Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Author: Neil Kramer (Page 23 of 187)

Before the Trip

December 5, 2012 / / 35 Comments

This Monday, I fly out of Los Angeles to Wellington, New Zealand.  I thought tonight would be a good time for a quick recap of my recent life, something akin to those old-fashioned Christmas cards where the family blabs about Little Joey’s good grades in school.

My shoulder —

My mother’s favorite saying is, “If you have your health, you have everything.” Over the last few months, I had this pain in my shoulder. After my MRI, it turned out NOT to be a rotator cuff issue. All I know is that it mostly healed, and rarely bothers me anymore. Sometimes, if it rains, my shoulder feels creaky again, so maybe the final diagnosis is: getting old.

But I’m happy it has healed.  For awhile, the pain was so intense, the simple act of putting on a sweatshirt would cause tears to roll down my cheeks.

My mother is wise with her adage.  We sometimes forget that our biggest privilege is that we were born healthy. This shoulder pain has opened my eyes to those who have to deal with pain on a daily basis.  I commend anyone able to rise above their physical pain and sbe able to be decent to others.  There were days recently I just wanted to say “F-you” to everyone I met in the street.

My holiday wish for you is not that you get that big “book deal” you so desperately want.  I wish you good health. Believe me, it is worth more than you think.

Writing —

If you know me well enough, you know I’ve been working on this ONE screenplay forever. I finished it this month. It was a long torturous experience. Some day, I’ll tell you more; there are funny stories involved. But not now.

I have someone shopping it around in January. Keep your fingers crossed. I need some money. But I am also trying to be realistic. If you think it is difficult to sell a book, the odds of getting a movie made are the equivalent of winning the Powerball.

I love blogging, and have no intention of ever quitting, but I have slowed down a bit over the last few months. I’m still trying to find my place in the “blogging world.” I’m not a parent blogger.  I’m not a social media expert.  What am I?    But I stay sane by keeping to the same path that I took from day one, ” Act as if your voice counts, treat others as if their voices count, but always remind everyone that we mostly sit around in our underwear.”

Sophia —

Oy. I am stumped on how to discuss the longest and most neurotic separation and divorce in the history of man.  My fantasy was once this — Sophia and I would toast each other in a sophisticated manner, like Nick and Nora in The Thin Man, wishing each other the best of luck in the future.

Uh, yeah.

If I honestly told you some of the nasty names we have called each other over the last month, you would unfollow me from Facebook immediately. I have started the process of moving my books and clothes into a storage facility, and things have not been pretty. So many of the cliches that the two of us used to laugh at while watching “All My Children” together have become SCARY REAL.  The slamming doors. The eavesdropping.  The yelling of “YOU RUINED MY LIFE.”  The main difference between the characters on All My Children and us is that soap operas characters are so filthy rich that they never fight about money.

Normally, couples don’t like to show their dirty laundry online, but I’ve been lucky to have other divorced or divorcing friends online who have told me one thing — this is all normal.  It was unrealistic for me to expect us to handle this like fictional couples in a brightly-lit romantic comedy.  I’m looking forward to a time when Sophia and I can deal with each other in a more uplifting way again — as a divorced couple.

Juli in New Zealand —

I am going to visit my friend Juli for Christmas and New Year’s. She is a good friend. We met through blogging. We have chatted a lot over the last two years. We have a lot in common. She is dealing with her own divorce.  She is a woman. I am a man. So, yes, I’ll admit there is that element to this story. What this means is still unclear. We have never met in real life.  So, this adventure is a big one.

For those of you curious for more details, closely watch my Instagram for hidden symbols. Photos of bonfires — hot time.  Photos of the ocean — I’m drowning.

The Queen Mary

November 26, 2012 / / 32 Comments

I’m going to utter the one statement that will single-handedly ruin my career in the media business: I’m getting old. I’m not just talking about physical age, but in personal interests: I’m more interested in the Queen Mary than the latest ship from Disney.

Last night, I was watching the awful Lifetime movie, Liz and Dick, the “story” of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, and trying to decipher why the movie was so bad.  Was it the poor casting? The stunted dialogue? The slow direction? Then it hit me — I was expecting a movie about Elizabeth Taylor when the film was about Lindsay Lohan playing Elizabeth Taylor. This was not a secret; the producers were open about the fact.  It was advertised as “Lindsay Lohan IS Elizabeth Taylor.”  The film was created for an audience obsessed with the trainwreck exploits of Lindsay Lohan. And since my fascination over Lindsay Lohan runs shallow, I found the movie dull.

Modern consumer culture is hard on the past. Selling requires “the new.” If everyone kept driving their 1995 Honda Civic until it died, the auto industry would collapse.  We are taught from an early age to convince our peers that an old car is an embarrassment to our friendship.  This consumer culture has a lot to do with the persistent racism and sexism in our society, since we become friends with those who can afford the same status class car, or send their kids to the same private school.

It was funny to see so many bloggers wringing their hands last week over the blatant consumerism of Black Friday, especially the mocking of all the ugly fat Americans waiting in line for hours outside Best Buy to buy a cheap Microsoft Tablet.  WE are the media now, obsessed with the new — even the Betas and Updates!  We make our money hawking products in sponsored posts!  If anything, we should pat ourselves on our backs for having the “influence” to convince our poorer friends to wait in line at Best Buy for a cheap tablet, just so they can become as cool as us!   The point of this rambling post is not to knock consumerism. I am as guilty as you in buying into the system. I am even PISSED that Sophia now has an iPhone5 while I am stuck taking photos with my Iphone4.

That said, I hope our love for the new over the old — the Lindsay Lohans over the Elizabeth Taylors, the iPhone5s over the iPhone4s, the under 30 over the over 30. the beauty of youth over the glamour of maturity, doesn’t turn us AGAINST that which isn’t easily commodified.

Sure, the Queen Mary, docked in Long Beach, CA, is a mediocre tourist attraction, a pseudo museum/hotel/brunch spot. It tries to be relevant, but the old ship is more like your Aunt Bessie who thinks she is a teenager because she watches The Voice. But I love the old. The old have stories.

I love old cars, old airplanes, old planes, old sewing machine, and old people. I’m getting older by the second, and I have no choice. I can feel my own connection to modern culture ossifying, as I find more joy in listening to songs of my youth rather than the latest hit. Sure, I fake my interest in Lindsay Lohan, because she is what we discuss.

But I’m more interested in Elizabeth Taylor.

Announcing the Seventh Annual Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert!

November 21, 2012 / / 65 Comments

I’m going to be honest with you.  I woke up this morning wondering if the time has come to stop celebrating the unity of mankind (OK, peoplekind… damn feminists).

2012 has given religion a bad name.   For many of us religion now means fundamentalism and fanaticism, repression and destruction, rather than good will towards men (I mean people).  From conflicts over the American election to fighting in the Middle East, even God has gotten bored with our stupidity.

And our online world is not helping our cause.  What is the blogging “mantra,” taught to us by every social media guru worth his salt:  Find your tribe!   Find your tribe!  Find your tribe!

Which raises the question:  why bother reaching out to anyone outside of your tribe if it is bad for business?  Why bother listening and learning from others when life is all about “broadcasting” your views to a select demographic of believers?

Luckily, my tiny corner of the blogosphere doesn’t think this way.   My blogosphere listens and learns.  We don’t judge a man (or woman) by his belief system, or the color of his (or her) skin, but by the quality of his (or her) inappropriate humor.  And kindness towards others.   It is plan that has worked well for me.  I’ve even learned to love Lutherans, a religious group that tends not to be very good with telling jokes.

Can Jew and Christian and Muslim, Atheist and Mormon, Black and White get along for once?  Should I cut the virtual red ribbon, marking the official announcement of the The Seventh Annual Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert?

YES!


Angela from Fluid Pudding performing in 2007

This year we celebrate:

Christmas (Christian)– December 25
Hanukkah (Jewish) — December 8-16
Kwanzaa — December 26-January 1
Hijra (Islam) — November 15
Bodhi Day (Buddhism) — December 8
Day of the Covenant (Baha’i) November 28
Diwali (Hindu) November 13
Winter Solstice — December 21
New Year’s Eve — January 1

The online concert this year will take place on December 15, 2012, right here on this blog.   And this year, the concert will be published directly from New Zealand! (see my last post)

It is time to hear YOU PERFORM!   Sign up in the comments today.

Concert FAQ:

1.  Create an audio file or a video file of you performing a holiday song.  If you need technical help, ask me.

2.  You must be performing in the audio or video.   Don’t cheat and have your cute kids doing all the work.

3.  You can sing, play an instrument, recite poetry, dance the Nutcracker, or create music on your iPhone.

4.  Once completed, you have the choice of posting it on your blog or YouTube and sending me the link, or emailing me the complete multimedia file.   Try to get me everything by Thursday, December 13, 2012, two days before the concert!  That gives you plenty of time to be creative.

5.  If you don’t want to sing a song, send me a holiday photo for concert decoration.  It could be of your tree, menorah, or plain ol’ winter solstice if you are a heathen.

6.  The comment section is the sign-up sheet.    By signing up, we can see who is performing what, so we can avoid having ten versions of “Frosty the Snowman.”

7.  Most importantly — don’t be intimidated if you can’t sing.    We like to laugh at you.

8.  Here are the past blockbuster concerts —

2006  2007  2008  2009  2010  2011

Join us in the longest-running holiday concert online – The Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert, now in it’s seventh season!

Call to Adventure

November 20, 2012 / / 22 Comments

For years, I’ve been complaining about the superficial nature of online friendships, my boredom with trading quips about pop culture or the ubiquitous “liking” of each other’s drunken photos on Instagram?

Real friends look at each other. They interrupt each other as they speak. There are moment of silence. There are shared cups of coffee.

But there is a major obstacle to transforming many of favorite virtual friendships into real ones.

Distance.

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In the eighth grade, our class had a substitute English teacher. He was a strange guy, a former hippy and a black belt in karate. Rather than teaching us anything about grammar, he told us about the U.S. military-industrial complex and the importance of “bringing it down.” Most of us had no idea what he was talking about.

One afternoon, at the end of his class, the teacher took me aside.

“I notice you read a lot,” he said.

“Yeah, I like books,” I replied.

“I’m going to give you a book that will BLOW YOU AWAY. It is my favorite book.”

“OK.”

He handed me a hardcover copy of this bizarre fantasy novel that, on first glance, looked rather dumb. It involved imaginary characters in a world called Middle Earth. The book was called “The Hobbit.”

If you are a long-time reader of Citizen of the Month, you now understand why my grammar is stuck in the seventh grade. I never learned grammar in the eighth grade. I spent the year reading “The Lord of the Rings.”

The Hobbit follows Bilbo Baggins as he reluctantly takes a journey from safety into a world of dragons, adventure, war, and treasure.

The book taught me a lesson — everyone must take a journey into the unknown. It is the only way to gain maturity and wisdom. I learned this in the eighth grade, and promptly forgot the advice for decades, preferring to live in safety, like the home-loving Bilbo Baggins.

I fear adventure.  You never know what God has planned for you along the way — a storm, a romance, a shipwreck, or death by eating blowfish a an exotic restaurant. And if you dare raise your fist towards God, angrily shouting, “How could you do this to me?” He will just laugh at you and say, “Sorry, Charlie, but YOU planned your own trip. It was your choice. So get off my back.”

I fear choice.  But I’m trying to change.

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Every year, on the New Year, there are celebrations around the world, ringing in the new year, starting with the first time zone, in New Zealand.   New Zealand is the beautiful, mystical country where they filmed The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings.

Next month, like Bilbo Baggins, I will be making a journey.  I will be travelling to New Zealand to visit my good online friend, Juli, and share a cup of coffee.

So, this year, the Seventh Annual Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert will be broadcast from NEW ZEALAND!

The concert sign-up sheet — later in the week.

Update:  Today, Juli tried to dissuade me from taking my big adventure with this dire warning.

“There are no bagels in New Zealand,” she said.

Ha!  Like that old trick would stop me.   I’m not a sucker.  I have a secret weapon called “Google.”  — Brooklyn Bread and Bagels, Wellington, New Zealand.

Explaining Halloween to Foreigners

October 31, 2012 / / 13 Comments

I was sitting on a bench in Los Angeles when I saw two college girls walking down the street.   Why not take an instagram photo of them?   As I pressed the button to the cameraphone, I saw one of the girls looking directly at me.

“Aw, crap. Caught,” I thought.

But it wasn’t what I thought.   They approached me, singling me out as a potential victim.

“Hello,” said one of the girls in broken English. “We are ESL students from Japan. Our assignment is to find an American person on the street and ask him questions about the American holiday of Halloween. Can we impose on your time and ask you questions?”

“Sure!” I answered, always a strong believer in helping strangers in a strange land.

They bowed to me, then giggled.  I was touched, and confused.

The more extroverted girl, with long brown hair and large glasses, stepped forward.  She was holding a piece of paper in her hand.  It was her homework sheet.   On the sheet were Halloween terms they needed to learn.

“What is Trick or Treat?” she asked, pointing at question #1.

I was frankly surprised that these girls were so clueless about Halloween. Doesn’t the world watch Charlie Brown?

Trick or Treat.  How was I suppose to explain Trick or Treat to two girls with a limited knowledge of English?

“Well, you know kids go house to house on Halloween and get candy, right?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the extroverted girl. “You get candy on Halloween.”

Perfect.  I was half way there.

“The candy is the “treat.” I said.   “But if the person doesn’t give a treat, then you are allowed to do a “trick.””

“Trick?”

“It’s like a joke.   If you don’t get any candy — the treat — then  you are allowed to do something like put toilet paper all around the person’s car — the trick.  You understand?”

The two girls exchanged confused glances, not getting the toilet paper reference.

“It’s an either or thing.    If there’s no candy for kid… then the kid can do something back.”

“Out of anger?”

“Well, it’s not really anger.”

“Revenge?”

“OK, somewhat…”

“So if no candy, the child shoots person with gun?”

“No. No!  Not so extreme!” I insisted.

Is this how the world views America — shooting each other over candy?

“Just a funny trick,” I continued.   “Like toilet paper on the car! Understand?”

They didn’t understand.  I gave up.

“Let’s go on to the next one,” I suggested.

It was Jack O’Lantern.

OK, Jack O’ Lantern.   This would be easier.  And less violent.

“Do you know a pumpkin?” I asked the girls.

“Pump it?” asked the shy girl, the first and only time she spoke during the entire conversation.

“No.  A pumpkin?  The big orange thing.  The vegetable.  It grows in a pumpkin patch.  Like on a farm.  Like in Charlie Brown.   Big.  Orange.”

“Oh, yes.  Big Orange Vegetable.  Pumpkin.” said the extrovert.  “That’s Jack o’Lantern?”

“Not exactly.   The Jack o’ Lantern is what you make from the pumpkin.  The face.”

“The face?”

I pointed at my face.

“People make a face on the pumpkin.” I said.   “With a knife.  They cut out a face with a knife.”

The girls looked horrified.

“They cut people’s face with knives?”

“No. They cut the face out of the pumpkin.”

I made a cutting motion with my hand to better explain things. They moved a foot away, as if I was brandishing a samurai sword.

“How many more questions do you have?” I asked, feeling hopeless.

“Just one more,” said the extroverted Japanese girl. “Superstition.”

“Ah, yes. Superstition. Superstition is when people believe things that are not true.”

No reaction.

“Every culture has superstitions. In Japan, do you avoid walking under ladders or black cats?”

Nothing.

“I know there are ghosts in Japan.  I’ve seen Japanese movies about ghosts.”

“Yes, ghosts in Japan!”

“Do you believe in ghosts?”

“No.”

“But some people do. That is superstition.”

“Superstition is ghosts.”

“Well, it can be.   But more than just ghosts.  Could be zombies, too.”

“So, all Dead People?  On Halloween, Americans dress up like dead people.”

I was getting bored with the conversation.

“Yes. Exactly,” I said.  “We dress like dead people.”

I sent the girls back to their ESL class, clutching their notes,  thinking that in America, the holiday of Halloween means dressing up as dead people, stabbing each other in the face with knives, and shooting those who don’t give you candy.

Happy Halloween!

Three Stories

October 21, 2012 / / 16 Comments

A week ago, Actress #1 ( the woman with arm behind her back) mentioned to her friend, Actress #2 that she had an audition at Warner Brothers; Dick Wolf was looking for a actress to play a female rookie cop in some new crime drama. She hadn’t had a decent gig in years. Actress #2, also desperate, called up her agent and set up her own audition, keeping it a secret from he friend. A few days later, Actress #1 is surprised to discover Actress #2 leaving the production office.

“I got the role!” she said.

“What? How…?” a confused Actress #1 wondered. “I thought they were looking for a “stocky woman toughed by the streets?”

“They’re changing the character for me!” she chorted. “They want her more “sexier.” Typical Hollywood, right? No hard feelings, right?”

When Actress #1 heard this inauthentic patter, her face turned white. She could feel her fist tightening. She imagines bashing her friend in her pretty Hollywood face, over and over again, until the bright red backstabbing blood was rushing into the Los Angeles river, turning the water into the color of a Pacific Ocean sunset.

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They were eating Sunday brunch at their favorite cafe in Santa Monica. She had ordered the broccoli and swiss cheese omelette. He made a note to himself that she had ordered the exact same breakfast entree for the last fifteen years of marriage. Not once has she ever ordered oatmeal or scrambled eggs.

“You’ve ruined my life,” she suddenly said. “I’ve begun to hate looking at you.”

He closed the calendar section of the LA Times. He was reading about the box-office failure of his movie director friend, and was glad to read about it.

“I ruined your life?” he said, loud enough to reach the other two couples crammed into the cafe tables to the right and to the left of them, like overpriced sardines.

He tried to come up with something that would hurt her feelings.

“I hope you choke on your broccoli and swiss cheese!”

He knew it wasn’t a great retort, but he meant it. She was the writer in the family, not him. Fuck her if she didn’t think his job at Toyota was “creative” enough for her tender Bohemian, hat-wearing friends. He was the one who supported her ridiculous photography seminars.

The husband and wife didn’t speak at all as they walked back to their home, a three bedroom they bought in 2005, that lose most of its value after the real estate bust.

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After his MRI, Jason didn’t want to go home and face his roommates. He found the darkest corner of his local Starbucks and looked at photos of young girls, all of them topless and tattooed. It bothered him that he had never fucked a woman with a tattoo. Should he add this to his bucket list?

Jason was still shaking from the experience in the hospital imaging center. “Keep perfectly still” said the lab technician, a young Asian woman with a tattoo. He watched her disappear from view as he slid into the hard white high-tech MRI coffin. Jason was tied down to prevent him from moving, and he wore earplugs to soften the deafening sound of the machine.

One day, he will die for real, and he will be buried in a wood coffin. “And most of my bucket list will remain unchecked,” he thought, as he drank from his cup of coffee.

Georgia on My Mind

October 17, 2012 / / 25 Comments

I arrived in Atlanta on Thursday. I was attending the Aiming Low Non-Conference, which was convening at Callaway Gardens, a resort/hotel an hour outside of the city.

I went to Avis to pick up a car.  After the nice salesgirl with the Southern accent unsuccessfully tried to sell me a GPS, extra insurance, and a complicated gasoline plan, she took a different tact in order to earn Avis some extra of my money.

“You look like the type of man who likes to drive a Mercedes sportscar, and you are in luck, because just today I can give you…”

I told the Avis sales rep that she misread me (pay $30 a day extra for a sportscar — was she crazy? I wouldn’t pay that even if Georgia State’s homecoming queen was my chauffeur!).

Soon afterwards, I drove my bland American economy car towards Callaway Gardens, travelling along Atlanta’s highway, which bore an uncanny resemblance to the ugliness of the Los Angeles freeway

About ten minutes of driving, I noticed a yellow sign on the side of the road that read, “Waffle House – next exit.”

I have never been to the “real” South, but I am lover of movies that take place below the Macon-Dixon line, and I had heard quite a lot about this famous Waffle House.  I made my way off the highway for a quick breakfast.

The Waffle House was as grungy and wonderful as I expected. I was the only white person there and everyone was super friendly.  I ordered the specialty — the waffles with some sort of white creamy blob smothering it, a pile of steaming grits, and overly-buttered raisin toast.  It was perfect, and I could feel my cholesterol rising by the moment.  Proud to tell the world about my new worldly achievement, I went on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, announcing to the world that I had finally made it to THE WAFFLE HOUSE!

Unfortunately, when I returned to the road, I noticed another Waffle House at the next exit, and then a Waffle House at every exit for the next fifty miles. I had thought I had just eaten a meal at the ONE-AND-ONLY famous Waffle House, not just one in a ubiquitous chain of 10,000 Waffle Houses!

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The Aiming Low Non-Conference was terrific, a 180 degree turn from the chaos of BlogHer in New York City.   It was a quite small group, and we were all trapped in the middle of nowhere.  Even the local BBQ place down the road seemed to close at 8PM.   The whole weekend was extremely mellow, mostly hanging out, chatting, and taking photos in front of this fake nature background they had set up in the lobby.  I loved it!

Sure there was parties, but it all seemed so manageable and friendly.    The only real “superstar moment” of the conference was the arrival of The Pioneer Woman, but even one of the blogging world’s biggest stars seemed to appreciate the low-key atmosphere of the event, posing with everyone for silly photos.


This photo says a lot about the hierarchical relationship between Ree and myself in the blogosphere.

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On Saturday morning, I lead a mobile phone photowalk around the beautiful grounds of Callaway Gardens.  It was a great honor.  If anyone had told me two years ago that I would be a trusted person in anything photographic,  I would have laughed!

That said, I was probably the wrong person to lead this particular photowalk, which consisted mostly of trees, flowers, and butterflies.    You know something is wrong when the “instructor” is saying “these butterflies are boring as hell,” and the participants are arguing with you, trying to get you to appreciate their beauty.   So while my “students” took photos of the butterflies, I fell back on my forte, taking photos of the cute women participants taking photos of the butterflies.

Thank you, Anissa.  Thank you Faiqa.  Thank you everyone at the conference.   It was a lot of fun.

And thank you, Muskrat for our BBQ lunch back in Atlanta.  Definitely a cool city that I still don’t quite understand.   Black.  White.  Rich.  Poor.  Conservative.  Liberal.  I even found myself getting lost in the middle of Atlanta’s Gay Pride Parade!

 

God is An Absentee Landlord

October 10, 2012 / / 26 Comments


God is an absentee landlord and we are the tenants.


He created the world in six days, and then, on the seventh, he moved to a retirement community in Boca Raton, letting us fend for ourselves.


We are bad tenants. Without God nearby, we turned our Garden into a miserable dump.


“Where are you, God?” we cry. “Why have you forsaken us? Why do you leave us with death, illness, and decay? Why must we stand alone with so little guidance?”


God will not answer. He is too busy playing canasta with his friends.

But I have heard from God.

Oh, nothing dramatic like a Burning Bush or a Technicolor Dream.


God left us a Post-it Note on the front door.

Dear People,

You are not alone. But go look at the contract you signed. You need to take care of your shit yourselves. Grow some balls. I know you are weak. But I already gave you the three tools that will get you through every emergency.


I gave you rain. This will wash away the death and despair.


I gave you sun. This will give enable you to see.


And I gave you love. Which will make life worthwhile.

If any of you would rather trade in one of these tools for a new dishwasher instead, please leave a message at the rental office.

Now leave me the alone.

God

cc: prophets and angels.

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The Five Ways To Make Yourself Interesting Online.

September 29, 2012 / / 22 Comments

Who is inherently interesting?  Who is worth following online?  This is something that has been on my mind lately.

In 2008, during my days of The Great Interview Experiment of 2008, my mantra was, “Everyone is Interesting.”

Did you ever notice that whenever some expert is being interviewed on Oprah or the Today show, the person just happens to have a book coming out the following week? It’s as if it wasn’t important to tell us the cure for cancer until the guy’s book comes out, and then they don’t even tell you the cure so you have to buy the book.

Last month, after reading this comment by Karen Maezen Miller, I flirted with the idea that it doesn’t matter who is interesting, since everyone is mostly just talking about themselves.

Once you realize that everyone is simply talking to themselves about themselves you can learn a lot about yourself and nothing about anyone else.

In the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to reach a compromise between my interest in others and fixating on my own needs.  I started to filter my online experience. I downloaded “Social Fixer” to hide content on Facebook. I discovered that by filtering the terms “http” and “RT” in Tweetdeck, I could eliminate excessive links and retweets.

I feel bad hiding content from my friends, but I’m accepting the fact that my relationship with you cannot be based solely on your social media output.   Just because you are a dear friend doesn’t mean I am required to listen your sales pitch about baby strollers.  We can develop our friendship offline.   In real life, I go to the movies with my friends.  I don’t sit around listening to their work-related pitches.

This was my last status update on Facebook —

I authentically believe that everyone is interesting. And I love to hear about your passions. But at some point in your life you have to stand up and ask yourself, “Forget the others. What is truly interesting to me?”

Response by V-Grrrl:

“I don’t think everyone is interesting.  That said, you don’t have to be “interesting” (to me) to have value and worth.”

The idea that everyone is interesting is ingrained into my psyche. To speak the words “not everyone is interesting” sounds like heresy, like the Pope refuting the Virgin Birth.  We are all human beings.   We HAVE TO BE INTERESTING.

Yes, more and more I understand that there are only so many hours in a day.   And time is passing.   We all have needs that must be met.   And our different needs require us to focus on differently.


artwork by Erica Glasier

Some of us struggle to make ends meet. Others seek love. A financially secure SAHM might be seeking self-actualization through a career in art.  A divorced woman might be battling depression.  Our interests change depending on the current chapter of our lives.  This doesn’t refute the idea that everyone is interesting.  If you sat down with a stranger and learned his “story,” I guarantee that you would eventually find him interesting.  Most of us just don’t have the time, or are too focused on our own needs.

So what do you do as a content provider, knowing that there are millions of readers out there, each with a different agenda?  How do you make yourself interesting to others online? How do you become “influential?”  Isn’t that what so many of you crave online? (self-esteem issues.  see above)

I sat in McDonald’s this morning with my free cup of coffee for National Coffee Day, and came up with — The Five Ways To Make Yourself Interesting Online. Ha Ha. I’m going to use that crass, attention-grabbing statement as this post’s title, just to prove my point.

And I’m writing this somewhat seriously.

The Five Ways To Make Yourself Interesting Online.

1) Say something interesting.

Content is King. Write Well. Blah Blah Blah.   My blog crushes are almost ALWAYS solely based on an individual’s writing or photography.

2) Do something interesting.

We like people who do interesting things. Sell a book. Finance a movie. Climb a mountain. Become a CEO.  Have twenty children.   Successful people and risk-takers are interesting. We even excuse your lack of talent if you grab life and live it well.

3) Have something interesting happen to you.

It is the oldest story in the book (hello, Joseph Campbell!). A Regular Joe is confronted by Fate, and is forced to become a hero. We instantly root for anyone who confronts death, health issues, or a tornado sending their home into the next township.  But beware — the mob turns on you if you remain a victim too long. We like our narratives with happy endings, and our heroes overcoming their tragedies, turning them into successes.

4) Look interesting.

I hate to bring this up, but there must be a psychological reason that 99.9% of all spokespeople, actors, and models are youthful and attractive-looking, from those sexist  American Apparel ads to the most angry feminist blog.   And now that Pinterest, Instagram, and Facebook have made the visual more important than writing, the Golden Age of text-based internet is over.  Pretty people get an advantage in the media world. For the rest of us, we need to show off our cool haircuts and tattoos.

5) Become friends with interesting people.

Most of us are insecure, weak, and confused. We do not know our own true interests. We looks for authority figures to guide us. That is why there are so many lists of the “Best Writers” or “Top Bloggers,” and we follow them like sheep.  We crave to know who is interesting. And if someone is deemed interesting, then by definition, everyone they know must also be interesting. This is how #FF works on Twitter. You assume that someone of interest would only recommend someone worth following. Unfortunately, in a world where a mention means a personal validation of interest, a system is created where friendship become a commodity.   But maybe it has always been that way.

So, there you go — the five ways to become interesting online.

Say something interesting.

Do something interesting.

Have something interesting happen to you.

Look interesting.

Become friends with interesting people.

Of course, only an idiot would truly follow my advice.

Yom Kippur, the NY Mets, and the Rally Towel

September 28, 2012 / / 20 Comments

I have a rotator cuff injury on my right shoulder, and the discomfort has made me grouchy and depressed. Earlier this week, on Yom Kippur eve, I didn’t feel like going to temple, so I did the next best thing —

Yes, I went to a NY Mets game on Yom Kippur eve.

Is this sacrilegious? Of course. Even Sandy Koufax didn’t PLAY on Yom Kippur.

But in many ways, coming to CitiField and watching a terrible team eliminated from the playoffs three months ago, get routed by the Pittsburgh Pirates, was a potentially more painful experience to atone for your sins than attending a religious service in a modern, comfortable, air-conditioned synagogue.

During the endless game, the evening air caressed my skin, and my mind drifted off into deep thoughts. I thought about the Holiest day in the Jewish year.

“What is the meaning of life,” I asked myself.

I also had other, more secular questions. Like —

1) What ever happened to the Wave? Why did everyone stop doing it at sporting events? Did it run its course, like the Macarena?

2) What do outfielders think about during the game? I played in the outfield during Little League; it was boring. I frequently prayed to God that the ball didn’t come towards me, fearful I would drop the ball. I always dropped the ball. I was also scared of the ball hitting me in the head and splitting my skull open like a watermelon. Perhaps professional outfielders, standing alone, isolated from the others, also think about God. In their freshly-laundered white uniforms, they appeared as much a sign of purity as the white cloth that covered the Torah.

3) During the fifth inning, the “kissing cam” appeared on the giant screen. Couples were picked out and urged to kiss. But how do the Mets cameramen know who is a couple and who isn’t? If I went to a Mets game with my female boss, would I be obligated to give her a French kiss? Do gays and lesbians get pissed off that they are never chosen for the kissing cam at the Mets game? I hope there is a lawsuit. There should be no kissing in baseball.

Throughout the evening, the Mets Organization used all sorts of gimmicks to keep us amused during a boring game. Imagine how many more Jews would go to High Holiday services if there were trivial contests, a Dunkin’ Donuts Coffee Cup mascot shlepping through the aisles, and sexy girls shooting “free” t-shirts out of scary bazooka air-guns.

During the seventh inning, a cute girl in a Mets jacket roamed into our section, trying to rev us up, even though the Mets were getting their ass kicked by the Pittsburgh Pirates. She was carrying a large pile of — what seemed to me — dish rags for the kitchen.

But they weren’t dish rags. They were “rally towels.”

“Rally towels! Rally towels!” she screamed. I’m giving away free rally towels!”

Some kids in our section screamed in excitement.

“Over here! Over here!” yelled a little boy behind me.

“How naive is youth,” I thought, as she threw a towel at the boy. AS IF the rally towels would ever help the Mets win this game.

Just then, the Rally Towel girl turned her penetrating eyes towards me. It was like she could “feel” my sarcasm in the air.

“Hey, you with the glasses?” she yelled. “Why aren’t you cheering for the Mets tonight? C’mon, let’s HEAR IT?! Let’s go Mets! Let’s go Mets! Do you want a rally towel?”

“No, thanks,” I said, suddenly wishing I had gone to temple for Yom Kippur. I was also hungry, the only one in CitiField fasting.

“Sure you want a rally towel!” she said. “You gotta have a rally towel!”

She grabbed a towel from the top of her pile and tossed it at me. Her aim was as accurate as any ace pitcher. Out of instinct, I raised by right arm to catch the towel. Memories of Little League came alive, and I was back in the outfield. It was my big chance to redeem myself for missing the ball during that big game, causing our team to lose the Playoffs.

My arm shot back. The t-shirt flew into my hand. I caught it! I was redeemed! I also threw back my shoulder, and the pain was so intense in my rotator cuff that my cry reached the infield, my vision went black, and this became the first Yom Kippur where I felt as if I met God.

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