   Trevor (fake name) was extemely excited to talk with me:

"Neil, you would perfect for so many shows.  You have such a creative mind.  I love that weird relationship you made up with that Sophia character."

"Well, she’s not exactly a character.  I mean she is a character.  But she is real.  We did get married seven years ago.  She does exist."

"And all that stuff about you being separated and still being friends.  That is so funny… sitcom stuff.   That’s all made up, right?"

"Actually, it’s true.

"Oh.  Well, then it’s pretty sad.  That’s too bad."

"Uh… what about the job you were going to give me?"

"Forget it.  You’re too much of a downer for sitcoms.  And I’m sure Jill (not her real name) agrees that you’re not right for magazines, either."

"You can’t do that or say that.  I made you both up.  You’re fake characters in a stupid blog.  You aren’t even a real editor-in-chief or a producer."

"Sorry.  Didn’t you ever hear of characters taking on a life of their own?  Now, please leave the office.  We have a lunch appointment with Brooke Shields at the Polo Lounge."