the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Month: October 2008 (Page 1 of 2)

Giving Head

I’ve written a lot lately on the difficulties of a man and a woman becoming platonic friends. This has been a theme throughout my life. In my experience, something always gets in the way.

After I graduated from Columbia, I moved into an apartment on 110th Street and Broadway. My roommate was Miyako, a female graduate student from Tokyo, who was studying physics. We quickly became good friends. She attended her first Passover seder at my home. She taught me to eat exotic sashimi. Our apartment was beautifully decorated with Japanese tea sets, woodblock prints from the Sosaku Hanga, and an authentic 19th Century nihontō Samurai sword on the wall, a gift from her uncle in Kyoto. There was no romance between us, only deep platonic friendship.

Things changed quickly when I met my Ellie. She was an exciting and sensual young woman from Connecticut. She opened up my mind and body to new pleasures. Before Ellie, I had never experienced oral sex. Ellie was obsessed with “giving head.” She love the passion, the vulnerability, and the control. Every morning I would wake up and find her already at work, slowly going up and down, hungrily taking me between her moistened lips, always totally in charge. As she pleasured me, she would stare at me with her beautiful, but foreboding, sky blue eyes, and I would be mesmerized, under her hypnotic gaze. She always had me at full attention, and I was her slave.

Ellie’s intense passion also had a dark side. She had an irrational hatred for Miyako. She was jealous of our platonic bond. Ellie wanted me only for herself.

One night, while Miyako was studying at the library, Ellie was giving me amazing head in the kitchen. As I leaned against the refrigerator, I noticed that there was something different in Ellie’s intensity. There was hatred in her eyes.

“You must kill Miyako. You must kill Miyako tonight!”

I tried to protest, but I was powerless. As she sucked my c*ck, I grew lightheaded, and all morality evaporated from my soul. I had no choice but to relent to her every whim. I needed to obey. I would kill my friend, Miyako.

At 11PM, Miyako returned from the library, drinking a cup of coffee from the Greek diner downstairs. Ellie hid in my room. I stood in the darkness of the foyer, the samurai sword from the wall gripped in my hand. I held the handle with such pressure that my veins felt like they were going to pop.

As Miyako stepped inside, she was humming a little tune. It was a Japanese children’s song about a little bird learning to fly. This was her favorite song. It was an innocent song, like Miyako herself. Like the innocence of a platonic friendship. The song touched my moral center. Is this what sexual desire does to a man — turns him into a craven murderer? Who was I? What had happened to that once nice Jewish boy? Had too much oral sex turned me into a monster?

“I cannot do it! No, I won’t kill you, Miyako!” I screamed.

Miyako turned, startled by the sight of me with the Samurai sword in my hand. She dropped the coffee cup onto the floor, the hot liquid spilling on the cold wood floor. She let out a silent scream. Ellie raced out of my bedroom, pulling at her long hair, her eyes angry at my betrayal.

“Do it!” she insisted. “Kill her. Kill her NOW!”

I glanced at Ellie, my beautiful lover. I turned to Miyako, a dear and trusting friend.

“Kill her. Kill her. Or I will kill her myself!” said Ellie.

Ellie lunged at Miyako, her jealous rage written all on her face.

“No!” I yelled. It was my final decree. I would close the chapter on this sexual, but horrific, chapter of my young life. I lifted the Samurai sword up high. The light from the track lighting in the kitchen refracted off the metal and I could see a mirror image of my determined face in the curved blade.

With one swoop, I swung the Samurai sword, decapitating Ellie.

For several minutes, Miyako and I stood in silence. What words could ever truly capture the terror on our faces? I took a deep breathe, taking in the life force, and eventually found enough reason to tell my tale to Miyako, from beginning to end. There was no catharsis in the re-telling of the murderous plot.

Miyako, being a good friend, was not concerned with the past. She was worried about me.

“You can get arrested for this.” she noted. “We need to get rid of the body.”

We gathered up the bloody body and the decapitated head and placed them in an old Japanese trunk that Miyako used as a changing bench in her bedroom. She told me of a lake in the Catskill Mountains where we could safely dispose of the body. We would drive there immediately, during the cover of night.

As we drove up through Westchester, the two of us had an emotional conversation. In one wild night, circumstances had brought us closer than ever before. We revealed that there was more to our relationship than just platonic feelings. Miyako admitted that when she went to the library at night, it was not to study, but out of jealousy. She could not bear to hear the sounds coming from our bedroom.

“What did she do to make you so content… so full of joy?” she asked, curiously. “Do you think I could ever make you so happy?”

It was at that moment, that I heard a faint voice coming from the trunk of the car.

“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”

It was the voice of Ellie. But how? Was my mind playing tricks on me?

“You don’t hear anything, do you?” I asked Miyako. “Like a voice from inside the trunk of the car?”

“Whose voice?”


Miyako laughed. She was a scientist.

“You mean a ghost?!”

Miyako always became argumentative whenever one of our friends brought up a subject like ESP, UFOs, religion or Bigfoot. If there was no empirical evidence, she thought it was hogwash.

I giggled along with Miyako. Of course she was right. Ellie was decapitated! The trauma of the evening was affecting my judgement. I was being silly.

“So, you never answered,” Miyako asks, returning to her question. “What DID you find so attractive about Ellie?”

I heard the voice once more.

“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”

I started to sweat profusely.

I slapped myself, trying to snap out of the craziness. Could it be… that Ellie’s chopped off HEAD was talking to me from inside the trunk?

Miyako still heard nothing. She pulled over next to an embankment looking out over Lananasee Lake, the car still running.

“We can dump her down there,” she said.

I nodded, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Ellie’s hypntoic voice was ringing in my ear.

“I know this is nuts, Miyako…” I said. “But can Ellie still be alive in there?”

Miyako grew petulant.

“I believe in global warming. I believe in evolution. I believe that one day the Mets might win another World Series. I don’t not believe in talking decapitated heads. And I’ll prove it to you…”

Miyako put on the brake and stepped out car.

“N-n-No!!” I stuttered, as I ran after her.

“Stop being a baby, Neil.” she said. “You’re a man, not a scaredy cat. I was so impressed the way you killed this horrible woman. And now you’re acting like a meek little girl afraid of her shadow.”

Her words stung like a poisoned arrow. She was right. I was born a man. A man shows no fear. A man is proud. A woman respects a man who looks danger in the eye.

Miyako opened up the hatchback of her car. Ellie’s voice grew louder.

“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”

The sound was deafening, but only I could hear it. Miyako grabbed the Japanese trunk and slid open the top open.

“There. See for yourself!” said Miyako.

I prayed to God, swallowed my fear, and looked inside. My eyes bulged in horror! It was empty! All that I could hear, all that I could think about was Ellie.

“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”

The voice was so close I could feel the breath on the back of my neck. I did a quick turn just as Miyako grabbed my hand in fear. In front of us was the headless Ellie. Under her arm, she carried her bloody, decapitated head, her eyes still alive, her mouth still moving.

“Giving head. Giving head. Giving head.”

Ellie moved the head towards the frightened Miyako. I ran to protect Miyako, but the Ellie pushed me aside, as only a scorned headless woman could do. Suddenly, the Samurai sword appeared in Ellie’s other hand, ready to be used. She approached Miyako, who was now frozen in fear.

I lifted myself up, stumbling against the car, aware that I could never make it to Miyako I time to save her. It was then that I felt the hum of the car engine against my arm, remembering that Miyako left the car running. I reached through the open window, pulled the gear to “Reverse,” and pressed the gas pedal with my hand. The car careened backwards.

“Miyako, move away!” I screamed.

Miyako awoke from her fearful slumber and shot to the side, just as the car smashed directly into Ellie, throwing both her and her screaming head off the cliff, and into the shallow depths of the lake, the car exploding on top of her.


A week later, Miyako moved out as my roommate. We never spoke again. Recently, she even refused to become my friend on Facebook, just proving how difficult it is for men and women to become friends.

Ellie’s body was recovered by the Dutchess County Police Department, but her head was never found.

Can Ellie’s head still be out there?

Men… be careful out there. Women can be dangerous.

Happy Halloween.

Truth quotient: Are you an idiot?


One of the reasons I feel relatively comfortable meeting other bloggers, is that I am under the assumption — and this theory requires a leap of faith which requires that I accept the innate goodness of man — that if an individual can tie words together and make a sentence that communicates a thought, image, or sensation, it means that he has adequate control over his mental faculties, and that he is not crazy, or at least not dangerous, or at least medicated enough to be acceptable to society, but not medicated too much where he just stares at the monitor like a drooling zombie from the Dawn of the Dead.

I make this announcement, presenting it to all you, my dear colleagues on the blogosphere — fellow writers, satirists, and raconteurs — in case you ever read anything I write, and loudly say to yourself, or to whoever is nearby in your office cubicle or home kitchen, “Holy shit, this guy is f**king nuts!” (editors note: Although if you have children doing their algebra homework at the kitchen table, you probably won’t be say “f**king nuts!” but “completely nuts!” out of respect for raising your children in a manner deemed appropriate to mannered society).

Whether you say “nuts” with or without the “f**king,” my response to you, virtual friend, is the same — please, for the love of goodness and sunny days, don’t worry about me. If I am writing, and the paragraphs align and the verbs and nouns seem happy together, sidling together like two canoes floating down the river, or like two young lovers reaching in anticipation for that moment of first pleasure, be assured that things are going well enough in my life that I can successfully accomplish that achievement.

Only worry about me when I am not writing. That means





I Don’t Care About You

Latest Filter For Good Post: The Story of Paclitaxel

Note: You notice how this post is sort of a throw-a-way post? Should I even bother to post nonsense like this? I was thinking of calling these posts “Expendable Posts” that I would publish, and then just delete in a few days. If my blog is supposedly my “calling card” for my writing, why do I want to have crap cluttering things up? But at the same time, it is kind of fun posting crap. I think something really fucked up my idea of blogging about six months ago, around the time I read Queen of Spain’s post about “The Business of Mommyblogging.” Until then, my blog was like a child’s sandbox, and I was just having fun. And then, it felt like I was Dorothy seeing the real Wizard of Oz. Most of you had “reasons” for being online — branding, money, connections, advancing your writing, corporate sponsorship. I began to feel like I was just playing with myself. That I was a still child and everyone was now an adult. The only possible “practical” reason to continue blog was related to writing, but where does this leave moronic posts like this one?

Of course, there is the community aspect of blogging? But what is my community? Some bloggers, especially the parent bloggers, frequently wrote posts addressing each other, sometimes even getting annoyed if a non-parent commented on an issue related to children.

I’m not a parent.

Should I be searching for my own unique community? And what is that community? Writers? Do I really want to become one of those who only reads “the literary blogs” and pooh pooh those who ONLY write blogs about their lives, but without the cleverness of a poet? I know plenty of people who are exactly like that.

Besides, half the time, I don’t really write anyway. I just blog funny stuff.

Humor bloggers?

Nah, not funny all the time.

Today, I’m not even writing at all. I’m putting up a video.

What do you think of the idea of “expendable posts” — ones you might publish just for the hell of it, or you just want to rant, like this, and then delete it afterwards so your “brand” doesn’t get diluted or you just don’t want the post sitting up there forever? Is that being dishonest, in your view? On the other hand, is it better to steer away from writing shitty posts like this — out of fear being seen as a lesser writer? C’mon, we all have shitty posts in us!

Maybe, twice a month, I will intentionally write a really bad post on some lame topic, just for the expression of it, and then delete it. Is that against the rules?

You don’t really have to comment here. I’m deleting this post tomorrow.

Vote No on Prop. 8

On May 15, 2008 the California Supreme Court ruled that statutes that limit marriage to a relationship between a man and a woman violated the equal protection clause of the California Constitution. It also held that individuals of the same sex have the right to marry under the California Constitution.

Proposition 8 wants to “change the California Constitution to eliminate the right of same-sex couples to marry in California.”

Even the most conservative voter should realize how radical it is to change the California Constitution. The only word I can think of to describe this proposition is… wrong.

I am voting No on Prop 8.

However, if you watch the video PSA below, you’ll notice that the filmmakers parody the Apple commercial where the hip young dude is “No on Proposition 8” and the older guy in the tie is all for “adding a little discrimination.”

When I watch this video, I come away thinking that it is an issue of heterosexual white men wanting to limit the rights of gays and lesbians. But not is that simple in California. There is a good chance this Proposition 8 might win in California — because all communities are split on this issue. An October 17 poll indicated that 58 percent of African-American voters supported Proposition 8 versus 38 percent who opposed it. Among Latinos, 47 percent supported the proposition while 41 percent were opposed. It is time to be a little more open about this issue — that negative attitudes against gays are not the domain of white suburban church leaders alone — and that everyone needs to start fighting their prejudices against gays and lesbians, and voting No on Prop. 8.

Blaming Others for My Cold

I am sick with a cold.  And it sucks.  And I feel miserable.  And I feel like lashing out at whoever or whatever made me sick.  Cause I am a big baby and I am a mean-spirited person.  So, here is my short list of the most logical culprits.  I curse you all!

1)  That red-haired kid near the dinosaur exhibit at the Museum of Natural History on Saturday who kept on coughing in my face, and the mother who was too busy with her Blackberry to notice or care.  Children should not be allowed in museums.

2)  New York City.  That’s right, the whole damn city.  I never got a cold in Los Angeles.  I’m in New York a few months, and BAM!

3)  That empanada place in Jackson Heights that I went with Astrogirl.  They didn’t have a restroom.  Did the cooks even wash their hands?

4)  Too much porn watching lowers the immune system, making you more susceptible to catching a cold.

5)  My mother.  Yes, I am including dear ol’ Mom on the list.  She is the one who told me that it was time to wear “my winter coat already,” and I was so hot outside wearing this behemoth jacket built for Eskimos in Antarctica that I took it off and went around coat-less on Friday in the cool Fall weather.

6)  The blogging community.  You made fun of me for owning and wearing a jean jacket, saying it was too 80’s, so I didn’t wear it, out of shame, and ended up listening to my mother and wearing that hot, oversized parka.   If you would have kept your mouths shut, I might have avoided the whole situation.

7)  The motley crew of passengers who travel on the F train from Manhattan to Queens at 1AM.  I mean MOTLEY.

8)  The recent Chinese immigrants in downtown Flushing.  I hate to point my finger at any one ethnic group, but who else can we blame for the Hong Kong flu?  It isn’t called the Swedish flu, right?

9)  The four women who play mahjong with my mother. This week my mother hosted the game in her apartment.  Who knows what type of kinky lifestyles these strange women in their sixties and seventies lead on the outside?  Also, mahjong — Hong Kong Flu again?

10)  French kissing that sexy Hungarian supermodel at the nightclub.  (Oh right, that was just in my dream.  Skip that one)

11)  McDonald’s.  Just walking in there is enough to make anyone sick.  And this Flushing franchise across the street is so cheap, they only give you one napkin.


I signed up for his application that emails you when someone “unfollows” you on Twitter.  This means that you immediately learn when a person has decided to refuse to see your brilliant 140-character “tweets” on their timeline, so they will never know how good your roast beef sandwich was at lunch.   In internet terms, it is considered a “diss.”  Like most people on this silly Twitter application, I get followed and unfollowed everyday.  Usually, I am unfollowed by people I don’t “know,” like marketers, sex chat sites, or bloggers who mistakenly thought I was a bigshot and then dumped me immediately when they discovered the truth.  

Yesterday, I received a notification that Gorillabuns “unfollowed” me as a friend on Twitter.  For the life of me,  could not understand why.  Did she quit using Twitter?  No.  I knew that she was seven months pregnant.  Perhaps she has gotten so emotional and irrational, as women tend to do in stressful situations, that she was striking out at random targets.  Believe me, I know how women can get. 

Or was there something else going on?!  I did just write a post about my “date” with Astrogirl this weekend.  Perhaps Gorillabuns was insanely jealous?  Was there some sort of blogosphere “Fatal Attraction” going on?  Has Gorillabuns been harboring a secret love for me all these years?  Can my writing be such an aphrodisiac?  I mean, it isn’t that surprising.  I make myself horny with some of my posts.  And she does live in Oklahoma.  She is probably envious of my glamorous life in New York, while she is stuck there, having her husband drive her to the OBGYN in the old family surrey with the fringe on top.  (dear reader:  if you don’t get this reference, you don’t deserve to be reading this blog).

Anyway, what is the point of this post?  Is he writing about blogging and Twitter again?  Doesn’t this dude have a REAL life?

Well, actually — no.    But I am finding that the virtual world is helping me overcome some issues that will hopefully transfer into the real world.  Like how I deal with social situations like this.

Normally, I would have sulked for an hour after someone like Gorillabuns “unfollowed” me.  I would assume that I did something wrong.  But in this case — it made no sense.  I’ve never had an unpleasant word with her.  I even told her she looked “hot” as a pregant woman, and all pregnant women love to hear that!

So, I emailed her.  I asked her why she unfollowed me.  I told her that I was just curious, so maybe I could make amends.

But there is a twist to this saga.  Within minutes of sending the message to Gorillabuns, I received a whole rash of emails from this Twitter “unfollow” application.  Fifty other bloggers had just unfollowed me, including some “friends.”  What the hell was going on?  Had Sophia started up a “revenge” blog, telling the world about her nickname for me, “the  Twenty-Three Second Man.”  Had X been sending around that “photo” I made on that lonely, lonely night to all her blog friends?  Or was it worse — were others under the impression that I was voting for McCain? 

Eventually, I figured out that this “unfollow” application had gone as crazy as HAL in “2001” and was just sending me random and WRONG information.  I quickly dumped the application and apologized to Gorillabuns for accusing her of treason (although now she really thinks I’m unstable and has sent me a restraining order from getting 100 feet from her home).    But at least she is still following me on Twitter!

Even though the whole event was a mistake, I think I deserve some kudos.  Do you know how brave of me it was to email Gorillabuns?  I would have never done that before.  I would have been too afraid of losing face… or learning the truth.

In the real world, has a friend or aquaintance ever thrown a party and NOT invited you?  What do you usually do?  Do you keep it to yourself and feel left out?  Or do you ask your friend, “Hey, what’s up?”  Maybe there is an issue that you don’t know about, or a conflict between you and another friend.

If I ever unfollow you, or don’t respond to a comment, or do something that confuses you — don’t be shy about asking me.   If the farmer and the cowman can be friends, why shouldn’t we communicate honestly?  (now do you get the reference?)

Note:  My latest green post is up on Filter for Good:  A Tree Should Grow in Queens

Sanford and Stanford

Sanford:  Hi, I’m Redd Foxx.

Stanford:  And I’m Wille Garson.

Sanford:  Together we play Sanford and Stanford, on the new hit CBS comedy of the same name.

Stanford:  And if you have no idea what we are talking about, you apparently didn’t read Neilochka’s last post, which has been up there for at least five days. 

Sanford:  Yeah, what’s your problem?  Why didn’t you read it, you sucka?  How would you like one across yo’ lip??!

Stanford:  Ha Ha, Redd.  Remember, non-violence is the answer.  Unless, we are fighting for a table at Hugo’s in West Hollywood for Sunday brunch!

Sanford:  That was one lame fruitcake joke, Stanford. 

Stanford:  On our show, the two of us are constantly battling as I attempt to transform Fred’s old junkyard into a trendy B&B for the gay, lesbian and transgender community. 

Sanford:  Transgender?  What the hell is that?!

Stanford:  (whispers something in his ear)

Sanford:  Holy…!  (grabbing his chest)  Oh, this is the big one! You hear that, Elizabeth?! I’m coming to join you, honey!”

Stanford:  Ooh boy, and I thought only gay men were drama queens!

Sanford:  As you can see, on Sanford and Stanford, we play it up for laughs.  But today, as part of CBS Cares, we’d like to talk to you about something that is not funny at all — an issue that is heating up America during this election year.

Stanford:  We are speaking about “Can Male and Female Bloggers Ever Be Friends?”

Sanford:  And Stanford and I both agree — the answer is “Yes”.

OK, this is Neilochka.  I am interrupting this post for three reasons.

1)  It is not that funny.
2)  I cannot come up with a good ending.
3)  I am worried that readers born after 1980 have never heard of Sanford and Son, and will think of me as an old fart who doesn’t know what LOL means.

The point of this post is to say that I met Astrogirl from Notes From the Bunker this weekend.  We had a great time together.  We had pizza at my favorite Queens pizzeria, Valentino’s.  We saw art at the Frick Collection.

We then went to a cool exhibit on Chinese Propaganda at the Asia Society. 

We ate sushi and I got slightly drunk on sake.  Oh, and yeah, she is married, so it was all safe.  There was no action other than her letting me see her tattoo on her back.

But Astrogirl was also nice enough to give me hints on some “do”s and “don’t”s for when I actually go on a REAL date.

For example, don’t make a woman self-conscious about food.  I’ve met quite a few female bloggers for lunch and I am always fascinated by what they order — and don’t order.  I’m always wondering — are some women afraid of being seen eating a sandwich or finishing everything on the plate?  Is it a rule for the woman to fake insecurity about ordering dessert?  Do women really want a “side salad” when the man orders a six foot hero?  Should the man order a boring salad too, just to show comraderie?  Finally, while it might seem like a compliment to tell a classy dame like Astrogirl that, “You are ordering two slices of pizza?! I love that you’re doing that.  I hate when women only order a salad and never finish it.  You clearly have no phobia about eating!  I knew I was going to like you in person!” she probably is going to overlook the accolades and just think that you are calling her a pig.

Sanford:  I know my sister-in-law Esther can swallow a whole franchise of Domino’s in one night.

Esther:  You shut up Fred, you fish-eyed heathen!

Sanford:  Oh no, Esther, where the hell do you come from?  You scared me.  You are so ugly, I could stick your face in some pizza dough and it would scare away the tomato sauce.

Stanford:  Come on, you two.  I hate when people fight.  Unless of course if it is a party at David Geffen’s home and we both show up wearing the same outfit!

Sanford:  Stanford, you big dummy!

Neilochka:  Boy, this Sanford and Stanford idea is as unfunny as a SNL skit! 

(By the way, don’t worry, Astrogirl, I’m also gonna tell my readers that you are like size -4 so other women can hate you as one of those skinny bitches who can eat two slices of pizza without even worrying about it).

What the Kids Say

Am I losing my cool? Do I need to listen to more hip hop? I used to be the hippest dude on the block. Now I watch re-runs of Matlock on TV.

Yesterday, there were four comments that sent me over to Google Search. Where do you people pick up your words? Is it because I don’t have kids? I don’t know what you are talking about half the time!

These are four actual comments left yesterday:

I’d let you rub my honker at a BlogHer pajama party — Black Hockey Jesus

OK, now I’m not stupid. I’m assuming BHJ is referring to his dick. Or do I just assume every guy is talking about his dick? I could swear, though, that “honker” used to be a slang for nose. I think I can actually remember a Bugs Bunny episode where Bugs squeezes Elmer Fudd’s “honker.”

Educate me!

I don’t know why men and women bloggers can’t be friends. I would like my very own Sanford, though — Sammanthia

I was totally lost here. Sanford? The only connection I could make here was to the seventies sitcom, Sanford and Son. But what is the meaning? Is Sammanthia saying she has a fantasy of making love to an older, foul-mouthed African-American man who runs a junk yard? Hey, I don’t judge anyone’s sex dreams, but why is she mentioning it here in this context?

Educate me.

No. Those friendships are impossible. I’m fucking TIRED of moms asking me for pictures of my moobs. — Backpacking Dad

Moobs. After a second I did figure it out. Moobs = man boobs. But are we talking about any man? Or are we referring to an overweight guy who might have a “chest?” Is it a compliment to tell my trainer at the gym that “he has great moobs” or is it an insult? This is a word that I will not be using very often. I don’t even say the word boobs. Too wimpy. I say “tits.”

Educate me!

We don’t have mallowmars here, so if you’re coming for dinner, you can bring them! and bring your mom too, she can sleep over, i’ve always got room for “nana”. — Better Safe than Sorry

Nana? First of all, let me say, that I have never heard anyone Jewish call any relative “nana.” There is no more “goyish” word than “nana.” Someone Protestant might ask, “Will “Nana” be coming to the Easter dinner?” You will never hear someone Jewish ask, “Will “Nana” be bringing the kugel to the Passover seder.” Besides, I always thought that “Nana” meant grandmother. Now I know my mother just retired, but are you going to call my mother “Grandma” when you meet her? Unless there is something you want to tell about that little “lunch” we had nine months ago?

Educate me!

Now if I know most of you are laughing at me, feeling good about yourself, saying Neilochka is such a stick in the mud while I am so hip with the lingo!

Well, now is your chance to prove it to me. I just read this article in my mother’s, uh… AARP magazine titled, What Are They Talking About? 50 Words That Kids Think You Don’t Know.

Prove to me that we really are BFF. Tell me how many you DON’T KNOW. The answers are on the AARP site.

tatted out
tramp stamp
scooby doos
soul patch
baby mama
mash up
check vitals
jump the shark
talk smack
fo’ shizzle
bomb, the
off the chain

Now, how cool am I — referencing the rad AARP magazine?! Sweet!

More Angst: A Question for Married Female Bloggers

I’m a crazy guy with marital issues who currently lives with his mother and talks about his penis all the time. You’re an attractive, intelligent married woman with two children. We both blog.

Can we ever really become friends?

Was I “safer” as a male blogger when I was living with Sophia? Should I steer away from commenting on your cleavage in every Flickr photo, even after ten other women did the exact same thing? Should I even try to say hello to you on IM or does it seem like I am on the prowl, especially after I admited to my one night wild online sex email night? Do you think it bothers the Palinode that I am better friends with his wife, the better-looking Schmutzie? If I were travelling in your town, would your family put me up for the night? Would your husband care if he caught us in bed together during the afternoon, even though we were only eating malomars and watching “All My Children” (but in the nude, since it is the best way to watch soaps). Is there a way to be a buddy with you, respecting you wit and intelligence, while at the same time, acknowleging that I am a man and you are a woman, and that I am not your gay sidekick from Sex in the City?

Imaginary IM Conversation:

Me: “.. so anyway, you just click on that WordPress plugin, and that should take care of you blog backups..”

She: “That was so easy. Thanks, Neilochka. You Rawk!”

Me: “Oh, and I saw that new photo of you on Facebook. Wow, your breasts are amazing! Your husband is one lucky man.”

She: “Thanks, I’ll tell Jim you said so. You coming to the BlogHer pajama party on Saturday?”

Me: “Absolutely. I’m already working on the Swedish meatballs for the pot luck.”

She: “Mmmm. All the girls can’t wait to see you. We loved how you felt us all up — one by one — during the night. You have such big… hands! Jim thought that was so funny and… typical of you. Are you going to be doing it again this time?”

Me: “If it is OK with Jim and the other husbands…”

She: “Sure, sure. They love it when we have a good time with you. I mean, we work so hard during the week with the kids. Why shouldn’t we have some fun?”

Me: “Jim’s a great husband.”

She: “He’s the best, and a good provider. And despite whatever problems you have with Sophia, it’s wonderful that she is understanding, too. It really isn’t such a big deal that your female blog friends enjoy giving you oral sex so much. She knows that it isn’t serious — only a form of affection for our “Neilochka.” We consider it more “social media” and “community building.””

Me: “My community is building right now thinking about it… if you know what I mean.”

She: “LOL (spits diet Coke onto monitor) You are so… funny!”

A One Day Break From Arrogance

I miss Brenda, my friendly therapist in Los Angeles, the one with the nice legs. During our last meeting, I told her I was going to New York for a few month. I was embarrassed to tell her this, fearing that she would consider it a cop-out, that I was running away from my problems rather than solving it. Instead, she surprised me and said it showed great progress.

“You’re taking action. It doesn’t matter what action. It could be an action that backfires. But it is better than doing nothing.”

My last two posts have been all about action. The purpose? I have no idea! The concept of publicly announcing my blog as the greatest blog ever created was so outlandish to me — almost sinful — that I became tremendously horny after publishing it. I’ve always hated those obnoxious blatantly-promotional blog badges, so placing one my blog was the equivalent of bungie jumping off of of Mount Rushmore, and I felt the adrenaline rush in the most obvious of places.

That said, I am a little worried that I am boring you. I seem to be writing a lot about blogging rather than real life. But let me assure you, if you read between the lines, this has anything to do with blogging. It is just easier to take action in the virtual world before attempting the same in the real world.

So, I took some action. I said my blog was the best blog ever created. I didn’t die from my hubris. The world is not all black and white, where every decision is monumental and forever. Recently, I even mentioned the word “divorce” with Sophia. But I said it in a clever, loving way. I said, “What is the worst thing that can happen? If we wanted to get married again, we could! Didn’t Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton get married and divorced eleven times?!” By presenting it in this manner, it defused some of the tension. We haven’t done anything, and it isn’t on the agenda right now, but it felt good to take some “action.”

OK, enough with real life. Back to blogging. I never liked guest posts. Two months ago, I had some guest posters write on my blog, randomly picked. They were terrific and I survived giving up some control. I never wanted to write for another blog. I started writing for another blog, for money — one that is corporate sponsored. Two days ago, I displayed a badge for a blogging contest, even later adding the actual link, after a blogger called me out for being a wimp.

But my biggest online nemesis remains: yes, advertising. That is my dragon. For years. I’ve written so much about this issue that other bloggers have started to make fun of me, like Rattling the Kettle.

I told Jennifer from Thursday Drive my plan.

“What’s the big deal? I can try advertising for one month and if I don’t like it, I can dump it.”

“Sounds good.” she said.

“It’s no big deal. I used to be against it for symbolic reasons. Bloggers would say they “deserve” to get paid for entertaining their readers. That statement made me sick. We’re all entertaining each other, like a barter system. If anything, I should be paying YOU for coming here and enhancing my blog posts with your comments. But enough. I’m done with this hang-up. It is time to take some action!”

At that point, Jennifer fell asleep on the other end, tried of me always IM-ing her and talking endlessly about myself. But it didn’t matter. I was ready for Healthy Arrogance, Day 3: Advertising and Money!

But then my brain started playing games. I felt a pain in my side and I had to lie down. I felt dizzy. My arrogance was slipping away. I know it is ridiculous. I know this all my seem very silly to most decent citizens. Whatever I decide, I don’t want the fear — and psychological angst — to make the decision for me. I want to decide myself — and take action one way or another, like I want to do with other things in my life. New York or Los Angeles? Married or not? Crest or Colgate? Advertising or not? It’s time to make a stand and overcome this. And not be so wishy-washy about the reasons.

Uh, I’m not ready yet for this decision. I need one more day.

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