the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Month: June 2014 (Page 3 of 3)

Fictional Characters of New York — #7

sportsjacket

In a few seconds, the woman in the white sweater will cross the street. She is a divorced publishing executive with a daughter in graduate school. She will bump into the guy in the tan sports jacket. He is lost in his thoughts. He works in advertising. The woman will laugh at her clumsiness, but the man will say he was about to go have dinner at Hunan Garden. Would she join him? They will order Broccoli and Chicken with Garlic Sauce, and then the guy will invite her to his apartment for a drink. They will make love and the woman, who hasn’t been with a man since her husband left her six years ago for that younger chiropractor, will have the most intense orgasm she’s had since that crazy afternoon with Johnny Spenser at Smith College. “What’s your name?” she will ask the man, his tan sports jacket neatly folded on a chair at the foot of the bed. He doesn’t answer, yet. He looks at her nakedness and finds her beautiful.

Fictional Characters of New York — #6

nypd

On the night before my wedding, my soon-to-be father-in-law, a conservative businessman from a prominent family in Seoul, took me out to a private bar to give me some marital advice.

“If you want a happy woman, you don’t bring your work back home with you,” he said.

“I’m still joining the force.  Here in New York.  It’s what I want to do,” I replied.

And my father-in-law hasn’t spoken to me since.

Fictional Characters of New York — #5

rain

“It’s pouring outside. Do you have to go to work?”

“Of course I have to go to work. I need to make money.”

“Just stay a little longer,” she said, putting her head on his chest.

It wasn’t the first time he had heard the rain pounding against the window, relentless, as if crying for help, demanding entry into the warmth of the interior, but it was the first time he had ever felt it in his blood.

Which Levi’s Jeans Makes My Ass Look the Best?

youtube

For the last few months, there have been these YouTube advertisements plastered all over the subway platforms, in the subway cars, and even on the subways themselves. They showcase a group of girls who look no more than fifteen years old, and have six million followers each.  I’ve never heard of any of them. Bethany Mota? Michelle Phan? Clearly I’m not in the right demographic.  One aspect that I did notice is that they are “fashion and lifestyle” bloggers.

“I’m doing it wrong,” I tell myself each time I board it a train and see one of these ads. “Why didn’t I become a fashion and lifestyle blogger?”

One morning, not too long ago, as a mariachi band was playing in my subway car, I had a revelation.

“Why couldn’t I become a fashion and lifestyle blogger?” I asked the guitarist wearing the sombrero.  “There are so few middle-aged male fashion and lifestyle bloggers giving advice to other men! The field is completely wide open!”

And that’s how this this post came into existence.  Well, actually, there were two more steps before I get to the post.

First has to do with my dating life.  Or rather it’s lack of existence.  Last week, I was talking to a friend, a recently divorced woman who had already gone on a few dates and was pushing me to join an online service.

Seeking good advice, and trying to change the subject,   I said, “Tell me, and be honest, as a friend. What do women most look for in a man?  Is it his career achievements, his sense of humor, or his intelligence?”

She laughed, saying, “The number one attribute that women look for in a man is — how good his ass looks in a pair of jeans.”

This totally blew my mind.   And then I promptly forgot about the conversation.

This morning, around 10AM, my mother asked if I wanted to go shopping with her at the Macy’s on Queens Boulevard. She received a “Friends and Family 25% coupon” in the mail and she was always up for a bargain.  I hate shopping for clothes, but I agreed, mostly for selfish reasons. Near this Macy’s is a diner that makes a good Reuben sandwich, and there is also a Best Buy across the street, and I wanted to play with the new Samsung phone.

By noon, we were in the department store.

My mother said, “I want to check out some bras,” and I knew this was my cue to go check out the men’s department.

“You know what,” I said. “I could use a new pair of jeans. I’ll meet you back here in a half hour.”

So I went to the men’s department, which is always the crappiest section in every department store, located on the dark and dingy lower level next to the appliances.

I passed by the fancy designer jeans and went straight for the Levi’s against the far wall.   I’m a Levi’s guy.   I mean, other than two brief moments of weakness in my life where I bought other brands of jeans (one was Wrangler in fifth grade and the other was a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt men’s jeans that I would rather not discuss),  I have worn Levi’s all my life. More specifically, I have worn Levi’s 501 jeans since junior high school, never deviating, never changing.

But something changed when I accidentally bumped into this sign.

sign

I had a number of thoughts.

1) Therapy.   Why do I always wear the same style of 501 jeans?   Could my unwavering choice of jeans be symbolic of a lifelong rut,  the equivalent of only eating Cheerios your whole life, or never leaving your house?  Do I need to change up my style of Levi’s jeans in order to change up my life?

2) Dating.  If my ass in jeans was going to be the dealbreaker in any relationship with a woman, I needed as much help as possible.  I wasn’t born with the genes for jeans.   You see, that was clever.   Clever people never have good asses.

3) Commerce.   What if I tried every single style Levi’s jean, making note of which jeans made my ass look the best, and then wrote about it in my first “fashion and lifestyle” post for middle-aged men, inspiring a whole generation to look to me as their sartorial guru?Who knows — by next year, I could be in a YouTube advertisement on the E-train, next to the fifteen year old YouTube stars?

So, that’s how this post was born.  I went into the dressing room, sneaking in every different pair of numbered Levi’s jeans as I could find in the stacks of jeans, dressing and undressing and taking photos under the worst lighting ever known to man , and probably making the men in the others stalls wondering what the hell I was doing in there with all the shuffling and clicking of the camera.

OK, men — so here is what I learned about the various Levi’s Jeans.   Just be advised that your ass might be different than mine.

First up was my old favorite — a pair of 501 jeans.

501

It was important to first try on a new pair of 501 jeans as a “control” subject on which to compare and contrast the other styles.  Every since I entered my first science fair back in the day, I’ve always been very determined to follow the correct scientific approach.

The 501 has an “iconic straight fit,” but as you can see from the photo, it does very little for my ass, and the material by my thigh hangs like the drapes in a summer house.

501_2

I don’t want to badmouth the 501. It is a sturdy, honest choice. And it is the only style of Levi’s jeans with the “signature button fly.”  Sadly, what I once found very cool, hip, and special, I now just see as something that requires extra work when I need to pee.

No to 501. It’s time to move on. Sorry, old friend.

The 505 “Regular Fit” fit pretty good, and didn’t feel much different than the 501s.  Like twin brothers.   The boring twin brother who became the accountant.

505

Described as a “classic, stylish and comfortable straight leg for all occasions,” it felt as generic as the description.  No one ever gets laid wearing the 505s.

No to 505.

The 517 “Bootcut” was the only authentic boot cut that the Macy’s had in Queens, maybe because very few people in Queens ever ride their horses over the Queensborough Bridge to go to Manhattan for brunch.

517

Everything just felt wrong with these jeans. They were too long, and too high, and too much room in the seat. And do cowboys really need so much extra room in the groin area? Maybe now I understand why so many of my female friends have moved to Austin. Unless I was going to attend one of those “City Slickers” dude ranches over the summer, I would feel like a idiot walking around the city in these jeans.

No to 517.

Not unsurprisingly, this particular Macy’s on Queens Boulevard sold every available type of  Levi’s”relaxed fit” style, which I think was a not so subtle way of Macy’s executives telling us that, “You are the Borough of Fat People.”

First up was the 550 “Relaxed,” which is described as “a classic laid-back fit” — and by “laid-back” I think they mean, “jeans for those who used to go to Grateful Dead concerts.”

550

These jeans didn’t enhance my ass AT ALL. In fact, it made it my rear end look even less impressive than it does in real life. This is a jeans for sitting — for an outdoor music festival, for smoking pot with your baby boomer friends, for watching an entire season of Orange is the New Black.

These are not the jeans to enhance your ass.

No to 550.

The 559 “Relaxed Straight” was even worse.

559

These were the worst possible jeans for my build, and the extra room in the rear made it look like I was wearing a pair of adult diapers under my jeans. Not sexy at all.

No to 559.

The 560 “Comfort Fit” continued the slide into denim atrociousness and I imagined old Levi Strauss himself turning in his grave at the thought of his name on these pants.

560

The 560 is roomy in the seat and thigh, but the waist is so high that I could have lifted these pants over my head WHILE still wearing them.

No to 560.

The 569 “Loose Straight Cut” is what I affectionately called “the gangster jeans.” The fact that these pants were the biggest seller in this Macy’s says a lot about the citizens in my neighborhood, and why no one in Manhattan ever wants to come visit me in Queens.

569

I always see young guys on the bus from Flushing wearing these jeans, halfway down their ass, and I never understood how they kept the pants from just falling down around their ankles. Now I know the truth. They don’t keep it up. After taking this photo, the pants fell around my ankles.

No to 569. I don’t want to show that much of my ass.

The 510 “Skinny” jeans gets a lot of press because all the young hipsters wear these in Brooklyn.  I was pretty skeptical about them until I put them on, and you know what – I thought they looked pretty good.

510

Hey, I’m not bragging or anything that I still have “the right stuff.” And sure, I suppose I was a little narcissistic when I climbed on top of the seat, took off my shirt and imagined myself as Mick Jagger singing “Brown Sugar” to the mirror.

And then I sat down.  And the jeans smashed my balls into what could only be described as a vise hold, in what seemed to be a punishment for that #NotAllMen joke I made on Twitter a few weeks ago.

No to 510.

One by one, I compared the jeans.   I was in the dressing room for so long that I forgot about the time. An hour had passed, and my poor mother was wandering around Macy’s looking for me, and freaking out. And then came the announcement, said to the entire Macy’s over the loudspeaker system interrupting the music, “Will customer Neil Kramer please come to the register in the men’s department. Customer Neil Kramer please come to the register in the men’s department. You mother is looking for you.”

So, I never did try all the styles.  I felt bad for mother, and I was hungry for that Reuben.

So, now is the big reveal.   Did I find my Holy Grail of Levi’s Jeans?

And the answer is yes.   The winner was clearly the 513.

The 513 is the “Slim Straight.”  It gives you a bit of the snugness of the skinny jeans, but lets you keep your testicles for future reference.  It is comfortable like the 501, just not as baggy.

513

Look at my ass.  Have you ever seen it looking any better?

I know this post was probably long-winded, something that Bethany Mota or Michelle Phan or any of those fifteen year old superstars would never do in any of their YouTube fashion videos, but remember — this is only my first lifestyle post, so I’m still learning.

Fictional Characters of New York — #3

wait

“He told me that I should meet him on 53rd and we would drive to the Island to see the Belmont Stakes. He told me to buy a hat, like those ones they were at the Kentucky Derby, all fancy and stuff. He told me that it was going to be a historical day – that we were going to see the first Triple Crown winner in decades. He told me a lot of things. He told me that he thought I was beautiful. He told me that I should meet him on 53rd Street with a hat in my hand. It was all lies.”

Faggot: A Memory of the Word

A Hollywood celebrity got in hot water this week for calling someone a “faggot,” and my friend Brian started a discussion on the slur in Facebook. Brian said that he never used the word, no matter how heated the argument. Maybe I misread the update, and thought he said that he never used the word at all, ever, which surprised me. Maybe I am a few years older than him, but in my personal experience, boys taunted each other with “faggot” all the time from grade school through high school. I’ve definitely called and been called — a faggot — during my childhood.

Naturally, the next commenter on Brian’s status, a kind-hearted woman, took me to task, saying that what may have been appropriate in the past is now intolerable, almost as if I was condoning the use of the word as an adult rather than bringing up an honest memory of my childhood. She was doing her best, trying to squash the homophobia and hatred that permeates our culture, but for a second it put me in an awkward position. I was suddenly on the defensive, as if my childhood memory was akin to composing a poem in honor of the KKK. Did I have to wave my pro-gay flag, or recite the lyrics to a Cher song in order to protect myself?

I used to believe that monetization of blogging was the biggest threat to my personal writing online, but as blogging matures, I’m beginning to wonder if advocacy hasn’t become the biggest burden to our honest storytelling. Do we have to be role models 24/7? How can we tell any stories about our lives?

I remember calling, and being called, “faggot” a lot, especially in public school. The biggest irony is by the time most of my childhood friends used the word, it was already divorced from the idea of homosexuality. By the late 1970s and early 1980s, gay culture was an institution in New York City. Disco had gone mainstream. It was actually pretty cool. My mother worked in publishing, and at least 75% of the men working there were gay, and I never thought twice about it.  During junior high, I used to work in my mother’s office during holidays, doing filing, and if my mother was busy, I would go to lunch with these two editors, both gay, where they showed me the art of making an egg cream.   They were not faggots.

I certainly didn’t associate being a faggot with being gay. Gay was gay. If you were straight you weren’t gay. If you were gay, you weren’t straight.  Faggot was different. It was about manliness. Being a faggot meant that you weren’t a man. That is how we tormented each other in school and the playground. If you didn’t cut class, you were a faggot. If you got bullied off the basketball court and didn’t fight back, you acted like a faggot. If you didn’t accept the “double dare” — like licking the frozen pole in “A Christmas Story,” you were a faggot. Being a faggot was not about orientation. It was about acting like a girl. Back then, I would have never called a gay person a faggot because it wouldn’t have made any sense, since a gay person acting effeminate was socially acceptable, which was not the case for a straight person.

I know someone is going to be mad that I am “stealing” the word from the context of today, or suggesting that the word was as harmful and controlling to straight boys as to gay ones. But that’s my story. Even today, if you would call me gay, I would probably go “I wish!,” but if you called me a faggot, my blood pressure would rise.

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