Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

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I Missed My Therapy Session

March 24, 2008 / / 34 Comments

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Last Tuesday, my writing partner, Ron, and I were working effectively on our film story — and I was staying at his place — so I cancelled my therapy appointment for that day.  It was the first time I had ever cancelled.  I called Brenda on the phone and left a message on her machine, apologizing.

After I hung up the phone, I remembered a discussion that I had with Brenda a few months ago.  She was explaining that sometimes, a client loses interest in therapy.  The client starts cancelling.  This happens just as the client is learning important information about himself, and his defense mechanisms want to block his growth.  I called Brenda again to assure her that I was just busy, and that there weren’t any “hidden meanings” to my cancelling therapy.

A few moments later, I remembered my first “informational” session with Brenda.  She told me that unless I canceled 24 hours before the session, I still had to pay.    I immediately sent her an email, acknowledging that I understood that I was still paying for the session, even though I wasn’t showing up.  I suggested that since I am paying for the session anyway, she could use “my time” to browse through my blog, picking up some insights on my personality.

I tried to go back to work with Ron, but I was distracted.  While I talked about my blog with Brenda during previous sessions, I’m not sure Brenda actually read the posts I wrote about HER.  I wrote these posts before I began to take therapy seriously, so the writing is jokey and silly, including the one where I fantasize about making love to my therapist in her comfortable leather “therapy” chair.

I sent another email to Brenda, reminding her that many of the posts mix fantasy and reality, and that she shouldn’t psychoanalyze every single post as “meaning” anything.   I was tempted to ask if she was wearing one those colorful sleeveless knit jersey wrap dresses that she looks so nice in while she sits on her chair with her legs crossed, but then I decided not to, worrying that she would just “analyze” that as well.

All this back and forth with Brenda ended up taking more time and energy than if I had just driven to her office for a therapy session.  And all that angst set me back weeks in my growth as a self-actualized man.

From now on — no more missed therapy sessions.  It is way too traumatic.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Nominee of 2007 Nobel Peace Prize

An NPR Easter

March 23, 2008 / / 20 Comments

The announcement came from Rome:  after pressure from the ACLU, the courts had decided that crucifixion was unconstitutional.   Jesus was released and returned to his job as a carpenter, continuing his sermons as a side gig, speaking out on progressive issues important to the local community while raising his blended family.

(Coming soon:  An NPR Passover — where God’s Ten Plagues are held up in court as excessive punishment,  Moses negotiates with the Pharaoh, and the Children of Israel remain in Egypt as immigrant-workers, but with better health insurance.

Postscript:

A man appears at the door.  It is Irving Berlin.

Irving Berlin: What kind of stupid post is this on Easter?

Neil: Irving Berlin?  What are you doing here?

Irving Berlin: I like to show up on every important Christian holiday.

Neil: Why’s that?

Irving Berlin: Well, the last time I came to remind you that shiksas love Jewish men who write Christmas songs.  Today, I’m going to brag about Jewish guys who write Easter songs.

Neil: I never liked “Easter Parade” that much.  Sort of a boring song.

Irving Berlin: F**k you, Neilochka.  Let’s see how you lucky YOU get with non-Jewish girls when you move out of Sophia’s house.

Neil: You know, Irving, would it have killed you to actually write a song for your own people — like a Passover song?  I’ve always found Jewish girls very hot.

Irving Berlin: Yeah, I guess they can be sexy.  But I avoid them because they remind me of my mother.

Neil: That’s silly.

Irving Berlin: You know, Sophia actually looks like your mother when she was younger.

Neil: What are you saying?  That I want to…. my own mother?!

Silence.

Irving Berlin: How’s therapy going, Neilochka?”

Happy Easter!   Here are a few photos from the Easter Parade that Sophia and I took a few years ago —

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The Icebreaker

March 21, 2008 / / 45 Comments

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I’m finally back in Redondo Beach after four days at the home of Ron, my writing partner.  We’re currently trying to woo a producer with a brilliant, never-seen-before story idea, and we wanted to email him an outline before Easter. 

Ron is an obsessed sports fan.   For the last two days, all he watched was NCAA basketball.   I need to talk to my therapist about being more assertive with the TV remote control.  I use to blame Sophia for hogging the TV because we always end up watching HER shows (how do you think I got hooked on All My Children?)  Now, I’m realized that it is MY fault, not Sophia’s.  I’m always letting the other person make the TV decisions.  When I’m with Sophia, I watch “The Bachelor.”   When I’m with Ron,  it’s the NCAA.   It is the exact same pattern.   Mark my words — one day soon, I’m going to grab the remote control first.  If I ever get married again, god help that woman.  She’s going to be watching BBC America and “The Simpsons” all night long.

Last night, Ron brought me to his friend’s home for… guess what?! — to watch a college basketball game.  The house was jammed with male alumni of Cal State Fullerton.  The “Titans” were playing in their first championship game in 30 years.  Everyone was wearing an orange Titan cap or a Cal State Fullerton t-shirt with the team mascot, which looked, at least to my eyes, like a weird caricature of Ganesha, the Hindu God of Success (or maybe it was just a really ugly elephant).

The living room was cramped.  I ended up sitting next to an athletic-looking guy whose name I don’t remember.  Let’s call him GUY. 

It was awkward sitting next to Guy.  He was yelling and screaming “Pass the ball,  F**ker!” a lot, and didn’t seem interested in much of what I had to say.  I definitely have been spoiled by my female readers.  I relate to you.  I feel that you care about every word I write.  I may be wrong, but I’m pretty confident that I wow you with every post – even a dumb post about eating a Pop Tart for breakfast — and a good 72% of you will still be imagining what it would be like to take me on your kitchen table like a tigress in heat while your kids are at school.   We click that way. 

Women are easy for me.  It is talking with men that requires the work.

First Quarter of Cal State Fullerton Game

Neil:  “How many of these players make it to the pros?”

Guy:  “Very few.  Maybe 1%.”

Neil:  “It seems as if these schools are using these players.  The schools make a lot of money with these games and the kids make nothing.  And since so few are going to make it in the pros, shouldn’t the schools be pushing them to spend more time trying to get into law school?”

Guy:  “What do you care?  Are you their mother?”

Second Quarter of Cal State Fullerton Game

Neil:  “Recently, I read that female professional cheerleaders make fifty bucks a game.  Did you know that?”

Guy:  “Yeah.”

Neil:  “I couldn’t believe it when I read that.  The players make six million dollars and the cheerleads make fifty bucks.  Even the Dallas Cheerleaders.  I wish I was a union organizer for the cheerleaders of the world.  The guy selling beer in the stands makes more money.”

Guy:  “Maybe they like cheerleading for the team.”

Neil:  “Nah, would YOU want to wear a skimpy outfit and bounce around for NOTHING?”

Guy:  “Huh?  That’s weird.  What are you talking about?”

Third Quarter of Cal State Fullerton Game

Neil:  “You want any of these “Sun Chips?”

Guy:  “Ha Ha, Sun Chips are gay.”

Neil:  “I’m not crazy about them either, but gay?”

Guy:  “You know.”

Neil:  “Yeah, I’m not being politically correct or anything.  I sometimes say something is “gay” too, even though I try not to, but I usually say it for something that is considered feminine, like the ballet.  I can understand someone saying, “Going to the ballet is gay,” but really — “Sun Chips are gay” just doesn’t make any sense.

Guy:  “OK, forget it.  Sun Chips are not gay.”

Neil:  “And frankly, some of those gay ballet dancers are pretty strong.  They could probably kick our asses.”

Guy:  “I doubt it.” 

Neil:  “Do you want any potato chips?  They’re straight.”

Fourth Quarter of Cal State Fullerton Game

Ron pulls a chair next to the couch.

Ron:  “Hey, Guy, have you met Neil?  He’s my writing partner.”

Guy:  “Oh yeah?  I heard about you.  You’re the one who writes the blog, right?”

Neil:  “Well, yeah…sometimes…”

Ron:  “You should see how many women come to read his blog.  There’s hundreds!”

Guy:  “Cool.  Have any of them ever shown you photos… of their tits?”

Neil:  “Well… uh, actually, uh… yes.”

Guy:  “Really?”

For the first time of the evening, he actually looks my way, as if I now exist. 

Guy:  “I’m gonna get a beer.  You want a beer, Neil?”

Neil:  “Sure.”

The perfect icebreaker!  My new friend, Guy.  Thank you, Blogosphere!  I can’t wait for BlogHer.

Unfortunately, Cal State Fullerton and their Ganesha mascot lost the game.  (so much for the Hindu God of Success)

Where Am I?

March 20, 2008 / / 20 Comments

Working at writing partner’s home. No internet access. Forced to watch NCAA basketball games. How many of these basketball games are there? Do people watch all of these games? I’ve never heard of half these schools! There is actually a channel on DirectTV where they show four games at once all on the same screen, so you can make believe you live inside a sports bar. This is what I imagine Hell to be like. At least if there were some Hooters girls, it would be interesting. But nothing but the pimply kid who brought us the pizza. Help!

Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys and the Mystery of Life

March 18, 2008 / / 45 Comments

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Frank Hardy smashed her bedroom door open, finding her riding his brother, sweat running down her naked body.

“You… you… whore!” yelled Frank, tears falling.

Nancy Drew’s face turned red, ashamed to be caught in such an intimate position with her boyfriend’s brother, Joe Hardy.

“Let me explain, Frank,” she said as she covered her nakedness with a sheet.

“And you!” yelled Frank, pointing at his brother, Joe. “How could you do this to me? To your own brother! I knew the three of us shouldn’t be working together. I never wanted to solve “The Mystery of Life.” This was bound to have happened!”

“That’s just it. This IS the Mystery of Life.” said Nancy, putting on her glasses.

“What?!” screamed Frank.

“The Mystery of Life. It’s solved.”

Nancy Drew stood between the two brothers as she tied her hair back. These were her two lovers, two men who made her feel special in different, unique ways.

She loved Frank’s intellect and his ability to follow a clue like a bloodhound. She never felt closer to anyone than when they worked together on “Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys: The Case of the Counterfeit Indians.”

With Joe, the relationship was more chemical, more animalistic. She would never forget the way she gave her womanhood to him on that sandy beach during “The Mystery of Makatook Island,” allowing him to dominating her like the bull from “The Treasure of the Matador,” until all resistance faded, the way the old mine collapsed in “Panic on Seagull Island.”

“What are you talking about, Nancy?” asked Frank. “How is the Mystery of Life solved?”

“Uh, I don’t get it either,” said Joe, still in bed, echoing his brother.

Nancy continued, her voice full of energy.

“We were hired to solve the Mystery of Life, and this is it. LIFE. Life goes on. You can’t hold it in your fingers or put it in a box. You can’t plan on life going your way. That’s the mystery. You can’t control LIFE. One minute you could be in love with me, and the next minute I might be in bed with your brother. Life has its ups. Life has its downs. You never know exactly what’s going to happen next. And that’s the Mystery of Life!”

Frank and Joe glanced at each other, both aware of the games women play.

“That’s utter bulls**t,” said Frank.

“I’d have to agree with my brother, Nancy, ” said Joe. “”You never know exactly what’s going to happen next?!” Seriously, who came up with THAT one?”

“I did!” said Encyclopedia Brown, throwing open the closet door, revealing himself to be naked, muscular and tanned from his last case, “Enclyclopedia Brown And the Case of the Missing Eagle.”

“C’mon, Nancykins, ” said Encyclopedia Brown, semi-aroused. “When are these two clowns gonna leave so we can continue on with our investigation?!”

P.S. — Much love and healing to fellow blogger and REAL mystery writer, Patry Francis, on her surgery today!

Happy St. Paddy’s Day

March 17, 2008 / / 25 Comments

Her hair was red.  It burned of poetry and stubbornness.  I was a afraid of her.  Her eyes flashed.  She was not like any other girl I had ever met.  She had the spirit of a prize fighter. She would use language like the writer she was, then knock you out in the ring with her tight fist.  Was it her red hair that made her like fire?  Dublin was hot that summer.  She had no air-conditioning in her flat.  I loved the multitude of freckles on her chest, like stars in the sky.  You could spend forever counting them with your finger.  But she was too impatient for that. After a few freckles counted, she’d be saying, “Let’s get on with it!” The Irish are like that.

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Support Your Local Male Belly Dancer

March 16, 2008 / / 22 Comments

A couple of months ago, there was a meme going around titled “What I Believe.”  It was cool to read about your strongly-held beliefs.  I wanted to participate, but I didn’t, and I remember that it bothered me that I couldn’t come up with a list of beliefs.  I’m pretty wishy-washy.  Sophia always makes fun of me, saying that whenever someone opposes something I say on my blog, I immediately run to apologize in my comments.

I’m working on this in therapy.   So, be prepared for me to be more stubborn and obnoxious as I get healthier. 

Today, I’ve come one step closer. I surprised myself. I am close to coming up with a strong Belief #1.  I’m not sure how to phrase this belief yet, but I think it has something to do with wanting opportunities open to as many people as possible — even if it goes against the norm of the day.   That Pete Seeger documentary on PBS reminded me of all the hard struggles of the civil rights movement, as well as those of women and gays fighting to be accepted as equals. (see yesterday’s post)

Isn’t that a belief?

Anyway, let’s change the subject completely for a sec —

Tonight I was feeling a little frisky, so I went on YouTube to find something that might catch my eye.  I’m not a connoisseur of plain ol’ pornography, which I’ve always found boring.  Who wants to watch another couple have sex?  It’s like watching another person enjoying an ice cream cone.   What do you get out of it?  No, my stimulation is something more like watching a woman shaking her stuff while belly dancing!  Now, as I was exploring, I accidentally stumbled across the videos of Tito Seif, Egypt’s most famous male belly dancer.  I became totally distracted from my original salacious goal.   I was totally intrigued.   I had no idea that men belly danced!   In Wikipedia, I discovered that male belly dancing is controversial in many traditional circles, where it is considered a female art, but some men are pushing the boundaries.

Are you seeing how these two extraneous topics are going to tie together — What I Believe In and male belly dancing?   I believe in opening up opportunities.   If men want to belly dance, I say GO FOR IT!   Why should women have all the fun! Why shouldn’t a man be able to woo a bunch of women with the shaking of his hips? I hope you will join me in supporting male belly dancers around the world.

Check out the video that I embedded on top.  I think belly dancing looks fun, and it is probably very good exercise.  It looked pretty sexy, too. (Men, there is also a hot babe in the video, so stop complaining)

The Hip Club and the Coffee Shop

March 15, 2008 / / 52 Comments

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I noticed a few people on Twitter chatting about a site called Alltop. It is a clever idea. One opinionated, well-connected entrepreneur collects all the most buzz-worthy blogs in each category — Moms, Religion, Gadgets, etc., and creates a definitive list, a starting-off point for what people “should read.” Not only does this create a buzz among bloggers, it instantly makes this individual into a cultural arbiter. Since the final say comes from the creator of the list himself, bloggers are now desperately clamoring and wooing this person to be included on the list, since having their name included “means” that they matter. And why exactly is one mommyblogger listed and another is not? I think mommybloggers should get together and refuse to be listed if EVERYONE isn’t included. Doesn’t anyone question authority anymore?

Sure, there is a place for this in the blogosphere, just as there is in the real world. I imagine there is no better feeling for some than getting entry into a hip club while others stand outside in the rain. Alltop appeals to this type of blogger. I’m not immune to this. I’m sure I’ll get a buzz when I’m included in the “Most Flirtatious Bloggers” category. Part of the fun is getting “in,” so you can feel that you are different than the masses. Who doesn’t like being a VIP? Us and Them. It’s human nature!

Unfortunately, I’m a Queens boy at heart. I grew up in coffee shops and diners, where I would talk with my friends for hours while eating tuna fish sandwichs, linzer tarts, and drinking coffee. I like that diners and coffee shops have a diverse mix of crowds — from homeless people using their last quarters to high-powered attorneys grabbing a quick lunch, a cross-section of the city, sitting side-by-side. I’m a sucker for this populist stuff. In fact, I just watched this great documentary on Pete Seeger on PBS, crying when he sang his union songs. Now that’s poetry.

I think of my blog less as a hip club, more of an online coffee shop. I sit by the computer with my cup of coffee and talk about “stuff” with whomever showed up. I go so far as to even think about my “blog crush of the day” as a representative of the waitress working that night. That’s why I usually I pick a blogger with a nice rack who I can imagine bending down low while serving me the french fries.

The Great Interview Experiment is pure “coffee shop.” There is an open seat at the counter. Whoever comes in, takes a seat, and is stuck interviewing/being interviewed by whomever was before/is next. There are no reservations needed. Most of all, I have nothing to gain from it.

I want to give a special thanks to so many of the “popular” bloggers who are participating in the interview experiment. You are bloggers who, despite the ability to get past the velvet ropes online, still chose to take some time hanging in the coffee shop with the mailmen and construction workers of the blogosphere. As for those who are ass-kissing to get on that Alltop list, but weren’t interested in being interviewed because “you don’t want to be interviewed by some “D-lister,” it’s cool, but the coffee is better here — and so are the women.

Emails From My Mother

March 14, 2008 / / 24 Comments

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Wednesday:

“You should write something happy. Just because you’re depressed, doesn’t mean you have to depress the entire world.”

Thursday:

“I don’t mind when it is funny, but do you have to be so “dirty?”

Friday:

“Before you show pictures of your room you should hang up your clothes.”

On My Wall

March 13, 2008 / / 35 Comments

Something seems to be going on with me… in my head.  I’m all over the place.  Today I’m finding the last post I wrote a bit embarrassing.   I’m still glad I wrote it but, just so my mother understands, I wasn’t really writing about prostitution.   I was more interested in the make-up of super-achieving men in business and politics, and how they will go for what they want, even if it means breaking the rules.  Anyway, I’m bored of the Spitzer story.  I hate how the media moralizes about salacious stories, then milk it for attention and ratings.

I wrote another post this morning about some other subject, but then decided I didn’t like where it was heading.   I was going to write something about Sophia, but I’ll get in trouble if I don’t ask her first — and she isn’t home.  Is it possible that I am so co-dependent that — without having a woman as a muse — my writing falls apart?   It’s as if I’m now using my blog as my own high-priced hooker.  I don’t know what that means, but it seems accurate.

I also received this nice email from Brett from Dad Talk:

Your Spitzer post has a number of typo/grammatical errors, which is most unlike you. I don’t want to make you paranoid, but I thought you’d want to know.

My wife is always on my case about my mistakes, too.

Thanks, Brett.  (anal!)  (Pearl, help me find the typos!)

Desperate to put something here to knock the Spitzer post one notch down, I’m going to show you the two framed posters that I have in my office.  I have owned them for at least 15 years, and I look at them every day.  They are by Matisse and Dominique Appia.

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I find the woman in the Matisse painting very very sexy.  I would much rather be there than any strip club on Hollywood Boulevard.  Men… imagine your woman walking around the house at night in THAT!

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I like the chaos of the  events in this surrealistic painting.  It has a calming effect on me.   OK, it’s pretentious.  But I like it.

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