Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Literary (Page 10 of 17)

Words

October 30, 2008 / / 37 Comments

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

words

have

lost

meaning.

Meeting Mother Kramer

August 24, 2008 / / 40 Comments

Hi, my name is ACG. My blog is Anonymous City Girl. I live in Philadelphia. On Sunday, I had plans to come into New York. I had a brunch date with some guy I met on Jdate. I wanted to make a weekend out of it, but I wasn’t sure where to stay. I certainly didn’t feel comfortable staying over at my date’s place. After all, I’m not that type of girl. Or at least I’m not that type of girl since March.

I was chatting with Neil about my trip, when he said, “If you want, you can stay the night in Queens with us!” I immediately said yes. I figured Neil was safe. After all, he lived with his mother, and I’ve always had questions about his sexual orientation. I’m not even convinced that the “photo” of Sophia on Flickr is really his wife. I’ve seen that same photo in an advertisement for a penile enhancement pill in my brother’s Maxim magazine.

Neil picked me up in Chinatown (I used the Chinatown bus from Philly). We had a great lunch at some cafe in the Village, and then we took the subway into Queens. In Forest Hills, we went to the movies and had some dessert at a bakery. Then it was time to head into Flushing — I was excited to see Neil’s apartment in Flushing. While New York City has many famous sites — the Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, the Statue of Liberty, I have little interest in visiting those tourist traps. They “mean” nothing to me. But imagine the thrill as I gazed at some of the actual locations that I knew so vividly from reading my favorite blog, Citizen of the Month! There, right in front of me, was the famous supermarket where a car crashed into a window two weeks ago and Neil was there to take eyewitness photos. I saw the pizzeria which has the photo of Fran Drescher. I stood in awe, taking multiple photos, of the ACTUAL McDonald’s where Neil goes in the morning for his cup of coffee! I could almost see him, scribbling away at his latest post on the back of a napkin. And who can ever forget his wondrous stories of this McDonald’s — the customer who called the cashier a “bitch” after she gave him change of a dollar in nickels or the inept franchise manager who is so stingy she only gives one ketchup packet to each customer.

But what most captured my imagination was being able to meet Neil’s mother — in person.

“It feels like I already know her from reading your wonderful blog,” I told Neil as we went up the elevator. “What should I call her? Elaine? Mrs. Kramer.”

“No! Never call her that,” he said sternly. “You must call her Mother Kramer. And you must never look her directly in the eyes when you address her.”

His warning seemed odd, especially after we rang the doorbell, and it was opened by a kind-looking woman with an open face and white curly hair.

“Hello, Mother,” said Neil, meekly, and he hugged his mother. I thought the hug went on a little too long for a mother and son, as Mother Kramer pulled her thin son excessively close to her large bosom. There was an intimacy to the embrace that made me uncomfortable.

Since Neil seemed distracted, I decided to introduce myself.

“Hello, Mother Kramer. My name is ACG.”

She ignored me, and slowly closed the door, locking it with a chain.

The rest of the night went relatively smoothly, mostly because I was left alone in Neil’s old bedroom. I was not offered any food or drink, and I did not see Mother Kramer again. Neil’s room was comfortable, although it seemed strange that so little had changed throughout the years. When I moved out of my childhood room, my parents quickly tossed out my furniture and turned the space into a “entertainment room.” Neil’s mother kept his room looking like a shrine. An old Aerosmith poster sat unevenly on the wall, the edges fraying and the scotch tape yellow. A trophy for “Third Place, Queens County Spelling Bee” sat prominently on the dresser. Hanging from the doorknob was a pair of Neil’s first baby shoes. Every report card from the 1st Grade to 6th Grade was lined up on one of the shelves of the bookcase, stacked like dominos, next to what seems to be every Curious George book ever published. In the corner of the room was Neil’s actual baby crib, displayed like a relic at a museum. As the air-conditioning blew its cold air, the old wood crib would rock slowly, as did the mobile of Muppet characters hanging from the ceiling, which played a Muzak version of “Seasons in the Sun.” I shut the air-conditioning, despite the heat, because the ghostly sounds were freaking me out.

I opened the door to get some fresh air, and I could hear Neil and his mother arguing in the kitchen, or rather Neil being berated by the domineering woman.

“Who is that girl?” she demanded.

“She’s just a friend.”

“They never want to be JUST friends.”

“She’s just a blogger. I don’t even know her that well.”

“That’s exactly what you said about Sophia, and look what happened?! Do your really want another gold-digging floozy sinking her claws into you?”

“But Sophia… and ACG… are not like that!”

“All women are like that. I tried to warn you about Sophia, but you didn’t listen. All women want you, Neil. Don’t you see. You are special. You are very special. You are my one and only. They all want to take you AWAY FROM ME!”

“Mother, I love you. No one can ever…”

“You want me to move to Florida, don’t you? Then you’ll take this apartment and make it your own. Bring in some sleazy hootchie mama to suck you dry. I saw the way you were looking at ACG’s cleavage!”

“Shh, Mother. Keep it quiet. She’ll hear.”

“Did she give birth to you, raise you, wipe your little heinie when you were little? Did she ever make you Kraft Macaroni and Cheese from the box?”

“No.”

“Of course not. She doesn’t love you. No woman can love you like I do. These sluts just want you for your body. To use you for their sordid, sinful, sexual desires. But only I really care for you. Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“Sit down, Neil. How would you like me to make you some Kraft Macaroni and Cheese right now? Or some Chunky Soup? Would you like that Neil?”

“Yes, Mother.”

It was at this point that I quietly shut the door and the lights, and tried to go to sleep, unsure how much of the “truth” behind Neilochka I should reveal to his readers.

Truth Quotient: 12% — ACG did stay over Saturday night.  My mother did make me Kraft Macaroni and Cheese last week.   All women do want me.

(sorry, ACG.  But I said I was gonna write it!)

My Fake Memory of Ingrid

August 21, 2008 / / 33 Comments

I can’t truly explain why some bloggers just capture your imagination.  It’s a little bit like dating, where you are both testing each other, sensing if there is any chemistry.   Ingrid writes “Ice Cream is Nice Cream,” and I think we both are… a little eccentric, so I am intrigued by her.   Her post today was typically oddball:

Post a fictional memory of you and me. Anything you like, but it has to be fake.

I think I have found a soulmate.

My Fake Memory of Ingrid

Ingrid, even though you told me never to tell our story, I’m going to assume that your latest blog post was directed at me — that you finally want me to openly talk about our prior relationship. Surely, you realize that I am referring to that summer in 1987 when we were both talking film classes at the University of London. Those were special days, happy days.  Unlike today, our friendship wasn’t based on superficial twitters or blog comments, but from the real intimacy and physical passion that only comes from young love.

At the time, I thought we could make a “go” of our relationship, and that we would both follow our dream of opening the first “authentic” falafel cafe in Lima, Peru, but alas, it wasn’t to be.

I remember “that night” so clearly; it is as if I can almost touch it with my fingers — August 21, 1987. You went out to buy some chips at the local pub while I relaxed in your flat, watching cricket on the BBC. Little did I know that the pub was burned down that previous night by an angry Irish dentist who lost his lease to his Indian-born landlord, and that you were returning back to your flat earlier than expected.  And then you walked in, that gorgeous smile leading the way, and I saw the shock and dismay on your face.  With Culture Club blasting from the speakers, you stood there, staring at me parading around your flat,  wearing your bra, panties, and those red pumps that you loved so much, the ones that we bought at Harrod’s together during that rainy night, after the Kubrick film festival.

After I returned your underwear and shoes, and dressed into my clothes, you took me aside and said that our relationship could never work. You said that you loved me, but that you wanted a man to care for you, one that you could feel proud to call “your one and only.” And that you could never bring a cross-dresser back to your conservative parents in Ottawa.

That night, I didn’t sleep a wink. The next day, I rushed to class, my eyes bloodshot, my face unshaven, hoping to apologize to you, to fall to my knees and beg you to reconsider.  I even thought up a creative, if desperate, excuse to win you back — I would tell you that my wearing your underwear and f**k me pumps was all an elaborate “art project” for my “performance art” class.

I hoped, I prayed to God, despite my atheism, that you would believe my lie, and that we could one day live one of those Hollywood ending that we loved so much on the silver screen.  But you were nowhere to be found. You had packed and left London. You did not leave an address.

For years, I searched for you. I had no idea that you had moved to Amsterdam, changed you name, and became a stripper in the city’s infamous red light district, even though once, when I was in the city on business in 2001, I received a sleazy flier handed to me at Centraal Station which showed a buxom woman in a bikini, her legs seductively open, who looked very much like you — but I could not believe for a second that you, a product of St. Mary’s Catholic School for Women would ever choose this type of demeaning lifestyle.

I lost touch with you — until last year, when I saw your familiar face on Facebook. I “poked” you. You “poked” me back, poking me in that special way that only you could, and I knew it was you. I looked at your profile photo. The face had aged a little. There were a few wrinkles around the eyes. There was a sadness to your expression, as if you had seen it all, and you probably had, jumping from one lover’s bed to another, sleeping with horny German men just to pay the bills, each one leaving you behind in the same way, your naked body stretched out on the bed, the rumpled, dirty sheets hanging to the dusty floor, like a surrender flag during World War One. But even though you had become a broken woman,  a whore for an American cigarette, the eyes were the same.  The eyes that I had gazed into a long long time ago.  The eyes of the girl from the summer cinema class at the University of London.

Run! He’s Writing a Poem

August 20, 2008 / / 89 Comments

Two bloggers friends have been screwing around with my head lately — Jane Devin and Dana Guthrie Martin.  Both of them are what they used to call “writers.”  They do not write screenplays where some guy’s penis gets caught in the trunk of a Toyota Prius.  They write pieces they truly care about.  They love language and ideas and that type of shit.  They are passionate and honest in what they say. 

I hate everything they stand for. 

From now on, whenever I write an “emotional” post which bores you to death, I want you to blame these two bloggers for their negative influences.  Remember when I used to be funny.  How many of you are excited to see Woody Allen’s latest unfunny movie? 

At one time, I wanted to be the next Dooce.  Now, I’m deleting half of my followers from Twitter and Flickr.  It’s not you.  It’s me.  I’m a Pisces.  Astrology books say that I am a sensitive soul who can only deal with two or three close friends.  It’s not that I don’t care.  I actually DO care what type of sandwich you had for lunch.

How do you people read so many blog posts in one day?  I read some tech blogger bragging about being able to read 100 posts daily in his Google Reader.   Is he a robot?  I read two or three decent posts, and I’m drained.

I understand that there is a social dynamic to blogging.  Everyone wants to be loved and admired, but let’s be honest — most of us would be plain miserable being an A-list blogger.  Yes, I think for the first time in my blogging career, I actually feel sympathy for Dooce.  It must be hard to deal with 1000 commenters, and strangers thinking they “love” you.   I never want to hear any ONE of you ever saying that you “love” me, unless, of course, we first have sex, then it is a given.  You might like me.  You might find my jokes mildly amusing.  But EVEN I’m not sure I love myself!  Love Dooce instead.

I sometimes find it difficult to deal with getting thirty comments a day.  I mean I like the comments, but I also know that YOU are writers, too, and you deserve love and attention, so I feel like a jerk if I don’t immediately go to your blog and write a comment back.   I know I sound like an asshole complaining when you’re a blogger who only getting two comments, but who’s to say that it is better to have thirty comments than two comments?  Is it better to sleep around with strangers in bars every night or have one loving wife at home waiting for you?   If I ran the blogosphere, I would limit comments to thirty maximum per post. That is enough to stroke any ego.  OK, I’m going to be RADICAL here.  If you see that I already have thirty comments, do everyone a favor and go put a comment on a blog with less comments.  You can always send me an email or a message on Twitter later telling me that you liked the post.  Or just send me a photo of your bra.

Do any really BIG bloggers read Citizen of the Month?  I mean YOU Dooce, Pioneer Woman, Stephanie Klein, etc. (no, not you Bloggess… not yet)?  Does anyone know them personally?  I would love to talk to you — even interview you for this blog.  I wouldn’t ask you about writing or your blog.  I would be curious on how you deal emotionally with other bloggers?  How difficult is it?  Does it drain your energy?  Why do you even continue when you could be writing in other venues?  And most importantly… do any of us really want to follow in your footsteps?  Or is that what success is all about — having to deal with a lot of strangers?

These are all selfish questions.  Maybe I’m not emotionally fit to be an A-lister, even if my writing got to that level.  I sort of like being the bohemian, spouting socialist slogans like “everyone is interesting” and not caring about anyone’s reaction when I inappropriately flirt with some hot mommyblogger.

“Oh, that’s just Neilochka!  He’s harmless.  He’s not an A-lister or anything like that.”

Of course, I would be bullshitting you if I said I didn’t care about success.   It would be cool to make a great living through wriitng.  It would be fun to give a keynote address at some blogging conference, the audience oohing and aahing to my every word.  Of course, I would quickly run out afterwards so I wouldn’t have to talk to any of you. 

And talk about opportunities for getting laid!

But then, sometimes, I think about going small with this blog… or starting all over again, like the first “real writer” I got to know online.   I could then focus more on my writing than worrying about all this nonsense.  But why in the world would I do that?   If I wanted fewer readers, I could just do it the old-fashioned way — by publishing poetry!

Ha Ha.  I can just see the faces of some of you.  Oh no!  He’s going to publish some poetry!

Luckily, I didn’t write it myself.  Dana started something called the Poetry Collaborative.  Under this system, two people write a poem together via email or IM.  It’s more of an experiment than anything else, because we took turns writing lines.  My victim/collaborator was the talented Christine Swint of Maria Cristina Poesia.

Here is our poem… wait, let me give some of you the chance to click over to a better blog… OK, for those left behind —

when clouds cover the moon

by Neil and Christine

My hands are orchids,
but in anger they provoke

violet bruises. Livid
birds screech in a dovecote,

wings beating against bamboo.
Their black judgment must abide,

suspended in time, like an ant in amber
or Papa when he’s high–

his gnarled hands turn a crank
that voice! that voice! it’s mine–

not a magpie’s, nor a mountebank’s,
piercing the nighttime.

I wish for whispers, willows,
a sunrise tomorrow.

How I Became a Writer as a Fifth Grader

August 17, 2008 / / 31 Comments

When I was attending elementary school, my neighborhood in Queens was going through “changes,” which was a code word for the “welfare housing” that opened down the block. There was constant talk of drugs and violence in school, and those who could afford it, started sending their kids to private schools. In order to keep the “good kids” at the public schools, local schools started academically advanced classes, where kids like me were pushed, isolated from the drug pushers in the classes down the hall. While this didn’t prevent my friends from being called “honkys” or “Oreos” at the basketball court, at least we received a decent education during school hours.

While I remember my teachers as being a hundred years old, they were probably thirty. Most of them were into the philosophy of education, having gone to teacher’s college, and were interested in “opening up” the educational experience for a new generation, especially for “advanced kids” like us.

I have no recollection how this all started, but somewhere in the third or fourth grade, our teachers allowed us to present our English and Social Studies reports orally – and in small groups working together. We were also allowed to bring objects, photos, even music that might enhance our oral reports, giving the reports a feeling of a multi-media presentation. These teachers were ahead of their time understanding the next generation – maybe the arrival of Sesame Street had made them appreciate the importance of visual stimulation to capture a young person’s mind.

This is where I became a writer.

I had no interest in personal expression. Much like I started blogging for the practical reason of flirting with mommybloggers, my goal in school was to use writing to create a entertaining smoke screen.  The problem needing solving: five of us had to do a joint report on some dull, serious topic (remember – we actually had to go to a library and do research back then!)   So, being an advanced student, I quickly realized that if I wrote some entertaining script that had nothing really to do with the subject — but captured the teacher’s imagination – we could sing and dance our way to an A+, and the teacher would never notice that we copied the reports out of the World Book the night before.

A tradition was born. For several years, I was the king of the “sharings.” These stories – done during our oral presentations, were more like one-act plays, usually movie parodies (I was into Mad Magazine) – and as time went on, they became increasingly elaborate, spectacles as complicated as the Beijing Olympics Opening Ceremonies.  These plays had songs and dancing and even “shootings” happening in the middle of the classroom.   I cannot believe that any teacher would let an elementary school kid do this today.  The school system would get sued by a parent.   Maybe, at the time I was there, the local public school was so happy to have any students that weren’t drug dealers, that they just let us do whatever the hell we wanted.

These sharings always took place in some imaginary locale created right in the classroom — there were scenes in discos and Vietnam.   My friend Rob and I once dressed up like Minutemen in Boston for a sharing on “The American Revolution,” tap-dancing while singing “Muskets and Defense” to the tune of ‘”Jingle Bells.”

This tradition continued up to high school, until it was time to study for the SAT — then all of a sudden everything got serious. At Columbia, writing term papers were a bore. You were never allowed to sing and dance while handing in the paper, even when it was for a dramatist like Shakespeare, who would have appreciated the effort.  Instead of having fun doing sharings, I sat by myself in the library and made up bullshitty “psychological literary analysis” stuff about Edmund Spenser’s sixteenth century snooze-fest “The Faerie Queen” instead.

These early dramatic works of mine were thought lost for the ages, but through some miracle, my father looked down on me this weekend from heaven and whispered in my ear, “Look in the back of my closet.” Hidden behind a slide projector was a folder which contained nostalgic stuff from my elementary school years that we hadn’t noticed before, including all of my famed elementary school “Citizen of the Month” certificates. Also included in the file was a five page “script” for one of these elementary school sharings.

I really don’t remember too many of the details about this sharing, but from looking at the “cast list,” I assume this is from the fifth grade. Our assignment apparently was to research totalitarian regimes of the Twentieth Century (pretty heavy for fifth grade!)  And what better way to explore this important historical and political theme of the horrors of the Twentieth Century than a light-hearted movie “parody” of the 1970’s classic movie “The Sting?!”

I won’t feel bad if you don’t read script. I was in fifth grade at the time. I’m mostly publishing it for my childhood friend Rob, who played the Paul Newman role. He should get a kick out of this. When I first discovered the script I was excited.  At last, I had proof of my genius.  Why was some dopey Hollywood producer telling me that my script doesn’t work yet.  Who the f**k is he?!  Doesn’t he know who I am?  I am like Mozart – I was writing brilliant scripts in the fifth grade.

But then, I read the script. Ooh boy, it is awful… and it makes no sense at all. NONE. How in the world did our teachers let us get away with this crap?!

Note: In the movie, the Paul Newman character is named Henry Gondorff. For some reason, I name him “Alfred Dreyfus,” the French Jewish artillery officer tried and convicted in 1894 on baseless charges of treason. Why? I have NO IDEA!

The following is copied verbatim:

The Sting 2

Johnny Hooker – Neil
Alfred Dreyfus – Rob
Alexander Slavsky (the Communist leader) – James
Snyder – Scott
Harold Mane (Snyder’s assistant) – Bobby

Music from “The Sting.”

Hooker runs in breathless.

Hooker:  They killed Luther, my best friend, the person who taught me how to be a con artist. That STUPID Communist organization. (to you) Hi, I’m Johnny Hooker. The place takes place during the Deppression. The Communists have all the money, especially the Communist organization that killed Luther. AND I’m going to get them back, but How? I’m going to put on the biggest con and get all their money. I’ll need a pro to teach me how, but who? I remember Luther once told me about someone, Alfred Dreyfus. I’ll go to him!

Exit. Carnival music. Hooker and Dreyfus enter.

Hooker:  So this is your hideout, a fun house, no one would look here.

Dreyfus:  It is a good hideout. Now, Hooker, you didn’t come here for a friendly visit, why did you come?

Hooker:  Well, you know Luther was killed by the Communists, I’m going to get them back by putting on such a big con that I’ll get all their money. I want you to teach me the big con.

Dreyfus:  Well, first you have to go to the Communist organization… (makes believe he’s still talking to Hooker as they walk out)

Hooker enters.

Hooker:  Now, I’m suspose to go to the Communist organization. Uh-oh, there’s Snyder and his assistant, Harold Mane!

Snyder catches Hooker, pushes him to the wall and bangs his head.

Manes:  We got you now, you can’t escape.

Hooker punches Snyder in the stomach and then the neck and runs out.  Hooker enters again.

Hooker:  So this is the Communist organization!

Slavsky enters.

Slavsky: You wanted me.

Hooker: Who are you?

Slavsky: I’m Alexander Slavsky, head of this organization.

Hooker:  My name is Johnny Hooker and I want to join your organization. I also want to get rid of someone.

Slavsky:  Who?

Hooker:  Alfred Dreyfus.

Slavsky: Any member of our organization can apply for someone to be killed. But how would you like him to be killed?

Hooker: Any way.

Slavsky: Oh, wait a minute, we’re having a Communist meeting today, will decide there.

Hooker: Wait, Dreyfus is just outside. He thinks I’m getting a drink of water. We better capture him.

Slavsky exits and enters with Dreyfus.

Dreyfus: Get off of me!

As Dreyfus goes in, he picks nose to Hooker. Hooker does back. They all sit. Snyder and Manes come and sit.

Hooker: Snyder and Manes, your Communists!

Snyder: We joined to apply to kill you, Hooker.

Manes: Let’s kill Hooker now!

Slavsky: One killing at a time. First, the Dreyfus case. Now for the question “how to kill him.” I say put him in a concentration camp, the Nazi Germany way!

Snyder: I agree!

Manes: Why don’t you kill him the Cuban or Spanish way!

Hooker: Put him in a labor camp, the Russian way!

Dreyfus: Why don’t you just give me hard labor like the Chinese?

Slavsky: I have an idea. Each person will tell about their punishment and then will choose. First me and Snyder will tell about ours.

(Nazi Germany report)

Manes: I’ll tell about my punishment.

(Cuba and Spain report)

Hooker: I’ll go next.

(Soviet Union report)

Dreyfus: Could a prisoner tell about a punishment?

Slavsky: You could, but it will probably not be used because it’s the prisoner’s choice.

(China report)

Snyder: Okay. Hands up everyone! I know that Dreyfus and Hooker are putting on a con. Hooker, you have to leave, thanks for telling!

Dreyfus: You squealed!

Dreyfus shoots Hooker. Manes shoots Dreyfus.

Snyder: Okay, let’s go Slavsky!

Slavsky: But my money is there!

Snyder: What’s more important, your money or your life?  Manes, take care of the dead bodies, I’ll take Slavsky to headquarters.

Snyder and Slavsky exit.

Manes: Okay guys, their gone, you can get up now.

Hooker and Dreyfus get up.

Dreyfus: Well, kid, you put on your first con.

Manes: The money’s over in the chest.

Hooker: Give it to charity. I’d only lose it in gambling.  At least we gave them the sting!

Walks out slowly as music plays.

The End

My First Day as the Chicago Cubs New Mascot to Attract More Gay Men to the Park – the Chicago Red Hot

August 7, 2008 / / 7 Comments

I just noticed that two of the volunteers to be this week’s guest posters are gay women.  Does this give me any insight into the demographics of my readers?  Is Citizen of the Month popular in the gay community?  I hope so.  I love readers of all sexual orientations — as long as they click on the ads.  My last guest poster of the week is Fort Knocks of Impatiens.  He is not gay.  Or at least I don’t think so.  He is a twenty-something humorist who seems to love the Chicago Cubs.  And since I don’t care about the Chicago Cubs, I figured I would spice up his favorite topic (and please my gay readers at the same time)  by assigning him this rather ridiculous storyline —

My First Day as the Chicago Cubs New Mascot to Attract More Gay Men to the Park – the Chicago Red Hot by Fort Knocks

It was one of those times in a young, impetuous man’s life when he mortgages the love of his family for the pursuit of an ignoble passion.

Philosophically, technically, I believe in the dominion of the intellect over the will and the will over the passions.  If you ask me the order, that’s how I’ll answer: intellect over will, will over passions – that is, your passions impel you, but your will controls your submission to those passions; and your intellect determines the resolution of the will.

I’ve learned that from an early age, from 18 years of Catholic School.  Yes, that’s right, eighteen years.  But also, I believe in that pecking order of the personality (intellect, will, passions – repeat it like a mantra).  It makes sense to me – that it should be true.

As a matter of course, as a matter of empirical reality, I know that sometimes things don’t work that way.  I know this because I have an intensely addictive personality.  I am addicted to drinking, smoking, sex and gambling.  The only reason I’m not hooked on more serious drugs is because, thank God, I’ve never tried them.  But don’t worry – addiction to drinking, smoking, sex and gambling is quite enough.

People have told me that a lesser man would have broken by now.  I know that being a lesser man is the only thing that’s kept me sane.  The reason I haven’t broken is because I bend.  And it feels so good when I bend, stretch like a sapling under strong weight, and it hurts so bad when I snap back upright.  The weight of addiction has bent me like an old man’s years bend him.

When I was younger, I wondered why old men didn’t just stand up!  I wanted to straighten them out myself, flatten them on a table – lay them on their backs and push against pelvis and clavicle until they unfolded under my hands like a road map.  I imagined that then they would breathe, freely, deeply, for the first time since their first Social Security check slipped through the mail slot in 1981.

Now I know it doesn’t work that way.  Which is why I don’t try to unkink my own hunched back, just manage it; just make sure my shoulders aren’t banging on my knees, my forehead between my calves.  Manage the bend, that’s my motto.  Control my handicap.

It was gambling that got me into this mess, smoking and drinking that had made it worse.  God knows where the sex would take me.

——

“Do you think you could make it onto the field during a Cubs game – for more than a full minute?” my friend Eddie had asked me five weeks before, while we were – wait for it – drinking.  Of course I could.  I knew I could.  In the warm friendly haze of a dozen beers, I was certain.

I loved that haze; it made anything possible.  It meant she loved you, your life was on track, your friends were the best in the world and you were strong, smart, good-looking.  I’d written a poem a few years before

When the sun has gone down and the moon takes its place
And the revelers rise to give darkness new grace,
When the harshness of daylight has dwindled to night
And all beauty increases, by softness of sight,
Then the friends are more friendly, and enemies too,
Which is more than the unreserved drinking can do,
For there’s magic about, and it’s all through the air,
And as long as you’re with me, I long to be there.

That feeling.  That fucking feeling was what made me take the bet – a thousand dollar bet, which was about nine hundred and fifty dollars more than I could afford to lose.  That made me take the bet.  That, and my certified addiction to gambling.

Every day I would think about calling Eddie, calling it off – knowing he wouldn’t mind that much.  I’d pay him twenty bucks, he’d make fun of me, we’d be done with it.

And then every night, I’d drink until that feeling got to me again, until I was past the point of talking myself into it.  “I played baseball in college for four years,” I’d say.  “Of course I can do it.  I’m an athlete.  Hell, I could do five minutes, let alone one.”

That was how my first attempt happened: July 8th, 2008 – the first month of the second half of the year: new beginnings.  And I was celebrating by hefting my ass over the low fence to the left of the Cubs home dugout in the middle of the fourth inning.  New beginnings.  If you were watching the game, that’s why the commercial break took an extra thirty seconds or so.

It all started off well enough: a quick sprint and I was across the foul line, moving into shallow left field.  Edwin Encarnacion, the Cincinnati Reds third baseman, made a half-hearted grab for me, but I was past him.

And then I ran out of gas.  The two years of steady smoking since I’d last run regularly had an unbelievable effect.  I swear I hadn’t gone more than fifty yards when I was sucking wind, slowing down, looking over my shoulder for the inevitable security.  I dodged once, turned to my right and was immediately tackled and smothered.  And I was so gassed I was almost relieved.  Total time on the field: forty seconds.

Needless to say, the blue-coated security and ubiquitous ushers were on the lookout for my face the next few home series.  Three times in the next two weeks, I was nabbed before even setting foot on the playing surface and then, once last week, I was denied entrance to the stadium.  Denied entrance to the Friendly Confines that I know and love so well.  I needed a new plan.

——

When I saw the flyer advertising for “specialty mascots,” I had a glimmer of hope.  When I called in and heard that there was still one position unfilled, that hope swelled inside me.  And when I arrived to interview to find that somehow, no one there recognized me as the would-be trespasser, that hope filled my heart and overflowed.  I couldn’t believe how easy it was to get the spot.  I barely listened as they described the job, the position, my duties.  I signed the waivers, the contract with a smile on my face.  And last Sunday, July 27th, I reported for duty.

The game was at 6:00; I was there by three, knocking on the “Personnel Admitted” door right next to Gate 14.  A girl about my age with a clipboard and headphones swung the door open.  “Are you the red hot?” she said.

I was confused.  The red hot?  Was she coming on to me?  What?

“No, you’re the red hot,” I said, and then added, reading from her nametag, “Amy.”

She shook her head but I could see the smile at the corners of her mouth.  She grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside, spinning me in front of her down the hallway.  I was smiling to myself in congratulations of my smoothness halfway down the walk when I remembered, “Red Hot!  Fuck!  That’s my job!  Ohhh yeahhh.”  I turned to say something, but she was talking on the headset, “I left it right there…  Ok, I’ll be up in a second.  Yeah, he’s here.”  She turned to me, swinging me by my wrist to a door in the right wall, and with a hand over her mouthpiece, whispered, “I’ll help you with your costume.  Strip.”

And then she walked away down the hall.  I watched her go, her white sneakers susurrating on the cement.  Not a bad-looking girl.  Strip, huh?  Ok, Amy, you got it.

I pushed my way into the cement room, decorated with green lockers on walls to the left and right.  An old, and by the looks of it, unused vending machine stood at the far end of the room, some thirty feet from me, and on the floor in the middle of the room lay what looked like a red kayak with rounded bottom and edges, so rounded that it was basically cylindrical.

I took my shoes off, and my shirt, and then I stopped.  Couldn’t mascots wear clothes under the costumes?  Didn’t they all?  Was it just too hot this time of year?  I was paused with my belt halfway undone when I heard the door rasp open behind me.  Amy walked into the room, closed the door carefully behind her and took off the headset, setting it on top of the first locker.

She shook out her hair with her fingers as she walked past me, blowing out a sigh.  I turned, my fingers still on my belt, to see her hefting the kayak-thing and turning back to me.  “Pants off,” she said, and then smiled, a full, not-just-corners-of-her-mouth smile.  “Part of the job.”

I had no idea where this was going, not a clue in hell, but I was liking it so far.  I kicked out of my socks and then slid out of my jeans.

“Whoah, does the smell in the locker room turn you on or what?” she said.  I glanced down.  “Must be something,” I said.  She dragged the red thing over to where I stood, flipped it over to I could see another hole like the one on the top, except instead of being in the middle, like a kayak, this one was at one end.

“Hold this,” she said, handing me the end.  It was round, and wide, about two and a half feet wide, no narrower at the end than the middle, with a little clip on the very tip, a small steel loop.  I took this in quickly in the half-second before she reached over and pulled my boxers down to my ankles.

I passed off the “mmm” sound that escaped me as an “mmm-hmmm!” clearing my throat.  This was weird.  Amy looked up at me, a confused expression on her face.  There was much to be confused about.  “Aren’t you gay?” she said.

I looked down, narrowed my eyes, and tried to shrug, which was difficult with the giant red thing in my hands.  “No,” I finally said, “I’m not.”

Amy stood up and looked at me.  Then at her watch.  Then she reached over my shoulder and flicked the power switch on her headset to ‘off.’

She was very energetic.

——

I was sure we were going to be late.  I really didn’t want to be late.  It must have been getting close to time when she told me to climb inside the red thing.  “Are you nuts?” I said, but she was busy tucking in her shirt.  “Hurry up!” she said.  Ok, the dominatrix thing.  Fine.  I wasn’t into it, but I owed her, I figured.  I started to climb headfirst into the top hole hear the end.  It was slow going, my legs waggling in empty air.  And then she smacked me, hard, right on my bare ass.  I jerked and banged my head on the inside of the red plastic, then crawled out.

She was giggling, but obviously still in a hurry.  “Oh, shit,” she was saying, “I left a huge welt on your ass.”  Why would she worry about that?  Ten minutes ago, she was scratching up my back like a damn leopard.  I turned once and a half around, craning to try to see the welt, like a dog chasing its tail.  She giggled again and pushed me back to the red thing.  “Go!” she said, “feet first.”

“What?”

“Feet first!” she said.

“…” I said.

Amy shook her head.  “Did you even read the job description?” she said.  She lifted my feet in the end hole and scooched me down farther.  Soon my ass was in the tube.  She kept pushing, telling me to “scoot!” until I was completely inside the red thing, staring out the opening at the cement ceiling where a bare light-bulb hung.  I could feel the cool of the cement floor against my ass through the other hole, and slowly, gradually, the words from my job meeting started coming back to me.

Amy was at the door, opening it, and I could hear more people coming in.  Three or four, maybe.  There was a shuffle of feet and a clink of steel at the clip on each end of my red sarcophagus, and then I was hefted into the air.  I could feel the rush of air across my backside.

As I was hefted out of the tunnel, squinting in the bright sunlight and hearing someone reminding me to “smile!” I remembered everything, and I realized why Amy had been so nervous about the bright hand-print she left on my ass.

I was the Chicago Red Hot.  My job?  To attract gay men to the park.  My MO?  To be trussed up like a giant sausage on a rotisserie next to the visitors bullpen, and rotate for nine long innings, cooking evenly in the sun and offering the crowd alternating views of my smiling face and my bare white ass.  With Amy’s handprint gleaming on it.

I won the bet.  Damn right I did.  And I also boosted gay attendance in a big way.  Already the section just up the line from the bullpen is known as “Queer Corner.”

But when my family found out, my conservative, traditional Catholic family, it wasn’t an easy thing for them to swallow.  It was one of those times in a young, impetuous man’s life when he mortgages the love of his family for the pursuit of an ignoble passion.

Intellect, will, passions – I can say it like a mantra.  But sometimes, when you live in a world as addictive as this one, an experience can turn everything on its head… or in my case, on its ass.

If I Could Only Bring One Carry-On Luggage to Heaven – What Will Be Inside?

August 6, 2008 / / 16 Comments

The motto of the “Great Interview Experiment” is “everyone is interesting.”  But let’s be honest.  Half of my readership lives in the suburbs and works in online marketing.  How often do I get to meet a female blogger who drives an OTR truck!  Charming Bitch writes an honest and emotional blog about her life.  She will also chew your ear off in e-mail messages explaining how an OTR truck is different than other trucks.  Did you know truck stops now have wireless?   Since Shannon of Charming Bitch likes to travel, and travel lightly, I was curious about what she would bring to her final destination.    Talk about a difficult question.   But I knew she could handle  it– she’s tough enough to drive a freaking truck!

If I Could Only Bring One Carry-On Luggage to Heaven — What Will Be Inside?  by Charming Bitch

Man, I had exactly no idea what putting myself in Neil’s (capable, firm yet caressing) hands would entail. I initially thought, yes, how exciting! I only recently guest posted for the first time at someone else’s blog and it was a thrill to be asked. This though, this I signed up and volunteered for, nay begged for the opportunity and here I sit trying to post about what would be in my one carry-on to the alleged Heaven. Heavy stuff, for a not-quite-convinced-yet-not-unconvinced believer of anything but the reality of luck and the heavier weight that it is given over good, solid decisions in this life.

So many things to consider, so many things to look over in making a decision as final as packing for this place called Heaven. I am, by nature, a light traveler and I am far too neurotic to ever check a bag so a single carry-on for this last ascent (…or descent) seems appropriate yet still too much somehow. Heaven, it seems to be implied, is like Sandals Resorts and more all-inclusive than ala-carte. What from this world could I bring that would somehow add to the ambiance?  Fart jokes and porn are ruled out just on principle.

Furniture obviously wouldn’t fit in a carry on, even that annoying Swedish build-it-yourself non-sense. Clothes too seem frivolous as from what every movie has ever told me, all in attendance in Heaven adhere to a strict dress code of wings and things much like Star Trek but with less form fitting attire. Make-up too would be unseemly as again, the movies have given me the green light to believe that a rosy glow is included in the package. Electronics wouldn’t be welcome. Somehow I think God would take umbrage at the very idea of me showing up all, ”I am so totally blogging the after-life!”. I mean, I would think that with the Bible being a frillion years old they would welcome some new reading material but even I am not so emboldened as to make that call. I mean, it’s Heaven not the waiting room at Urgent Care, for Christ’s sake. FOR CHRIST’S SAKE. Oh, I kill me. I kill me dead until I die from it and go right to Heaven, it seems.

Having eliminated material possessions, I am forced to evaluate the non-tangibles. But how to pack that which you cannot see or fold into neat stacks or cram into little plastic bags. Where would I pack the love I have been fortunate enough to receive in this life? What is the proper compartment to store the lessons learned at the feet of my parents? How will I ever measure for eternal travel the feel of my husband’s hands cupping my face to kiss my forehead? How difficult, exactly, is security to get through the illustrious Pearly Gates?  Will there be a cavity search  for pocket knives and nail-clippers?  Are those Gates  manned by the same TSA  personnel as on this Earth? Will there be additional charges for bringing a surplus of joy or satisfaction? And hope! What of hope? For a good life, for security, for a safer, kinder society? May I bring that with or shall I expect it to be supplied upon registration? So many questions unanswered for a trip that must not be put off any longer.

Finally a decision is made to leave with the bag all the things people forget to put in their pockets daily. Love, passion, compassion, joy, kindness, satisfaction and hope I will abandon in the terminal with wishes that those who need it will find it, like a soul buffing kiosk right in the airport. I won’t need to bring those things where I am going because if you believe the hype and right now I really need to, I will soon be reunited with Jackson and I will have all those things in excess. Plus a really, really cool costume.

Catcha on the flip-side. Maybe.

Rivulets

July 29, 2008 / / 27 Comments

I’m sitting across the table from my Aunt Heloise and her friend Mabel at Jax Cafe. Casually, while Heloise tells me about the $40 she won at Mah Jonng, Mabel grabs 30 or so packets of sugar and Equal from the table and puts them in her purse. A few seconds later, when she reaches for the packet of maple syrup, our hands meet. I slide the packet closer to me, and look around to see if anyone has noticed, but everyone except the dark-eyed girl at the counter – looking like a runaway with her Army jacket and ripped up duffel bag – is absorbed in waffles or conversation. I look at the runaway and she glares back at me. For some reason, her glare makes my chest feel suddenly heavy and tight. I quickly look away.

“It can cause epileptic seizures, you know,” Mabel suddenly says.

“What can?”

“Mah Jong. I read it somewhere.”

I ask for the check, signaling the end to my Friday morning mitzvah. I put them in a cab headed towards Rye, and head back towards my apartment in Queens. At 11:00 a.m. it’s already been a long day. The humidity sticks to my lungs and I feel out of breath and bone tired by the time I reach my third floor walk up.

I can also feel the sharp edges of some unwelcome thing creeping in, something I never want and never feel comfortable with. I think about taking an ice cold shower to snap me out of it, but my body heads toward the unmade Murphy bed. I peel off my damp clothes and lay down. Instead of relaxing, my body tenses. My neck becomes a steel spike that drives into the back of my head. My arms and back go rigid, and my teeth start to grind.

After a few minutes, I decide it’s the fucking music. It’s the pounding bass from the assholes in 4C. The longer I think about it, the angrier I get. I’ve asked them a dozen times to turn down the volume or move their speakers. I’ve asked them nicely, respectfully. I even left them a note that said thank you in advance.

The anger makes me sweat. Rivulets of sweat begin running down my forehead, into my hair, down my cheeks, and into my blistering hot neck. I bolt from the bed and run to the shared wall, where my clammy fists start pounding “God damnit you stupid motherfuckers how many times do I have to ask you mother fucking assholes turn the fucking music down.” I wait for my torrent to take effect, leaning with my ear pressed against the wall so I can hear what they say.

Instead of repentance, I hear the tinny sound of laughter. His laughter, low and rumbling, and hers high-pitched, tastes like blood in my mouth.

I drag my stereo cabinet across the room, plug it in, turn my speakers around, and blast Aerosmith. Big 10 inch. Over and over again. In between plays, I can still hear the pounding bass of unrecognizable music. The more I hear it, the madder I get. I want to kill somebody.

Eduardo comes knocking just as I’m searching for a song that has a stronger drum beat. I answer the door wild-eyed and naked, and realize that I wouldn’t mind if he was afraid of me – if he looked shocked, or backed away from the door slowly – but he’s been a super too long. “Call it a truce, Daniel. They’ve turned theirs off, so now it’s your turn. And the next time you have a problem, come to me, eh?”

I take a shower, but make it hot. I want to get lost in the steam. I want to feel drunk tired and disoriented from the heat. I want to wash away the unwelcome thing.

Instead, I notice the beads of water falling down the shower stall. The rivulets of water running down my arms.

Without bothering to dry off, I turn off the water, and make my way back to bed. There’s no sky outside that I can see, but there is a brick apartment building. I see the first crack of lightning reflected in someone else’s window. On a hot July afternoon in New York, it begins to rain.

“There were rivulets of rain on the window. . . ” – That’s how Helen, in her soft New Zealand accent, began her story, remembering herself as a fourteen year old schoolgirl, watching the rain while listening to Depeche Mode and doing homework.

We had just finished making love, and it was the kind of love that transcended the passage of time and the limits of bodies. In her dark room we wondered what day it was – was it the night before, or had a new night fallen unaware? We didn’t know, and we really didn’t care. There were icy cold bottles of Coca-Cola in the fridge, love songs on the radio, and candles that flickered warmly on the night stand. At some point, we had showered together, and the smell of Jasmine soap lingered on our skin.

I held her in the crook of my arm, and was amazed at how well she fit. As if she’d always been there, or belonged there – as if she had been a part of me that had been missing and suddenly returned.

It didn’t start this way when we met five months prior at the airport and then shared a cab. There was chemistry, but it was stilted. She was a little reserved, I was a little defensive. The ice broke on our fourth date, for no particular reason other than the particular shine of the moon on a February night, and the way our bodies pressed together under the street lamps in front of her apartment building.

We melded that night, as if neither reserve nor defenses had ever existed. By June, despite my 35 years as a bachelor, I was secretly imagining a comfortable life in the suburbs, with a loving wife and two curly-haired, doe-eyed children.

And then came the story. It tumbled out like a bad dream, to be told quickly, but never forgotten. The rivulets of rain that fell. The absent mother and the stepfather who would not hear no. The loss of innocence and the run from home. The streets that burned the soles of her feet, and the danger behind the slick smiles and promises of protection.

I held her, watching the rain of tears run down her cheeks and feeling my own. I held her, and then thought it was too tightly, so I loosened my grip.

“I am not him,” I said, as much for her assurance as my own, “I am not them, those men in the street. I’m sorry, Helen, so sorry. . .”. I didn’t know what else to say.

Later, she reached for me in the depth of sleep, and her hand suddenly felt alien to me. Like a fragile, tender thing that I might accidentally break. Like the slender, pleading hand of a fourteen year old child.

In the morning, her dark eyes met my own. “I think you should go,” she said, coldly.

“We can get past this, Helen.”

“It will never be the same. I don’t want it to be the same. It was all based on lies. Our love is just a lie.”

“It’s not a lie! I love you. What happened was not your fault, please, give us some time. . .”.

She glared past me, into some distant darkness. “Just go,” she said, “I want to be alone.”

Rivulets of rain run down my window on a hot July afternoon. I pick my damp clothes off the floor and run like a mad man towards the subway station to look for the dark-eyed girl.

I’m Back to Being a Man

May 31, 2008 / / 33 Comments

I’m sorry I was such an insecure woman yesterday.  I’ll try to be a better woman next year during “Write Like the Opposite Sex Day.”   A woman that will make you proud.  That you will want to befriend.

Next time, maybe I’ll be Janet, a strong-willed female poet, a single mother living in the South. 

“I come from from Mayflower stock, but there are demons in my past.   I live in a great big ‘ol house that my late father owned.  I loved my father and was heart-broken when he died.  I dote on my son, watching him grow up to be a man.  My best poems are about death.”

Another possibility is Kendra, a fashion model living in Paris.

“I’m very flamboyant.  I’m cold to other women   I’m confident, knowing that I’m idolized by everyone.  I’m knock-out gorgeous and my face is on magazine covers. Even though I’m not supposed to,  I eat pastries.   I have two big secrets — I don’t like people.  Or modeling.” 

 I’d probably be most happy as Angie — a playful, small town waitress in Vermont. 

“Some may say I am a child at heart.  On Fall mornings, I run outside, still in my pajamas, and jump into the colorful leaves, much as I did when I was a tomboy at seven.  I’m plain-looking, but don’t worry about it.  I have a “good personality,:” as my mother would say.  I  have three lovers.  I have sex five times a week.   Last night, I was with Tom, the chef from The Tamarick Cafe.  I loved feeling his calloused hands on my ass as I moaned deeply into his strong manly chest.  In the morning, I drank my coffee, rode him again until I came, and then went to play in the leaves.  If I had more money, life would be perfect.”

On Friday, several of you wrote blog posts “written as the opposite sex.”  They were all funny.  But we all made the same mistake — we reached for stereotypes.   I’m curious if we would have had more realistic results if we just wrote our regular blog posts, then changed a few gender-specific words here and there?   

Are we really that different in the way we write?

And seriously — do women really see men as such gruff horn-dogs?! 

For me, Christine’s post came “closest” to being one actually written by a man.   As the winner of my first real “contest” on “Write Like the Opposite Sex Day,” she wins a DVD of  the movie classic, Tootsie!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Good Humor

Today I Am a Woman

May 29, 2008 / / 53 Comments


My name is Neilochka.  I am a mother of two living in Los Angeles, who doesn’t really feel like she belongs.  I am insecure being around some of my more successful friends and wish that my husband was more attentive to me.  I like to bake scones, play board games, and kiss by the fire.  I miss my parents back home.  I am size 12 and trying to lose some weight.  I am from Wappinger Falls, NY, a small town upstate New York.  I graduated from SUNY Albany with a degree in Psychology.  I was working in marketing when I met Josh.

I had plans to go see “Sex and the City” with Megan and her friends tonight, but I wasn’t in a Carrie and Miranda mood.  Do I really want to sit through two hours of self-absorbed women negotiating relationships, looking absolutely terrific, AND living in NEW YORK?  As a former hipster gal myself (I lived in New York for six months after college before I moved back home), now mother of two — who now finds herself shopping at Costco! (can you believe it?), I have nothing in common with the Sex and the City gals anymore.  My life has not been “Sex and the City” for a long, long time.  Will someone please buy my book, “Diapers and the Poop?!”  Seriously,  I wouldn’t even have the time to write it with Kyle jumping on the couch every minute, making believe he is Iron Man (although he calls himself “Iron Chef” — hee hee).

Megan and her friends are nice,  and the screening was at the movie studio, but I didn’t feel like fighting the traffic.  I’m also a little insecure around Megan’s friends.    Last week, Erin had a birthday party for her seven year old at — get this — the Pantages Club in Burbank!  A nightclub for a child’s party!  I remember my seventh birthday party — at the Wappinger Falls bowling alley.   We had a Carvel “whale of a time” birthday cake.  Remember, this is LA.  Even Chuck E. Cheese has valet parking.  Now I’m worried about where we should have Kyle’s birthday party.  Josh suggested we rent out the Griffith Observatory.

Sometimes, I wish we had never moved to LA.  Josh says I’m just being silly… or depressed.  He means well.  I mean, I know there are a lot of cool Moms who live in town, who are able to juggle being a Mom and still being hip and trendy, like Rebecca from Girl’s Gone Child and Stephanie from Baby on Bored, but they are superstars compared to me.  I’m just a small town girl at heart. 

I’m thinking of going to synagogue on Saturday for the first time in twenty years.  Josh says he won’t go with me.  He doesn’t believe in any of that.  But I spoke to my sister, and we agree on one thing — I hit the lottery with Josh.  He is a darling.  Today, he sent me flowers from the office.  I think he’s a keeper.  Or he wants sex.  Bad.  Ha Ha.

I know work is everything to Josh, but with the internet, he should be able to write his animated cartoons anywhere he wants, even from upstate New York, near my parents.  I could even go back working with the marketing firm.  I need to look for freelance work.

Well, listen to me.  Blah blah blah.  I know… always complaining when I should be telling you how lucky I am.  I am lucky, knock on wood.  I even lost those extra three pounds this month.  I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and said to myself, “Not bad!”  I hope I win that wii fit on Redhead Momma’s blog.  I have a long way to go before I reach my ideal weight goal.  Soon is high school reunion time… and BlogHer.  Does anyone need a roommate on Saturday night?!

Are you guys going to watch “Lost” tonight?  I know I am.   Sarah B. was so funny on Twitter today. 

“If Sawyer takes his shirt off once more, I’m leaving my husband and marrying him.”

Sorry, Sarah.  He’s already taken.  By ME!

Toots, y’all.  xxxooo — Neilochka

(This is a project of “Write Like the Opposite Sex Day.”  Please comment on this post as if you were of the opposite sex)

Others changing their gender for one day:

Memarie Lane is a man.

Finn is a man.

Anymommy is a man.

Melanie is a man.

Christine is a man.

And check out the amazing haikus written for Haiku Friday  (also here) by women… writing the haikus as if they were men.

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