the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Month: April 2008 (Page 2 of 3)

Neilochka Loves Matzoh Brei

I have been honest with you that things are bumpy with Sophia. I’m sure there are many single women out there waiting for the post where I finally write — “I’ve been booted out,” because that means it is now your opportunity to sent me that bra in the mail and win me over for yourself. But, I’m going to warn you. I’m not that easy. I will never date any woman who doesn’t pass a certain test. I’m not talking about judging you on your tits or ass. I’m not even talking about intelligence.

No, I’m talking about your ability to make matzoh brei.

What is matzoh brei?

To better explain matzoh brei, let’s go directly to the passage in Exodus where it is explained in the Bible:

One day, Moses was leading the Israelites out of Egypt, and was helping out the “cooking crew” by carrying some matzoh. His brother Aaron was carrying a big jug of scrambled eggs. These items were going to be served for breakfast, right after morning prayers. As they were walking, Moses got distracted by a young Israelite maiden.

“Holy burning bushes,” he said to himself. “Her breasts are a round and soft as Egyptian melons!”

Just then, he tripped on his staff and dropped all the matzoh in Aaron’s jug of scrambled eggs.

The Israelites, a stiff-necked people, started grumbling.

“What did you bring us into the desert for. Moses, to starve us? You ruined breakfast, Moses! Who wants to eat that crap? First the gefilte fish, and now eggs with matzoh inside? You’re killing us, Moses! How are we supposed to keep on walking in this hot desert without some nourishment? And what kind of God sends us to this crappy piece of land surrounding by people who hate us… and not even any oil on the land? Why not Paris or Toronto? Better to be slaves in Egypt. At least they made good shish-kabobs and we got to dance like Egyptians.”

Moses was distraught. Not only were his people angry, but his wife, Zepporah, saw him checking out the maiden’s cleavage, and she was NOT happy.

“God, help me!” cried Moses. “What can I do to appease these Israelites, who just keep on complaining about the food we’re serving? What do they expect — a four star restaurant in the desert.”

“Moses. These are Israelites. They love to complain. Listen to me. Lift up that tablet lying there at your foot. I will show you what to do.”

A bolt of lightening hit the tablet.

Moses read what was engraved.

“A recipe for matzoh brei?” asked Moses.

“Take my word for it, Moses.” said God. “Tell the Israelites that even Rachael Ray eats the stuff, so they’ll think it is more special that the goyim like it, too.”

“Thank you, God. You have saved your chosen people again.”

“That’s what I’m here for… sometimes.”

“Just one more thing. Zipporah is really pissed at me for checking out that fair maiden’s tits.”

“Those were excellent, weren’t they? How can anyone ever doubt my existence when a hot woman like that exists in the world?”

“Here. Here. But I think Zipporah is so mad at me, I might not get any… good-lovin’ tonight. Can you help me with that?”

“God is One. And all Powerful. Just not that powerful. You’re screwed Moses. Good luck. And from now on, include a bitter herb at the Passover seder to remember that bitter night you spent alone with the camels outside the tent.”

A simple matzoh brei recipe from The Complete Passover Cookbook by Frances R. Avrutick:


* 4 matzohs
* 4 eggs
* 1/2 cup milk
* Salt to taste
* White pepper to taste
* 3 Tablespoons butter

For variation, try adding some chopped fresh chives.

Break the matzohs into small pieces and soak them in the water in a large bowl until soft but not soggy. Drain well.

In a separate large bowl, beat the eggs with the milk, salt, and pepper. Add the matzohs. Blend together.

Melt the butter in a large skillet over medium heat; add the egg mixture. Cook over medium heat. As the eggs begin to thicken and brown, stir from the bottom with a wide spatula or pancake turner, keeping the matzoh in large scrambled pieces. If you prefer, cook the egg-matzoh mixture as a large omelet, browning on both sides. Turn out onto warm serving dish.

Yield: 4 servings

Disney Israel Presents “The Girl Who Didn’t Believe in Passover”

Once upon a time, there was a pretty Israeli girl named Ariel. She lived in Tel Aviv. All she wanted to do was go to the beach with her friends and have fun, listening to music and checking out the cute, slacker boys.

“You can’t go to the beach on Saturday,” said her mother during dinner one night. “It’s Passover. We’re going to have a seder.”

“Do I have to?” complained Ariel. “The weather is going to be perfect on Saturday.”

“It’s Passover!” replied her mother. “We celebrate our freedom from Egypt. Think of all the good food we get to eat!”

“I’m on a diet, Mom. And seriously, do you really believe that old story? That Moses forced the Pharaoh into “letting his people go” from slavery? How could a bunch of scrappy kvetchers ever compete against the mighty Egyptians?

“It was God who guided them.”

“Right. And then you expect me to believe that with Pharaoh’s army in pursuit of the Israelites, the Red Sea opened up JUST FOR the Israelites, to let them pass through under the sea.”

“You know, you’ve very cynical for a young girl, Ariel!”

That night, Ariel had a wild dream about what happened under the Red Sea so many years ago. And during this dream, she finally learned the true meaning of Passover:

Still need a cool progressive-oriented Haggadah for your seder? Download a cool self-made one by Velveteen Rabbi (Rachel Barenblat).

Celebrity Strollers

Elisabeth Hasselbeck with her Maclaren Stroller 
(thanks to the lovely Cheaty Monkey.  More strollers on her blog)

I hope I didn’t insult any women in the last post by questioning our special male/female friendship. 

I really do enjoy reading the blogs of women.  I learn a lot about your gender.  I’m supposed to be a writer, so it is important to get insights into the minds of women.  One day, I hope to have the ability to write a real, three-dimensional female character who doesn’t just have sex with strangers in alleyways and shoot people with the revolver she has hidden in her garter belt.

In my last post I made a joke about mommybloggers who write about celebrity strollers.  Rather than making fun of this, I might as well learn more, in case I ever have to write about this subject.  It is good to be well-rounded. 

So, tell me.  If you’re a mommy strolling down Rodeo Dr. or Fifth Avenue or Main Street with your baby in a stroller, and you meet another mother, do you actually take note of the BRAND of the stroller?!  Is it a status symbol, akin to a guy driving a Ferrari or a Hummer?  Is there that much difference in the quality of a stroller?  Would you be afraid to be seen using a stroller from Walmart?  Does one stroller fold more easier than the other?   Have any of your babies had more than one stroller, and actually preferred one over the other?

Naomi Watts and her Bugaboo stroller.

Let’s get down to my writing.

Imagine I’m trying to write an episode of some new TV show about mothers who live in, say, Pittsburgh.  The show is called Pittsburgh Mommies.

Producer:  “We need a re-write!  Bring in that Neilochka!  He KNOWS how to write women!”

My assignment:  There is a crucial scene between two mothers who meet in the park, the roles played by Jennifer Garner and Teri Hatcher (who left Desperate Housewives to star in this show).  Would something like the following sound believeable to a real mother? —

Jennifer:  Teri, how are you?  I see little Tyler is feeling better.

Teri:  Oh yes, the little munchkin is perfect.

Jennifer:  Hmmm…

Teri:  What, Jennifer?

Jennifer eyes Teri’s new stroller with jealousy in her eyes.

Teri:  Oh, I see you’ve noticed this little thing…

Teri laughs nervously.

Jennifer:  How did you get the new Bugaboo?  It hasn’t even been released to the general public yet?

Teri:  Oh, one of Michael’s clients works for the Bugaboo company.  We paid for it, of course.  Isn’t he a darling husband?  He’s always bringing me little presents.

Jennifer:  This isn’t just a little present.  This is a brand new Bugaboo.  Do you know how much this costs?

Teri:  Oh , Michael wouldn’t tell me.  He just said, as long as the baby is living in comfort — that’s all that’s important.  I mean it’s not essential to have a Bugaboo.  Your Maclaren stroller is perfectly good enough for your Sarah.

Jennifer:  What do you mean by that?

Teri:  I mean, I know Eddie has been laid off lately.  A Bugaboo is a little out of your price range.

Jennifer:  So are you saying that Tyler deserves better than Sarah?

Teri:  Of course not.  The Maclaren is an excellent stroller.  As is the Siver Cross Pram, the same one Maggie Gyllenhaal uses!  And the… It’s just that Michael…

Jennifer:  Michael!  Michael!  I’m sick and tired of hearing about your stupid husband Michael!  Maybe if you moved your eyes once in a while away from your stroller you would notice that he’s shtupping Ashley Friedman at the Hyatt Hotel every Thursday Night during your vibrator and dildo selling  party!

Teri: — You bitch.

Jennifer turns over Teri’s stroller, with the baby still inside.

Jennifer:  — I hate you!  I hate you… and your Bugaboo!



Lovemaking scene between Teri’s husband, Michael, and Ashley Friedman.

OK —

Mommybloggers, did this baby stroller scene ring true?   I know it did.  Thank you for letting me learn about your secret lives.

Can Men and Women (Bloggers) Just Be Friends?

I recently wrote a recent post titled, “How to Get Hot Chicks to Read Your Blog.”   It was a response to an email from a male blogger who was in awe of all my female readers.

But there’s a negative side to having a blog that women like to read.   I’m not a woman.  And they are.  And flirting can only go so far.  The big question is, “Can I actually be friends with any of these women?” 

Believe it or not, it can be lonely hanging around blogs that are so heavily geared for women.  Sometimes I wonder if I belong.  I’m even beginning to question my decision to go to BlogHer.  In what way does BlogHer represent anything about me? 

I think the only solution for me is to finally get my cojones — and interact with more men.  What am I afraid of?  I know I’ve mentioned this before in the past, but each time I took the journey into male blogging, I promptly ran back to the soft and ample bosoms of the female bloggers.  Believe me, I’m dragging myself kicking and screaming.  Most men are pretty dull.  I certainly don’t look at THEIR photos on Flickr, in amazement that such gorgeous individuals could actually care about me!  But it is time to expand my horizons. 

I get jealous of the comaraderie of female bloggers.  You act like sisters.   You write blogs for each other.  Mommybloggers, in particular, seem to consider themselves to be born in the image of Good Housekeeping magazine, and even address their readers as “fellow mothers.”  More power to you.  This is about me…. and my identity.  For better or worse, I’m not a parent, so it makes sense that I’m not on the same page as the mommybloggers, or even the daddybloggers, of the world, who clearly have specific interests that are important to them, like celebrity strollers.

I know several female bloggers here in California. It would be cool to be their “friends.”  These female bloggers fall into two groups — those in a steady relationship or married and those who are not.  Both types have built-in obstacles for any real friendship.

Let’s take the married mommyblogger, for example.  How the hell am I ever going to be friends with her?   Let’s use the imaginary BloggerMama, for example.

Imagine I email BloggerMama right now and say, “Hey, BloggerMama, leave the husband and child at home, and let’s go check out the new Keanu Reeves flick together?” 

It’s just not going to work. 

First of all, she would probably want to bring the baby, and I just don’t deal well with babies at the movie theater.  And despite me being the perfect gentleman, sooner or later, if I email her every week, asking her to go to the movies, Mr. BloggerMama is gonna hate my guts.  The only way we could make this work is if we went out as married couples.  And that means, we have two non-bloggers in the group  — Mr. BloggerMama and Ms. Neilochka, which means we have to talk about real life, and BloggerMama and I only know and care about blogging crap.

The situation is even more dangerous with the unattached female blogger.  Right from the beginning, she is going to wonder about my intentions:

“Hmmm… I know things are rocky with Sophia.   Is he really asking me to see that Keanu Reeves film or does he… Hmmm… he’s always writing about his penis.  I wonder if he is a sex-crazed nutcase who just wants to…  Hmmm… I actually like sex-crazed nutcases, but what if we do something, and he blogs about it?  He’s the type of jerk who blogs about anything on his stupid blog.  Hmmm…  he does write about his mother a lot.  He must be a real mama’s boy.  Hmmm… I wonder if he just wants to sleep with a shiksa and then say he can only marry someone Jewish.  Hmmm… I bet you he is!  What an asshole!  What type of slut does he think I am.  F**k him!  I think it is safer that we never meet…”

Ok, make believe we DO go to see this Keanu Reeves movie together.  Just as friends.  We split the bill.  We each buy our own popcorn.   We have a great time.   But trouble is looming.  We’ve all seen “When Harry Meets Sally.”  How long is it going to be before one of us is checking out the other’s ass? 

Let me rephrase that.  How long before I’m checking out her ass? 

Let me rephrase AND answer that.  At what point during our first meeting will I be thinking about her naked?  Answer:  Probably during the first ten minutes.

What can I do?  I’m a man.  I’m sorry.  It’s horrible, I know. 

Can you see how it actually sucks to have so many female readers and so few male readers?  It’s like some bizarre Twilight Zone episode where I am surrounded by hundreds of desirable and intelligent women, but when I reach out to them, they fade into nothingness, and the only place to go for companionship is into the smoky room in the back with the men, along with their smelly cigars, Beer Nuts, and poker chips.


Dancing with the Stars Recap

Did you all see Dancing with the Stars on Monday night? What did you think? The show just gets better and better.  (note:  read with sarcasm)

Here’s my weekly recap:

Tonight on Dancing with the Stars, Marlee Matlin’s Samba was only so-so. The music was too fast, and Matlin, who is deaf and counts the steps in her head, was falling behind.

Last year, the gimmick contestant was Heather Mills, who has an artificial leg. This year, it is a deaf actress.

“Who will it be next year?” I asked Sophia during the commercial. “How can they outdo themselves after a contestant with an artificial leg and then someone deaf?”

“Maybe someone who is blind.” she answered.

“I think it is probably harder to dance being deaf than blind.” I said.

“You’re probably right. Being blind doesn’t really “up the stakes” for the show next year.”

“Maybe someone deaf AND blind.”

“Someone in a wheelchair.”

“That would be cool.”

“Someone not very bright.”

“They’ve had plenty of those before.”

“Someone with even more plastic surgery than Priscilla Presley.”

A promo came on for this ABC comedy, “Samantha Who” about a woman with amnesia.

“Someone with amnesia!”

“That’s good. Someone with recurring amnesia who forgets the dance routine minutes before the performance…!”

“…and also has a wooden leg!”

“But really… is it that much better than someone who is deaf?”

“Maybe not. A midget?”

“Eh… it’s been done.”


“I don’t know. Somewhere.”

“I got it. A transvestite!”

“That’s stupid. A transvestite can still dance.”

“What if the transvestite is also deaf… and not very attractive.”

“Ok, I buy that. Let’s see if ABC does.”

Tomorrow: The “elimination” show.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Married Couples

A Cliched Story That I Will Never Bother to Finish


Jill Landow moved herself to the edge of the bed. Simon was kneeling on the carpet, in front of her. Jill liked it when he went down on her. The windows of the penthouse were wide open. Jill didn’t care. Let all of Chicago see her being worshipped. Simon was a risk-taker, unlike her husband. Just the thought of her husband made her tense. She must get her husband out of her mind and relax. And Simon was perfect for getting her mind off of life, and just plain getting her off. She knew Simon was special from the moment she met in in the Oak Bar, and he bought her a martini, dry.

“Oh, yes,” said Jill, leaning back in the bed.

“You taste like the finest Merlot,” said Simon.

This turned her on tremendously.

Jill looked down at Simon, his head bowed. In another context, it would look as if he was praying. She laughed to herself. Jill had fond memories of when she prayed as a child, of the musty odor of the old St. Agnes Church and her dear ol’ grandmama. But that was so many years ago, before she learned about the pleasures of sin.

Downstairs, in the lobby, Carl Favela was daydreaming. He was lucky to have gotten such a cushy job as doorman at the Lakeshore Apartments. Opening the doors for Chicago’s movers and shakers meant one thing — good tips. Perry Landow approached the Lakeshore, wearing his usual tailored blue suit. Carl found it odd to see the busy executive home at lunchtime. He never came home before 9PM. Never.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Landow,” said Carl.

Perry Landow didn’t answer. His eyes were focused straight ahead, filled with an anger that made Carl shudder.

The police arrived at midnight. It was Carl who had called him, screaming like a mad man. “There’s blood. There’s blood!” was all he could say, over and over.

Carl led the police into the Landow penthouse. Perry Landow lay flat on his back in his large bed. He was naked, bloody from the multiple gun shots to his body and head. His wife was nowhere to be found.

Jill reached her second orgasm of the night in the backseat of Simon’s car. Simon zipped up his fly, whistling. Jill looked out at the waterfront. It was so calm. It was as if time had stopped. Jill looked down at her pubic hair and saw a gray hair. She plucked it out.

“I hate getting old.”

“You ain’t getting old, baby,” said Simon. “You f**k like a wildcat!”

Jill laughed. She was a wildcat. In fact, when she was in high school, she literally was a Wildcat, a Tucson High School Wildcat cheerleader. It was on graduation night at Tucson High where she first met Perry Landow. Her friends thought he was way too old for her, being that he was her father’s business partner, and 30 years her senior. But she knew if that she was going to lose her virginity, she might as well profit from it. And profit she did.

“I better get driving.” said Simon. “It’s a long way to Mexico. Maybe we’ll stop in an hour or two and we’ll f**k again. You’d like that sugar, right?”

Jill reached into her purse for some Kleenex, but instead her fingers starting fondling the cold metal of her 45 caliber gun.

Carl returned to his studio apartment that night. His neighbors were fighting again, cursing in Ukranian. When he turned the lights on, the roaches scattered, mocking Carl, as if saying to him, “You just try to stop us, loser.”

Carl opened a bottle of Bud and sat on the couch. The TV was on the fritz, again. Maybe next month, he’ll actually pay for the cable, rather than trying to steal it from the neighbors. Carl downed the beer, trying to drown out his pain. When are things ever going to go his way? When was he ever going to get a woman like Jill Landow to love him? He started to fantasize about her, the feel of her hard nipples between her fingers.

Captain Ed Johansson was counting the days until his retirement. He already put a down payment on a nice little place near San Diego, where he would live out his time drinking margaritas, and buying Mexican hookers with his pension money. The last thing on his mind was the Perry Landow case, no matter how high-profile it was to the asshole DA.

Carl was still imagining making love to Jill, the bulge rising in his pants, when there was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” he asked nervously.

“Carl, it’s me. Jill. Jill Landow. From the Lakeshore.”

Jill Landow? Carl ran to the front door, looking through the keyhole. Jill Landow was standing there, holding a gun, fresh, brightly-red blood stains covering the designer dress.  He loved that dress.  He had seen her wear it so many times during the summer when she sauntered through the lobby like a runway model, her breasts visible through the thin fabric.  Jill Landow was coming her?  To him?  Why?  Of course… she’s in trouble!  Should he let her in?  Should he call the police?

He put his hand on the door knob, ready to open it, knowing that this action would change his life forever.

Trying to Write This Week


Note: This is not a page from anything I’m working on.  This is a page from the film classic “Chinatown.”   But imagine something just as well-written and influential.  Only it is about getting laid.   And there is one crazy car chase in downtown Los Angeles.  Wait, I think there is car chase in downtown Los Angeles in Chinatown, too!  Woo-hoo!  Oscar time.

Here’s Our Toilet Seat!

When Sophia came home and saw my last post, the first thing she said was, “you chose the wrong photos!” We had taken a few different photos earlier, and I had obviously chosen the worst of the bunch.

“Of course this Whoorl wasn’t impressed with the haircut. You’re grimacing like a villain from a bad movie.”

I know I shouldn’t care about how I look to any of you, because sexiness comes from within, from self-confidence, from being comfortable in your own skin and not caring…

Eh… screw that.

So, for all those readers who stopped by earlier and saw those photos of us, please burn them from your memory.  I realize that those photos are still embedded in that post, and also exist in the vast basement of the Google archives, but just play along.  Make believe they don’t exist.  From now on, please ALWAYS think of the two of us as looking like the photos in THIS post, since we are much more glamorous in these than in the other ones.  You’ll probably not even notice the difference, but WE DO —


In this one, Sophia put some spit in my hair and made me look more like one of the guys on American Idol.


I am publishing this one of Sophia looking sultry, just to win some brownie points with her.


Isn’t this one better than before? Progressive babes (who usually put out on the first date) — please note the peace sign on the shirt.  Although, to be honest, it’s not really mine.  I  accidentally took home someone else’s shirt from the laundromat.

Sophia also wanted me to come clean about another matter.  She thinks that I always make her be the heavy. In the last post, I quoted her as saying “no,” when I asked her if I could photograph the toilet seat in order to show it to you.

She never said anything about the seat, because we never had this conversation.   I made that up.

In my defense, I still believe that if I had asked her, she would have said “no.”  She insists that that she has no problem with me taking a photo of any toilet seat in the house and posting it on my blog.  I love her, but I take that statement with a grain of salt.   Please tune into next Tuesday’s Dr. Phil Show, as Phil McGraw helps us be more honest with each other about what we can and what we can’t photograph in the house.

As an apology for making you read through TWO posts about nothing, here is a little gift —

A photo of our beachy toilet seat.  Enjoy it!


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