the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Month: December 2006 (Page 2 of 3)

Back in LA


I flew back to Los Angeles today (goodbye New York!), and when I arrived at LAX, there was an angry mob greeting me at the gate demanding that I retract my statement from my last post, which insinuated that eating too many “fish tacos” in California makes you stupid.   I’ve already been in enough trouble lately, as I’ve been receiving daily visitors to my site searching for “Kramer’s racist rants,” as if I was lucky enough to be the actor who played the nutty neighbor in “Seinfeld.”   

In a public relations move, I would like to publicly renounce my previous statement about fish tacos.  I actually do enjoy fish tacos, especially at Wahoo’s.  They are tasty, and heart-healthy!  However, if you are a visitor to the Los Angeles area, please avoid the La Salsa chain, as their fish tacos are extremely mediocre and overpriced.  Even their tortilla chips taste old.  And sometimes I don’t even see a “sneeze-guard” at their infamous “salsa bar.”  Just take my advice and avoid the place.  You’ll be happy you did.

I also apologize for using that old cliche that East Coast people are smart and West Coast people are dumb and shallow.   It simply isn’t true.  I’ve lived in California for many years, and I’ve met some of the most intelligent, creative, and innovative individuals I’ve ever met, especially those who work in the entertainment business.

Here is a photo of the talented and beautiful Jennifer Love Hewitt, having sex with her Michael’s shopping cart in an Encino parking lot.


Tis the Season for More Male Insecurity


It used to be that women had all the insecurities. They worried that they were too fat, too talkative, too this, too that. Now men are as insecure. We feel bad if we don’t have flat abs, thick wavy hair, or look like the model in some underwear ad. Let’s not even talk about money, or some other personal issues that I would just have to delete from this blog later tonight.

As a connoisseur of “male insecurity” I’ve been fascinated by the amount of spam I get for increasing the size of my penis. Is this really what men are worrying about? Obviously most of these men are NOT married. Believe me, after marriage, that concern falls way down on the list. WAY down. I don’t care if you have the smallest penis in the world, I just can’t imagine a woman telling her husband that she wants a divorce because his “penis is too small.”

Back to the email spam. It’s always been unclear to me how these pills actually work. Do these pills increase your penis by 3″ just once, or can you consistently increase it by 3″, like Pinocchio’s nose, or a tax-free CD at the bank which you can rollover at the end of the year for more interest?  And why is it always 3″?  If I took the pills for say, three months, would the results be an increase of 3″ (cubed), or a 9″ increase.  And at what point are you supposed to STOP taking the pills?  At a 3″ increase?  A 6″ increase? A 9″ increase?  If you take only 1/2 of a pill, which I sometimes did when I was trying Prozac, for instance, will you only get a 1.5″ increase of your penis size?

I think it would actually cool to have a 12″ penis because then you would always have a handy ruler. Forget about looking for a dirty ruler in your “junk” drawer when you want to measure the size of your penis. Your penis IS the ruler! Think how much fun it would be for a young couple building their first IKEA-bought entertainment center:

Girl: “The directions say the shelf needs to be exactly 7″ from the edge of wood piece #D.”

Boy: “No problem. Let me just get my “ruler” out.”

Girl: “I’ll help!”

Part of getting older is learning there are things you should feel insecure about which you didn’t even know you were SUPPOSED to be insecure about. Remember that whole tighty-whitey debacle on my blog a year ago, where you told me that white Fruit of the Loom briefs were for mama boys living in their mother’s apartment in New York?

Obsession with penis size is nothing new. I was not surprised by the selling of miracle pills in my email spam. Penis size has been a male obsession since Cain and Abel had their famous duel. But lately, I have been getting some penis-related email spam that just confuses me, which is unusual for a self-proclaimed “penis” expert like myself.

Look at my junk mail box today.


What is it with this recent onslaught of spam extolling ways of “increasing the volume” of my ejaculation. And by 500%!? Huh? Is this some new standard that modern women hold us to — volume?

Girl One: “How was your date with Bob?”

Girl Two: “He was amazing in bed!”

Girl One: Oh? How “big” was he?”

Girl Two: “Nine Quarts!”

How much volume of ejaculate is a man supposed to have? Is this supposed to impress a woman, like the more volume, the more a man’s virility, as if “When I impregnate you, you will give birth to quintuplets!”

I already can hear the banter in male locker rooms across America as this type of email spam becomes the norm:

Guy 1: “Oh, man. Did I f**k Angela good last night. The condom became the size of a beach ball with all the volume of my ejaculate!”

Guy2: “Yeah, big deal. I was f**king Susie this morning and when I came, it was like Katrina hit the bedroom. We almost had to row out on the bed.”

Guy 3: “I once ejaculated so much, I create a hole in my girlfriend’s ceiling and killed a bird flying over head.”

Guy 4: “Big shit. By federal regulations, I’m not even allowed to have sex anywhere near a major airport in case the volume and velocity of my ejaculate shoots up and knocks down a 747.”

As for me, I’m waiting for the pill that causes my penis to play Mozart during orgasm. That would be impressive.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: The Truth About Olive Garden

Heavy Petting

Your pet can take a photo
with Santa at PetSmart!

I don’t know if I will make this a tradition of actually writing about every single person I make my “Blog Crush of the Day,” but tomorrow my crush will be the ultra-popular Laurie of “Crazy Aunt Purl.”  For some reason, I have always been attracted to someone very different than myself.  Laurie is a Southerner who writes a knitting blog.  On paper, I have absolutely nothing in common with her — which perfectly explains why I am fascinated with her. 

Like many women, Laurie loves her cats.  She even writes about them today.  I’m always making fun of her cats.  I’ve never had a pet, so maybe I just can’t relate.  I’ve always wanted a dog, but never had the chance to own one. 

On TV, I’ve been noticing advertisements for PetSmart, which is touting itself as the best place to buy your pet a Christmas gift.  I asked her this question, and I want to ask you the same:

“I’m curious, as a pet owner, do you actually give your dog or cat a Christmas or Hanukkah gift?”

In the past, I might have thought you were odd if you said “yes,” but I think my views are changing.  If someone is so loving with their pets, maybe this person is as giving with everyone, including her friends and family. 

Still, be prepared for my mother to make fun of you when she reads, “Of course I give my poodle a gift.”  

My mother will probably say, “Those blodgers are crazy!”

Monday Morning Business


Sophia, I promise, this is the last post about my “blogroll” for a while.   Actual quote from Sophia:

“I have no idea what you or any of the commenters are talking about.  Boring.”

As you may have noticed, I deleted my blogroll and I’m using it to list Blog Crushes of the Day (for now — I might change that too).  My Bloglines blogroll is public and I will link to that later, in case people enjoy looking at the blogrolls of other people. 

Like many people who enjoy writing, I have my own set of writing rituals.  I write each post on an actual piece of paper rather than the computer.  I also like to imagine that I am writing for one person.  That’s where the blog crush of the day comes in.  Today, I  am writing for my blog crush, Communicatrix, because she loves lists and organization and philosophy, and I find her inspiring and honest.  She would perfectly understand the need to delete the blogroll and start fresh. 

After Brooke, she was probably the first blogger I actively pursued as a blogging friend. 

I first saw her name on YMDB, a site where you can list your favorite movies and compare them to others (YMDB is now defunct).  Topping my list was a rather obscure French film by Eric Rohmer titled “Summer (Le Rayon Vert).”  By checking the database, I noticed that someone else had this listed as a favorite — and she lived in Los Angeles — Communicatrix!  And that name sounded hot!  I didn’t have the guts to comment on her site yet, but I wrote a post about this imaginary woman named Dinah who I saw on YMDB (thinly-veiled stand-in for Communicatrix).

Eventually, we did interact online, and we even met in person.  And she is as hot in person as she is online (but sorry, fellows, she’s taken already).

Do you have a special blog crush of the moment?  It seems to be the season for spreading blog love.  Sandra and Ms. Sizzle want you to reveal YOUR blog crush of the moment on December 15 on YOUR OWN BLOGS. 

Plus — as you know my relationship with Sophia is bumpy.  Where can I meet a normal, stable girl?  Of course, there is only ONE WAY.  That is to be auctioned off like a piece of meat at the No Sex in the City online holiday charity auction!  Yes, male bloggers will be auctioned off.  I will be totally embarrassed if I only make 25 cents for their charity, so please bid.  There may be a “special” gift in store for the winner of Neilochka.  Hey, men — want to participate?  Check out the No Sex in the City site!  Sign up by December 15th.

Since I’m on the topic of blogging events, you can still sign up to perform at the big December 20th Holiday Concert (see sidebar).  Is there anyone having problems knowing how to record their song?  Please ask me any questions.  I’d love to help.  In the past, I’ve used a pretty nifty sound recorder/editor application from Holland called Polderbits.  It is pretty easy to use and there is a free two-week trial for you to try it out.

Please email me if you need help.  And if you aren’t performing, please remember to send me photos of your menorahs and trees for the decoration.

Why a Pillow is No Substitute for a Woman


Yesterday was mother-son bonding day in the Kramer New York household.  We did a family favorite — we went to Macy’s One Day Sale with a 25% off coupon we received in the mail.  I convinced my mother that her coat was getting old, and I helped her pick out a nicer one.  The big drama began when the cost of the coat turned out to be $99.65 and the salesman wouldn’t use our coupon because he said the purchase had to be $100.  Talk about hard-asses!  Is this the same company that puts on the playful Thanksgiving Day Parade?  But my mother would not relent.  We searched for the cheapest thing you could buy in Macy’s, so we could stick it to them and still get our discount.  We ended up buying a $1.25 bottle of Macy’s “Spring Water.”  Where the hell is this spring — under Herald Square?

On the way home, we stopped in downtown Flushing, which is more of a real Chinatown than the Chinatown in Manhattan.  I took my mother to have her first dim sum.  If you have never been to this type of Chinese restaurant, dim sim is usually served in a large banquet hall.  Rather than ordering from a menu, women push these carts with different types of appetizers.  If you are kosher, forget about it!  Most of the dishes are either pork or shrimp.  You get charged a modest amount for each plate.  These restaurants get jammed on weekends, so we had to share a large banquet table with a family that didn’t speak English.  My mother was a little nervous because she was unfamiliar with all of the dishes.  I tried to act confident, but the truth was I had no idea what half of the dishes were myself.  I avoided ordering anything that looked like fish eyeballs. 

Last night, I slept on the living room couch.  This morning, I woke up and noticed that my legs were all scratched and cut, almost as if my legs were in a knife fight. 

“What in the world happened to me?” I asked my mother as she was cooking some oatmeal.

My mother is a big fan of detective shows like CSI and The Closer, so we both sat down to examine the evidence.

1)  Our first thought was that it was a reaction to the dim sum, but it seemed unlikely that this would only affect my legs.

2)  We discussed “bed bugs” in the couch, but there were no visible bites, only scratches.

3)  Despite watching “The Polar Express” last night, where the moral of the story is “believe,” we do not believe in ghosts wanting to do harm to my legs for some evil reason.

4)  My mother insisted that she doesn’t sleepwalk.  And if she did sleepwalk and come over to me with scissors in hand, she wouldn’t cut my legs.  “I would probably cut your hair.  It looks awful.” she said.

5)  Finally, our TV detective method paid off.  When I used to be in bed with Sophia, I would always wrap my legs around her legs while I was sleeping.  Being a creature of habit, I was wrapping my legs around the abrasive pillows of the couch, and every time I moved, I would scratch and cut my legs against the pillows’ zippers without even waking up!

Love hurts.



I used to love adding bloggers to my blogroll.  Every time I would add a new name, it was as if I was sleeping with a new exotic woman — sometimes a redhead, sometimes a biology professor, sometimes a mother with three children.  There were some cool guys also, but with them, it was more snuggling than anything else. 

I now have 300 people on my blogroll, and even I have trouble performing to my potential when I am bed with so many people at once.

Would it be so terrible if I deleted my whole blogroll and started from scratch?  This way, it would be like I’m a virgin for the very first time.  I also might be more apt to reconnect with some of you that I haven’t in a while.  There’s something about having a person’s name on a list that makes me take them for granted, like I bought the DVD, so now I don’t have to actually watch it.

Sophia, my blog editor, is worried that this might make my Technorati “rating” plummet, but honestly — can my blogging salary go any lower than it already is?

I’m curious, how do you approach your blogrolls?  Why do we even have them?  We all know where each of us lives on the blogosphere.  Longtime readers of this blog know that I’ve been struggling with my blogroll for a long time.  Once, I became so desperate for a way to organize it that I  suggested making categories based on whether or not a blogger trimmed his/her pubic hair!  (I was a lot more immature in my early days of blogging)

I don’t like it when bloggers are so cliquish that they only include FOD (Friends of Dooce), but at the same time, why do people add blog-linkrolls of 400 Blog Chicks?  How many relationships can one person have?  I find it difficult enough being involved with Sophia, or having two IM conversations at once, or even reading about one of Margaret‘s dates-gone-bad in the morning on Bloglines without spilling hot coffee on my pants. 

I’ve met three bloggers in New York this week, so maybe I’m craving more from my interactions with others online.  But don’t worry – that does not mean I’m going to send you photos of my penis.  Not yet.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Wacky and Intellectual Gifts

Overheard in New York in December

“Have you seen The Tree in Rockefeller Center?”

“Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?”

“How much do you tip YOUR nanny?”

“I hate all the tourists who come in from Ohio.”

“My parents are taking me skiing in italy! I would never go to Florida.”

“What are you doing with your bonus this year?”

I can’t believe we’re having our Christmas party midtown again!  My wife goes downtown to Ono!”

“I find New York very lonely around now.”






A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Why I’d Make a Good Husband for You, My Female Reader

The New York City Speakeasy


New York is amazing.  Once you think you’ve seen it all, there’s another “secret place” to discover.  Luckily, I know Jake, the ultimate New York hipster, who can get me into any club, no matter who is on the VIP list.

Last night, we took a cab up to Harlem, to this little club as far away from the tourists as possible.  This club doesn’t even have a sign outside.  They don’t want anyone from New Jersey there.  You either know about this hot spot, or you are just a loser. 

Outside the club, a bouncer stands, watching every move.  If the cops wanted to, they could close this illegal “speakeasy” in a flash, but the club owner knows how to grease the wheels, so to speak.  Every cool person in town knows about this club.  And now I do.  Please do not send me emails asking me to tell you where it is.  As if one of YOU is cool enough to go to this club.  Even if Dooce commented on one of my posts, I wouldn’t tell her either.

The interior of the club is dark and rich with atmosphere.  There are many “ethnic” types mingling about, providing some local color.  The place has the smell of illicit activity.  A top band, whose name I cannot tell you, plays some tunes. 

But the real draw to this secret speakeasy is what makes it so illegal.  It is the sensuality of sin.  The erotic nature of the forbidden fruit.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, in this club, the food served is still prepared using trans fats, despite the prohibition.

The New York City Board of Health voted yesterday to adopt the nation’s first major municipal ban on the use of… trans fats in restaurant cooking, a move that would radically transform the way food is prepared in thousands of restaurants, from McDonald’s to fashionable bistros to Chinese take-outs.

But the elite and trendsetters of “The Greatest City on Earth” march to their own culinary drummer.   Thus the trans fat speakeasy was born.

“Let the “bridge and tunnel crowd” eat soy-corn blend cooking oil when they go out,” said popular socialite/performance artist Oman Ginsberg. 

“I don’t care.  The fried chicken here is the best in the world” said club promoter/rapper/DJ Mr. Def-X, as an ambulance drove him to Mount Sinai Hospital after his massive heart attack.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  A Chicken Sausage for One of the Mishpucha

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