the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Month: May 2006 (Page 2 of 3)

Clock and Crow

clock2.jpg 

crow2.jpg

I think I made a giant step forward in my appreciation of poetry today (as a participant in Lynn and Liz’s Poetry Thursday).  I was asleep this morning; it was about 6AM.  The morning light drizzled through the blinds and rested on my naked body sprawled across my bed like the Roman God of Virility announcing to the world, “I am Man.” 

“Damn alarm clock!” I said, as this annoying sound pounded into my ear.  I slammed the alarm clock into “snooze” mode.  But the sound continued.  It was not my alarm clock.  It was some stupid bird outside in a tree (a crow, perhaps?).

To me, this crow sounded like an alarm clock.

Now, what does this have to do with poetry?

On Monday night, I went to the Beverly Hills Library and skimmed through some poetry books.  I noticed that poets are always using nature as a way of describing their lives.

“She was as angry as a tornado.”

“Her green eyes were like leaves of grass.”

Etc.

Now, I grew up in New York, and spent much of my adult life in Los Angeles.   I love nature as much as the next guy (despite being allergic to most of it).  I’ve seen the greatness of Yosemite — and even got a cool Ansel Adams poster at the gift shop.   I love the sound of rivers flowing.  I’ve enjoyed Vermont and her colorful Fall.  

But I’m not really at home with nature.  It doesn’t really feel natural for me to describe Sophia as “a tiger in the bedroom,” because I have no idea what a real tiger would do in a bedroom.  I’ve seen tigers in the zoo.  I’ve seen tigers at the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus. I know a tiger mauled Siegfried — or was it Roy?

So, as I woke up this morning, I gave some thought to the statement:

“That annoying crow sounds like my alarm clock.”

I’m sure if Yeats was alive today and living in my crappy apartment instead of me, and the alarm clock would go off, he would have look over at the clock and say:

“That weird clock with a smiling face sounds just like a crow!”

He knows about crows, but nothing about alarm clocks.  I know about alarm clocks, but nothing about crows. 

Maybe I would enjoy poetry more if I can find some poems that related to me in a more personal way — more about how crows sound like alarm clocks rather than how alarm clocks sound like crows.   You know, the way women eat up all those chick lit novels because it relates to their own lives. 

So, today I searched around for poems that focused more on the urban experience, and I found quite a few.

I particularly liked the following poem by Amy Lowell (February 9, 1874 – May 12, 1925).  Lowell, was an American poet of the imagist school, who posthumously won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1926.  Many of her poems have lesbian themes, but this poem focuses on the darkness of Industrial Age New York City.

night2.jpg

New York at Night by Amy Lowell

A near horizon whose sharp jags
Cut brutally into a sky
Of leaden heaviness, and crags
Of houses lift their masonry
Ugly and foul, and chimneys lie
And snort, outlined against the gray
Of lowhung cloud.  I hear the sigh
The goaded city gives, not day
Nor night can ease her heart, her anguished labours stay.
Below, straight streets, monotonous,
From north and south, from east and west,
Stretch glittering; and luminous
Above, one tower tops the rest
And holds aloft man’s constant quest:
Time!  Joyless emblem of the greed
Of millions, robber of the best
Which earth can give, the vulgar creed
Has seared upon the night its flaming ruthless screed.
O Night!  Whose soothing presence brings
The quiet shining of the stars.
O Night!  Whose cloak of darkness clings
So intimately close that scars
Are hid from our own eyes.  Beggars
By day, our wealth is having night
To burn our souls before altars
Dim and tree-shadowed, where the light
Is shed from a young moon, mysteriously bright.
Where art thou hiding, where thy peace?
This is the hour, but thou art not.
Will waking tumult never cease?
Hast thou thy votary forgot?
Nature forsakes this man-begot
And festering wilderness, and now
The long still hours are here, no jot
Of dear communing do I know;
Instead the glaring, man-filled city groans below!

A year ago on Citizen of the Month:  A Letter to Diane Keaton 

Archives now here.  Links now here. 

BlogHim ’06

blogconf.jpg

BlogHim
Opening Session
Date: Today
Location: Santa Clarita, CA Holiday Inn – Conference Room #F
Moderator: Neil Kramer

Neil stands in front of a group of about 300 dedicated male bloggers of all races, religions, and ages.

Neil: “Welcome to the First Annual BlogHim Conference. Many have asked me why I have started this conference catering to the male blogger. Is this conference just a pale imitation of the BlogHer Conference being held at the Hyatt San Jose in July? Absolutely not. BlogHim is much more important than BlogHer. Look online. Who rules the blogosphere? It is the female blogger. The Mommy Bloggers. The Dating Bloggers. The Dooces and Stephanie Kleins. Men are the poor cousins of the women in the personal blogging world. I am frequently asked by male readers: “Neilochka, why are you always ass-kissing your female readers with topics of interest to them? What about us men?” I am guilty as charged. That’s why I’ve started BlogHim. BlogHim will strengthen us as a community — a community of men talking about issues important to us as male bloggers. Let me open up the floor to any questions or comments concerning men and the blogosphere.”

BLOGGER #1 raises his hand.

Neil: “Yes. Please tell us all your name and what blog you write.”

Blogger #1 (standing) “My name is Roy. I write a blog titled, “I Love Linux.” I have a question I want to ask all the other male bloggers.”

Neil: “Go ahead, Roy.”

Blogger #1: “I’ve been pondering this question for a very long time. In fact, I think about it every time I go online. Of all the female bloggers out there, which one would you most like to f***?”

Neil: “Interesting question. Anyone?”

BLOGGER #2 raises his hand.

Neil: “Yes. Please.”

Blogger #2: “The name is Trent. My blog is called “‘NYMets4Ever.” And if I were to pick just one blogger to f***, it would be Xxxx of Xxxxxx.”

Blogger #1: “But she’s like fifty years old!”

Blogger #2: “Experience, baby!”

MALE BLOGGER 3 stands, excitedly.

Blogger #3: “Hey, I’d f*** her, too! Oh, excuse me. My name is Edgar and I write “The Conservative Daddy.” I don’t know about the rest of you, but have you seen the photo she posted on her blog on Sunday? She’s hot! And she has great tits.”

Blogger #1: “That photo is of her daughter, who was visiting for Mother’s Day.”

Blogger #3: “Oh. Well, so, you know what — I’d f*** them both!”

Blogger #2: “Absolutely!”

Blogger #3: “Hey, I’m curious about everyone else? How many of you have f***ed mother and daughter bloggers at the same time?”

All the men look at each other, warily. One hand goes up. Suddenly, all the hands go up.

Blogger #1: “What about you, Neilochka?”

Neil: (nervously) “Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ve even f***ed a daughter, mother, and grandmother blogging team.”

Blogger #1: “Wow! No wonder you’re the moderator. Tell us more.”

Neil: “That’s for tomorrow’s breakfast seminar.”

Blogger #2: “You’re the man, Neil. You have so many female readers. You must be f***ing all the time!”

Neil: “Sure, yes…blogging has been good to me.”

Blogger #2: “Me, too. Ever since I started blogging, I’ve been like f***ing one woman after another! How about everyone else?”

Everyone nods their head in agreement. Shouts of “Woo-hoo!” are heard.

Blogger #3: “Neilochka, you’re so lucky to be separated. Ever since I got married, I’m stuck with my wife. And she won’t even go down on me anymore.”

Blogger #2: “That sucks.”

Blogger #3: “Yes, but she doesn’t!”

Blogger #1: “Ha ha ha. Good one!”

Blogger #2: “Yeah. If there’s one thing male bloggers have that female bloggers don’t, is an excellent sense of humor.”

Blogger #3: “I love you guys. All of you guys. You’re like family to me.”

He hugs the blogger sitting next to him.

Blogger #1: “This conference is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I’ve learned so much already.”

Blogger #2: “I really want to learn how to f*** more female bloggers, just like the rest of you guys.”

Blogger #1: “I thought you SAID you’ve already been f***ing a lot of female bloggers?”

Blogger #2: “Oh, yeah, of course I am. I’m f***ing them all the time. I just want to do it more. There’s never enough f***ing, is there? I mean, that’s why I’m blogging, right?!”

Blogger #3: “Right on, Brother!”

Neil: “I really appreciate your honesty, Edgar. That’s what BlogHim is all about. Gentleman, I think we’ve all made friends for life here. I’m so glad we’re having this opportunity to get together as men and talk about what really matters to us as male bloggers! Now, let’s bring in those kegs and strippers!”

Shouts of Woo-hoo!

Neilochka Sez: Boycott the Fashion Industry!

runwaymontage.jpg 

AP Newswire — Neil “Neilochka” Kramer, a popular blogger from Los Angeles, and a well-known advocate for women’s issues (despite him being a red-meat eating hetereosexual), has called for a boycott of many of the top fashion designers and most exclusive boutiques.

“A few days after writing my post on stereotypes against “fat” people, I went shopping for a Mother’s Day gift for my mother-in-law,” said Mr. Kramer.  

My mother-in-law is size 18-20, and as usual, it was impossible to find any nice clothes for her.  When I got home, I did some Googling on the fashion industry.  It immediately became clear to me that most fashion designers and popular boutiques do not want their fashions to be worn by anyone over size 12.  Even the popular H&M in New York doesn’t carry any large sizes. 

I think there can be a strong argument that these companies are involved in discrimination.  These fashion designers and boutiques are involved in an apartheid system, making everyone over size 12 a second-class citizen.  I say it is time for the female consumer to take back control.  I am going to start keeping a list of every designer and boutique that ignores larger sizes.  This list will contain some of biggest names in fashion.   I suggest that women refuse to shop in these stores or wear a designer’s clothes until the companies change their discriminatory practices against larger sized women.  I know most women are caring and supportive of each other, and will be glad to show support for their heavier friends.”

Some female bloggers were surprisingly unsupportive.  

“Not wear Dolce & Gabbana?” asked Joan, a Cleveland mother who writes the blog, “The Daily Fashionista. “Is Neilochka crazy?”

Other female bloggers just quietly dropped him from their blogroll.

There is a long tradition of the billion dollar fashion industry catering to what it considers the “thin” elite.   According to the Washington Post, H&M discontinued carrying larger sizes after being publicly scolded by fashion designer Karl Lagerfeld.

“Chanel designer Karl Lagerfeld complained publicly that in a much-hyped collaboration, the company had manufactured his line in larger sizes. “What I created was fashion for slim, slender people,” he was quoted as saying.

The designer’s recent book, “The Karl Lagerfeld Diet,” encourages readers to subsist on raw vegetables, curiously named “protein sachets,” and little else — ostensibly with the goal of looking like the emaciated Lagerfeld himself, who pared his 5-foot-11 frame by 80 pounds on the plan.

Lagerfeld’s motivation? Not health, as he freely admits in the book’s introduction, but the desire to fit into designer clothes.

If you’re H&M, [industry analyst] Cohen asked, which is more important to the image of your brand: your association with Karl Lagerfeld or serving this market?”

Mr. Kramer thinks it is attitudes like those of Mr. Lagerfeld that have made this an important issue. 

“I really think this boycott idea could work,” insists the defiant Mr. Kramer.  “Look what’s going on in Georgia.  When women come together, they can be powerful.”

Mr. Kramer refers to the current protest going on at the Augusta National Golf Club, where Bill Payne, the new chair, has stated that he will uphold the all-male club’s practice of denying membership to women.  

“It was these women’s organizations that led the 2003 protest against the Masters Golf Tournament, and caused CBS to broadcast the event without corporate sponsorship for two years in a row.” 

golf.jpg

Currently, these same organizations are trying to raise public awareness of companies who sponsor the Masters or whose CEOs maintain their Augusta memberships, which violates their companies’ anti-discrimination policies.

Mr. Kramer is anxious to speak with these women.

“I am trying to reach members of National Council of Women’s Organizations and the Feminist Majority and tell them about my boycott idea, said Mr. Kramer.  “If anyone could get this off the ground, it is these committed women.   My argument to them is simple:  The NCWO and the Feminist Majority consider male-only golfing as a way of keeping the old boy’s network alive.  I believe that a lack of shopping opportunities prevents large women from building important friendships with thin assoicates.”

So far, no one from these women’s organizations has returned Mr. Kramer’s calls. 

A spokeswoman from the Feminist Majority, however, told the New York Times that, “Most of our members have strong opinions on the fashion industry.  We call for the elimination of all fur products and the abolishment of the sweatshop.  But really, when you work hard to look thin, you want to dress nice.  Most of our members are not going to shop at Walmart with the fatties.”

Seven Reasons to Abolish Mother’s Day

mom2.jpg

History is filled with frauds: the Trojan Horse, Rasputin’s psychic act, Chris Daughtry being voted off American Idol — but nothing compares to the biggest fraud of them all — Mother’s Day!

What are we celebrating with this made-up holiday? And do mothers really deserve a holiday?

Yeah, I know these are dangerous questions. I know all about the “Mommy Bloggers” and how they pretty much run the Blogosphere. Listen, if you don’t hear from me after tomorrow, it’s because my computer and I are buried beneath some Babies-R-Us in Culver City, CA. Good luck getting any information from Jimmy “Dooce” Hoffa.

But let’s think about this “Mother Issue” calmly and rationally. Hear me out, then you can agree or disagree with my thesis that Moms have caused ALL of society’s woes.

1) Mothers are big nags.

Who can disagree with this? “Wear your hat!” “Wear your gloves!” “Wear your galoshes!” “You’re not going out wearing those jeans!” “You’re not getting a nose ring!” “Did you write that thank you note for that bar mitvah gift?” “Did you call Aunt Betsy and say Happy Birthday?” “Why not go on a second date with her?” “When are you having children?” “Why don’t you call me?”

Had enough?

Mothers say they nag because “they care.” I say, “Take some Prozac and get off our backs!”

2) Mothers prevent their daughters from having a healthy romantic relationship.

Think about your boyfriend or husband. Remind you of anyone? Yeah, that’s right. He’s just like that crazy guy your mother married — your father! For years, she complained about him. And now she’s brainwashed you into marrying the exact same type of man! If that’s not passive-aggressive, I don’t know what is.

3) Mothers prevent their sons from having a healthy romantic relationship.

Men, have you ever seen a photo of your mother when she was twenty-one and vacationing at the beach, and said to yourself, “Holy crap, she’s hot!” and then you look both ways to make sure no one saw you salivating over your own mother?

Admit it, there’s no one like your mother. And you know why? Because that’s the way she WANTS IT.

She’s like a devil woman! She sucks you into her web — well, actually you’re sucking milk from her breast, creating a bond that is unbreakable. When you’re feeling down, like when you dropped the fly ball to right field during the big Little League game and the rest of the team beat you up, she feeds you with your favorite — Kraft macaroni and cheese. When you’re sick, she brings you Spiderman comics and Mad Magazine. All the while, she is “setting you up” so you can never be happy with another woman! Can your wife really cook as well as your mother? Of course not. When you had a hard day at work, would your mother really bug you about fixing the leaky toilet in the upstairs bathroom? No way!

Like it or not, we are ALL Mama’s Boys.

Ladies, here’s a little secret, when your man is making love to you and screaming, “Oh, mama! Oh, mama!” — there’s a reason for that.

4) Mothers poison you.

Yes, Mom, that margarine you used to spread on my toast “instead of butter” is now known as Trans-Fatty Acids. The same with that Entenmann’s “Low-Fat” Chocolate Cake. All stuff that could kill you! Coincidence? And why did I never — EVER — see you once eat those Spaghetti-O’s you used to give me at lunch? Curious, isn’t it? How about next time you come visit me, I feed you some of those “Lucky Charms” cereal for breakfast? Huh?

5) Mothers make their children neurotic.

I used to believe “guilt” was a Jewish trait, but through blogging I have learned that this is a universal problem. Catholics, Hindus, Muslims, everyone feels guilty all the time. And everyone is miserable. And when we go to our therapists, what is the first thing we learn? Who is the real villain? Yes, “sweet” ol’ Mom!

6) Mothers ruin any chance of you having a happy family.

First of all, we all know about mother-in-laws and all the trouble they cause in a marriage. But your own mother is even more dangerous because she hides behind her innocent AARP smile.

Ask her some time, “What exactly is the grandmother’s role?”

“To spoil the grandchild.”

“I see. And why would a grandmother want to do that?”

“Simple. Because I want your kids to turn into annoying brats and make your life a living hell!”

It’s revenge! Revenge for the pains of childbirth. For the terrible twos! For those awful teenage years! For getting caught with that college boy in your bedroom! For you smoking pot! For the eighty thousand dollars she spent on you for college without even getting a thank-you!

It’s no wonder mothers just turn plain nasty!

Now I’m sure there are some new mothers out there saying, “Not me! Never me!”

I know who you are. I’ve seen your blogs. Here’s my one year old Melinda smiling. Here’s Melinda trying to say “DaDa.” Here’s Melinda playing with the dog. Here’s Melinda drooling. Sure, you’re proud of your child now. It’s a novelty. But wait until you’re a grandmother and Melinda has tattoos all over her body and is living with her Republican lesbian lover in Portland.

Payback time. That’s why they call it “the Golden Years.”

7) Mothers destroy your free will.

How many times are you doing something — fighting with your spouse or scolding your child — and you suddenly realize that you are acting just like your mother?

Have you ever seen The Manchurian Candidate?  Brainwashing!

There is no hope for you. You are the puppet and your mother is the puppetmaster.

mom3.jpg

Of course, my Mom has a good sense of humor and makes a damn good brisket. She’s kind-hearted and doesn’t get too mad at me when I forget to mail her a Mother’s Day card. As mothers go, I could have done worse. So, I guess I will forgive her for serving me those Spaghetti-Os.

And she’s still as hot as when she was twenty-one and at Coney Island!

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom!

Poetry Scares Me

levertov2.jpg 
Denise Levertov – poet

My blogging pal, Lynn, from Sprigs, and Liz Elayne, of be present, be here,  have started something called Poetry Thursday.   Poetry Thursday “is an online project that encourages bloggers to read and enjoy poetry, as well as sharing it with others.”

I’ve never been a big fan of poetry.  It’s embarrassing to say, considering I was an English major in college and I like to read.  I think one of the reasons is that I feel most comfortable with traditional A-B-C storytelling.   Poetry is often about mood or language itself and it doesn’t always have the forward thrust of a narrative.  When Lynn asked if I was interested in getting involved, I sent her this email:

I’ll think about it.  To be quite honest, I do have an interest in poetry.   Maybe you can help me understand why this is, but I avoid poetry, because reading poetry frequently makes me feel nervous — almost anxious.  Is that weird to admit?  Maybe because I’m so used to words and sentences having a structure and making a concrete point – providing information in a story that I can focus on –  I’m not really sure what to do with just words and emotion?  Maybe it’s a male thing, like not asking for directions.  I mean, does poetry have tits I can play with?

Her response:

It depends on the poems. Some have tits and ass that don’t mind being played with, but others are terribly prude.

I don’t know how fully I’m going to participate, but I thought I’d take a cue from Sophia, and be brave.  Look fear in the eye.  And actually read some poetry.

I went to the Index of Modern American Poets and spent the next couple of hours just reading different poems. 

I wish I had the literary skills of an arts critic.  I’m terrible in explaining why I like one piece of art better than another.  Why do I love watching “24,” but fall asleep watching “CSI?”  Is there a specific reason I like one book over another?  Why do I relate to one blogger’s writing more than another, especially when I don’t know really know any of you.

Maybe if I keep on reading poetry for a while, I’ll be better prepared to explain why I liked this following poem the best out of the dozens I read.  It’s not particularly a “big” poem, or about anything dramatic.  It’s written by Denise Levertov, who died in 1997.  This is supposedly the last poem she ever wrote.

Aware

When I found the door
I found the vine leaves
speaking among themselves in abundant
whispers.
My presence made them
hush their green breath,
embarrassed, the way
humans stand up, buttoning their jackets,
acting as if they were leaving anyway, as if
the conversation had ended
just before you arrived.
I liked
the glimpse I had, though,
of their obscure
gestures. I liked the sound
of such private voices. Next time
I’ll move like cautious sunlight, open
the door by fractions, eavesdrop
peacefully.

(Denise Levertov. “The Great Unknowing: Last Poems.”

Copyright 1999 by the Denise Levertov Property Trust. 
Publisher:  New Directions.)

One Month of Waiting

Breast2.jpg 

During the last month, I haven’t been very good at commenting on blogs, answering emails, or returning calls.  After I wrote a post about accompanying Sophia to her mammogram, nothing was found on the mammogram or the ultra-sound.  We were ecstatic.  However, she also had an MRI done.  Sophia’s surgeon called with some bad news: they saw “something” in her right breast on the MRI.   This was especially scary because a year and a half ago, the same doctor removed a cancer tumor from her left breast.   This could signify something more serious.   Sophia and I both freaked out.

The surgeon, a well-known doctor at Cedars-Sinai, said that because this “something” could only be seen on the MRI, a regular biopsy could not be performed, and that the only way to go was to do a full invasive surgical biopsy, general anaesthesia and all.

Now, this doctor already knew that Sophia wasn’t just going to follow orders.  If there ever existed an organization called Proactive Patients of America, Sophia would be the poster child.   A year and a half ago, Sophia convinced her doctor to do a new radiation procedure, Mammosite, an intense twice-daily five day therapy available for those with early-stage breast cancer.  The treatment is used instead of the typical seven weeks of whole breast external beam radiation therapy   This required Sophia to have an additional small surgery, and to walk around with a “balloon” inserted in her breast for ten days.  The procedure works by delivering radiation from inside the breast directly to the tissue where cancer is most likely to recur.  It was painful and uncomfortable, but it seemed to have worked, and this technique is supposed to be much more concentrated than regular radiation, and therefore protect the heart and lungs from extensive radiation damage.

Sophia bravely made it through the treatment.

This time, after this latest discovery, Sophia went back into action, doing her own research.  She was wary of getting invasive surgery on her other breast.  Her healing after the original surgery has been difficult.  She went home and Googled every cancer site in the world.  She learned about another relatively new treatment,  a non-invasive biopsy called the MRI-Guided Vacuum Assisted Breast Biopsy that could be used in certain circumstances.  Rather than surgery, the patient is put into a MRI machine, and then, with an assistance of a new apparatus, a special needle is used which “vacuums” the samples out.

Sophia asked her surgeon about the procedure.  He said it was a theoretical possibility, but there was one big problem.  Cedars-Sinai did not have the equipment. 

Here is where most of us would give up.  I told Sophia to forget it.  Did she listen to me?  Of course not.  She went ahead and convinced the hospital to RENT the equipment for her.   This way they could learn the new technique better and eventually buy the system for the hospital to use.

While this was a giant step forward, there was still a lot of fear in the air:

1)  Sophia was giving herself up as a guinea pig.
2)  What happens if they do find cancer?

For two weeks, we waited for the big day.   Tensions grew between us.   It was hard to concentrate on anything other than the wait.   At night, rather than talk about any issues, we spent our time watching TV shows about Texas Hold-em. 

A few days before the hospital appointment, Sophia got a small cut on her finger and it got infected.  It seemed like a big nothing, but when the doctor heard about it, he said they must postpone the appointment because the procedure could cause a severe infection.  We wouldn’t be able to do the biopsy for another ten days.  Sophia was put on two super-strong antibiotics they give people with a most serious Staph infection.

Ten more days!!  Let’s just say that during those ten days, Sophia and I became professional Texas Hold-em players by watching TV every night.  We would talk about players like Daniel Negreanu and Doyle Brunson over dinner, like they were family.

Eventually, the day came.  I was not in the hospital room during the procedure.  I was in the waiting room leafing through a Golf Magazine.  Why does the hospital put these magazines out?  Are they for the patients or the doctors?  

As I sat there, Sophia was slipped in and out of the MRI machine at least 10 times, while they were mapping, positioning, re-positioning, checking, putting the needle in, etc. .  I’ve never been in an MRI machine, but I hear it is pretty unpleasant; you wear earplugs because it’s as loud as sitting in the engine of a fighter jet, your hands are tied, you have to keep perfectly still, and you feel like you’re trapped inside a barrel.

Despite it all, it was still better than invasive surgery.  The procedure took about an hour and a half, plus time in recovery.  We went home and waited again, this time for the results.

More watching poker shows for a few days.

Today, there was good news:  it was benign.   No cancer.

Sophia and I can stop watching poker and go back to fighting with each other again.  Back to normal.

I know a lot of you go on those Revlon breast cancer walks or contribute to the cause.  Thank you.

Throughout this whole ordeal, I’ve been amazed at how Sophia has handled it all — from the way she took medical matters into her own hands, to her willingness to be a guinea pig, to the way she kept her sense of humor.  

Of course, things aren’t really “over” yet.  That is one terrible thing about cancer.  You can never fully say it is over.  There is a five year “period” where you have to keep a watchful eye for any recurrance. 

Yes, Sophia and I are still separated and all that.  Nothing has changed.  But during the past month, I certainly was reminded about why I married Sophia in the first place — her beauty, brains, and grit.

If you haven’t heard my song to Sophia yet — which I put out there on the eve of her procedure — you can find it here.   Feel free to send her a message — or write a better song!

breast3.jpg

Fat People

fat3.jpg 

I’ve written a number of posts about women’s weight issues, from an early post about looking for a size 14 at the Beverly Center to an inane post about Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie which still gets comments from crazed, anorexic teenagers.

It probably doesn’t make much sense why this issue interests me so much.  I’m not a woman and I’m not overweight.  I think what bothers me the most is the way being overweight is being demonized in our society — for both men and women, and “fat” has become a code word for something more than just weight, with meanings now associated with class and social standing.

This might sound weird to you, but I’m sure part of my sensitivity to a singled-out group comes from being Jewish.  I feel lucky to have grown up in New York City, where being Jewish is so common that even the Puerto Rican bus driver who took us to school knew when Yom Kippur was coming up.  While there were some tensions between blacks and Jews in my public schools, I never experienced traditional “anti-semitism.”  It wasn’t until I went to college and met Jews from other parts of the country, that I learned that the word “Jew” could be used as a dirty word.  Some synagogues in the South even used the word “Hebrews” so as not to appear too “Jewish.” 

I learned about “jewing down” the price, with its negative connotations of cheapness and unscrupulous behavior.   Was my mother “jewing down” all these years?  After all, my mother’s whole shopping strategy was to “shop for the bargains.”  I always thought that was what you were supposed to do!  But then I learned that wealthier “Manhattan” Jews went  to the more expensive stores to buy the products at higher prices — so they can look less Jewish!  After all, if the non-Jews are too dumb to look for the bargains, then we should become dumb, too.  But this never really worked, because then buying at the better store became the Jewish thing to do, so it undermined the whole reason for shopping there in the first place.  Luckily, things have changed, and now everyone is like my Jewish mother from Queens, shopping amazon.com to save ten bucks on a digital camera (with free shipping!).  (note to Arab media:  does this mean Amazon.com is a Zionist tool?)

I remember having a Jewish friend from Louisville in college and he was so obsessed about not being seen as a “cheap Jew,” that he would scold me if I picked up a “lucky penny” off the street. 

I don’t need to go into a history lesson about how Jews have been demonized throughout history.  You still see those images of beady-eyed Jews with hooked noses in Arab newspapers.   It’s the dehumanization of a people that makes it easier to exterminate a group or blow up a bus.

Not that Jews don’t have their own bigotries.  I’ve always been a bit of a snot-nosed kid on this subject of bigotry — always on a crusade.   I remember when my uncle would come visit, he would always used the word “schvatza” when talking about blacks.  (schvatza simply means black in Yiddish, as does the name Schwartz (like Schwartzenneger.  It doesn’t really have any negative connotations to it — it means black — but when Jews say it, they usually say it with a negative spin, meaning “ghetto blacks.”   When my uncle would say this, I would leave the table, angrily saying, “I will not listen to any of this racism!”   In retrospect, if I met a kid like me today, I would find him a humorless prig.

Now what does all this about Jews and blacks have to do with “overweight” people? 

I think the association started when I was listening to this song from one of my favorite artists, Ben Folds.   While reading the lyrics, think about how the imagery of “fat” people is used symbolically to represent everything that is wrong with our American consumer culture.

All U Can Eat (They Give No Fuck)
by Ben Folds

Son, look at all the people/In this restaurant
What do you think they weigh?
And out the window/To the parking lot
At their SUVs taking all of this space

They give no fuck/They talk as loud as they want
They give no fuck/Just as long as there’s enough

For them

Gonna get on the microphone/Down at Wal-Mart
Talk about some shit/That’s been on my mind
Talk about the state/Of this great nation of ours
People look to your left/Yeah and look to your right

They give no fuck/They buy as much as they would want
They give no fuck/Just as long as there’s enough

For them

Son, look at the people/Lining up for plastic
Wouldn’t you like to see ’em/In the National Geographic
Squating bare-assed in the dirt/Eating rice from a bowl
With a towel on their head and/Maybe a bone in their nose

See that asshole/With a peace sign on his license plate
Giving me the finger and/Running me out of his lane
God made us number one/’Cause he loves us the best
But he should go bless/Someone else for a while
And give us a rest

(They give no)Yeah and everyone can see
(They give no)We’ve eaten all that we can eat

Fat people = all you can eat = SUVs = Walmart

Now, I actually agree with Ben Folds about our culture of overconsumption.   But I don’t feel comfortable singling out larger-sized people to make the point.  Poetry can be used for harm as much as for beauty. 

I can hear the twelve year old kid in me asking the questions…

“Do you mean that skinny people never go to all-you-can-eat buffets?  Or that skinny people don’t own SUVs?  Isn’t it a fact that most rich people are actually thin — and they are the ones who are most benefiting from our society.  Isn’t it an easy target to use the fat Midwesterner as the symbol of the ugly American?”

Am I being a snot-nosed prig again? 

Recently I saw some reformed racist on Oprah explaining to her that “nigger” isn’t that bad of a word; he would never think of Oprah as a “nigger.”  And I’m sure there are people who still use the expression “jew down.” 

Maybe you’re thinking, “What’s so wrong with demonizing fat people, just like we’ve successfully demonized smokers?  Maybe it will force them to change.  We do have an overweight country.  And being fat is not healthy.”

But do we really want to shun those who are full-figured in the same way we force smokers out of the restaurant?   Why do so many women, for example, avoid “hanging out” with an overweight girlfriend?   Are they afraid that getting fat is catching?   And isn’t the very fact that I’m using the word “overweight” a sign of my own brainwashing by society?  By whose standard is someone overweight?  Am I talking about someone 400 pounds or a woman who is size 12?

Have you read about this poll done by Fitness Magazine?

“More than half of Americans say they’d rather lose their jobs than get fat.

Fifty-eight percent of women and 54% of men say they’d rather be unemployed than gain 75 pounds. And 63% of women and 55% of men say they’d rather be poor with no extra pounds to lose than rich and substantially overweight.

75% of men and 80% of women say they wouldn’t give up 20 intelligence-quotient points to gain the perfect body.”

Clearly, there is a large percentage of the population that fears being fat more than being poor  (I doubt these respondents were ever poor).  Being poor has some coolness to it  — songwriters write about it all the time.  But being fat is “shameful.”  And I’m sure there are many intelligent, liberal-minded, perfectly politically-correct people out there who would never think of saying anything bigoted against Jews, blacks, gays, Muslims, etc. — but who see no problem at all singing along with Ben Folds:

“Son, look at all the people/In this restaurant
What do you think they weigh?” 

Another Sell-Out

Some of my older relatives were socialists back in the 1930’s and 1940’s, and sometimes I think I have some of their politics in my blood.  I wonder if it is fair for someone to make more money than they can ever possibly need.  Hey, I’m all for someone to work hard and become a multi-millionaire.   But is it fair when a CEO of a company is making 1000x more than the average worker at the company.  Wouldn’t it be nice for a CEO to say, “Now I own four homes around the world and seventeen cars.  Enough is enough?”

In Los Angeles, did you know that 80 percent of SAG members earned less than $5,000 from acting annually, and fewer than 5 percent earned more than $35,000?  I’ve very happy Nicole Kidman makes $120 million dollars a year.  If she can bring in the box office, then she deserves it.  But why does she need to do commercials for Chanel No. 5?   I love Catherine Zeta-Jones, but does she really need to do those T-Mobile commercials?  Why don’t these actresses suggest hiring some fellow SAG actress who could use the extra money? 

But nothing has disappointed me as much as the knowledge that one of my favorite actors has recently “sold out” for the money.

lassie31.jpg

lassie2.jpg

« Older posts Newer posts »
Social media & sharing icons powered by UltimatelySocial