Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Literary (Page 11 of 17)

Tell All

May 29, 2008 / / 18 Comments

via Publishers Weekly:  In the tradition of the tell-all, screw the loyalty, backstabbing, I wanna write a book and tell the truth now that I have a book deal, even though I was too wimpy to do so when I was there sucking up to the Man, tradition of “What Happened — Inside the Bush White House and Washington’s Culture of Deception,” by Bush spokesperson Scott McClellan, “Behind the Oval Office” by Clinton aide/prostitute-lover Dick Morris, and countless other memoirs by bloggers lucky enough to obtain impossible-to-get glamour jobs in law, publishing, and the entertainment fields, who then turn around and betray the trust of their former bosses and co-workers, comes Neil Kramer’s new book, “Behind the Blogosphere:  What Other Bloggers Really Tell Me.” 

In his three years of blogging, Mr. Kramer, or “Neilochka from Redondo Beach” as he was known online, kept backup copies of every IM conversation, Twitter, email, and blog comment he was ever involved in — right on his computer in his office in Chicago, discussing the intimate details of the lives of his “blogging friends.”

“I carefully created this “Neilochka” personality,” said Mr. Kramer, “using the the Britten-Margolis Personality Quadrant, making sure that this character seemed open, friendly, and sensitive to the needs of others, especially to that of women.  In fact, one of my first posts was about “Neilochka” vehemently insisting that women who are size 14-16 were just as sexy to me as the truly attractive women who are size 0.  And my readers believed it!   Combined with other little details, like an unstable marriage where my wife was completely at fault, humorous jokes stolen from obscure Japanese comedies, and hints that I was pretty well-endowed, was enough to get women to tell me anything!”

And tell me they did.  In complete confidence, they talked to Neilochka, thinking him safe, like the gay friend in a chick-lit novel.  After three years of blogging, he KNOWS everything. 

And now YOU will too.  In Neil Kramer’s new book, “Behind the Blogosphere:  What Other Bloggers Really Tell Me,” the author takes no prisoners.  Nothing is off-limits. 

Some highlights:

  • Which bloggers don’t look like their photos AT ALL because they always use a high angle to hide the double chin?
  • Who are the blogging perverts, sending “Neilochka” photos of their bras — and worse? (including some men!)
  • What anti-depressant each blogger is taking, and who has completely lost their libido because of it?
  • What “really” goes on behind the closed doors of Room 1243 at the Westin St. Francis Hotel during BlogHer?
  • Who is the quiet, shy “cat blogger” in Toronto who has slept with every male blogger east of the Mississippi, and has made sculptures of their privates which she sells on a secret Etsy site?
  • Which female blogger never has anything to wear for her high-profile job as a social media specialist because her “wonderful” husband insists on wearing her clothes around the house, stretching the fabric?
  • Which mommyblogger actually thinks her new baby is “sort of ugly?”
  • Which “Momocrat” is really voting for McCain and thinks her other friends are “liberal pussies” who hate America?
  • Which “good friend” of Dooce said “her favorite blog is “Citizen of the Month,” but Heather “Dooce” is so insecure she would never say so publicly in fear of losing her own “standing?”

And so much more.

Soon, at a bookstore near you.

Remember:  Tomorrow is “Write Like the Opposite Sex Day.”  If you so choose, write your post as the opposite sex and then tell me about it in the comments.  I’ll put up a link.  Hell, I’ll even give you until the weekend.

And if you comment on my blog tomorrow, make sure you do so as the opposite sex.

“Write Like the Opposite Sex Day” on Friday

May 27, 2008 / / 41 Comments

Over the weekend, I mentioned that I was struggling with trying to make one of my female characters believable.  No matter what situation I put her in, she seemed to always be taking off her blouse, rubbing against the male lead, and saying “Take me now, you hot-blooded schmuck.”

When I asked for male writers who can “write women,” you gave me a whole bunch of cool suggestions, from Wally Lamb to Stephen King.  Thanks.

On a somewhat related note, the director Sydney Pollack died at the age of 73.  He was a very classy Hollywood professional, director of such mainstream classics like “Out of Africa.”  He directed my mother’s favorite movie — “The Way We Were.”  Redford?  Streisand?  Is it surprising?  He also director one of my top five movies of all time — “Tootsie.”

In Tootsie, the Dustin Hoffman character dresses like a woman to get a soap opera job, and does such a good job that he/she becomes a star.  It is a very funny movie.

Maybe I need to be a little like Tootsie in order to write like a woman.  BECOME the WOMAN!

In celebration of Sydney Pollack’s work, Friday will be “Write Like the Opposite Sex Day” here on Citizen of the Month.  I will write my blog post as if I were a woman (even more so than I already do), just to have you judge my ability to see my own life as a woman.  On Friday, please also comment on my blog as if you are commenting as the OPPOSITE SEX.  That means, men should be giving me the “hugs” and the women should be making sarcastic, unemotional, unrelated comments.

I will also run a little contest here on Friday.  Write your own post like a member of the opposite sex!  

Can you do it?  Would you write about your day differently if you were a man?  Would you curse more? 

Can a guy find his inner woman?  Would he be all emotional if he was a woman with PMS, crying because he was stuck in traffic?  Can you see yourself as being a member of the opposite sex? 

I will be the judge. Whoever I deem to be most in touch with their masculine or feminine side, will win a prize.  Usually my prizes are zilch.  This time, it will be a brand new DVD of Tootsie!  Hey, so it isn’t a wii.  At least, I’m paying for the damn prize with my own money, you ungrateful…! 

Wait, wait…how would a woman handle this situation?   “I hate you!  But I love you too!  Waaaaaa!  I am having the worst period EVAH!  Oh, did I tell you about my new shoes?!”

Imaginary Paris on $5000 a Day

May 14, 2008 / / 37 Comments

I love imaginary Paris. I love the cafes, the art, the fashion, but mostly I thrive here because this is the famed city of French existentialism and moral relativism. I am comfortable here using the $5000 that I found in that imaginary wallet yesterday. Sure, I COULD have returned the wallet to the owner, but what’s going to happen to me now that I didn’t? Will God strike me down? Of course not. Not in a city where God is dead.

Imaginary Paris is at its finest in the spring. The flowers are blooming and the scent of perfume is the air. And the women? Oh, the women. I was in an imaginary tiny bakery in the 18th arrondissement just below Montmartre when I met Juliette. She had just finishing doing a fashion shoot for Paris Vogue across the street and was now enjoying a quick espresso. I immediately knew my reason for coming to Paris. I had to know this woman.

“Bonjour.” I said flirtatiously, deciding to open the conversation with a sure-shot French ice-breaker. “Excuse-moi, j’ai perdu mon numero de telephone. Est-ce que je peux emprunter le tien?” (Excuse me, I seem to have lost my phone number. Could I borrow yours?)

She smiled, wooed by my charm and wit. We chatted, at times in English, at times in French. We had some Parisian friends in common, including Elisabeth of La Coquette, Lauren of Maitress, and Tara of Paris Parfait. I made some jokes at the expensive of American culture and she laughed, her eyes twinkling. I offered her one of my Gitanes Brunes, and we enjoyed a smoke together. There was something very sexy about the way she smoked a cigarette. Like only a French woman could do.

I love imaginary Paris. Of course, there were some changes since the last time I was here. American chain stores had moved in. There was Starbucks. And Kentucky Fried Chicken. I even found a CVS Pharmacy right in Paris! I’m not a superstitious man, but I was half-expecting something bad to happen to me for using that $5000 dollars on my trip. But not in Paris. Nothing could destroy the magic of the City of Lights. In Paris, I was able to sit across from a beautiful model wearing a strapless Dior dress while dining at Le Grand Véfour, a restaurant nestled under the arches of the Palais Royal, overlooking a beautiful little park, at a romantic table once occupied by Colette and Victor Hugo and Jean Cocteau.

After dinner, I brought Juliette to my hotel room. She stood in front of me as I sat in bed. She danced for me a bit, swaying to a Carla Bruni song, then let her dress gently fall off her body. I felt a tinge of anxiety. Always neurotic and pessimistic, I figured this was the moment of bad karma. Here I would be with the most beautiful woman I’d ever met and because of my guilt over the $5000, I wouldn’t be able to get it up. But clearly this doomsday scenario didn’t occur. She looked at me and smiled. She slid next to me, purring.

“Avez-vous un préservatif?” (Do you have a condom?) she asked.

“Oui, I do.” I answered.

Luckily, before dinner, I slipped into that Parisian CVS Pharmacy and bought les condoms!

Within moments, Juliette and I were making passionate love. All I could hear was her heavy breathing and the pounding of the bed against the wall.

Or at least I thought it was the pounding of the bed against the wall.

In reality, it was the Paris police breaking down the door to my hotel room and an Interpol SWAT team smashing through the window. Apparently, when I bought the condoms at CVS Pharmacy, I used the CVS ExtraCare frequent shopper card from my wallet – but it wasn’t my card! It was the CVS card of Mr. Craig Tellerson of Studio City, CA, who had lost his wallet and $5000 cash while riding his bicycle in Redondo Beach.

“Fraud is a federal offense in France,” said the Parisian police officer.

Today, I am blogging from Devil’s Island in French Guiana, the first day of my 300 year prison sentence. On arrival, we greeted by the warden who said, “Welcome to the penal colony at Devil’s Island, whose prisoners you are, and from which there is no escape.”

While I enjoyed my date with the French model, this certainly was one expensive bill to pay. Take it from me, if you find a lost wallet, return it to the rightful owner. God is alive… and vengeful. C’est la vie!

Two years ago on Citizen of the Month: Clock and Crow

Just Thinking About Writing

May 1, 2008 / / 45 Comments

I’m a bit constricted by my blog at times.  I look around and see that most of the well-known personal blogs revolve around that blogger’s day-to-day life.   I know that is obvious.  I’m just noting that these writers rarely deviate from their theme.  They use their blog as a journal or diary.  These bloggers let you into their world, warts and all, until you feel as if you know their family — and you care about them.  The best of these blogs, like Dooce, are  well-written and honest. 

I’ve never kept a diary.  It always seemed boring to me.  And I sometimes have trouble being honest.  I’m not a liar.  Well, I am.  I don’t only lie to you.  I lie to myself.  That’s why I’m in therapy.  So, in a way, my lying to you is being very honest.  Get it?

I try to write about reality.  Most everything in this blog, including my conversations with my Penis, is rooted in reality.  I find it interesting that my favorite posts are almost never YOUR favorite posts.  You seem to love when I write in an honest, diary style.   You feel as if I connected with you because I revealed some private truth.   It’s as if personal blogging is supposed to be the private become public, and dammit – he won me over with the admission that his mother washed his mouth out with soap.  It doesn’t really matter that I spent twice as long crafting something really silly.  The comedy never wins the Oscar.

Even if I were completely fact-based about my day to day life, I’m not sure I can effectively capture “me” through the details.  What actually happened today — May 1, 2008?  Sophia got a flat tire on the freeway and I came to her rescue.  I bought a new tire for her car and had a cup of coffee in Denny’s.  I arranged to meet with a producer.  I spoke to my mother.  This is all fun stuff, but most of the REALLY interesting events occurred in my head.  I got annoyed about “blog badges” and wrote my last sarcastic post.  I went on Craig’s List and wondered about apartment hunting.  I wondered how Carly from American Idol was managing.  I made a note to write a post someday about Brian Dunkleman (remember him — the comedian who co-hosted American Idol with Ryan Seacrest in season one!). I wonder if he is still pissed or if he was able to move on to a happy life.  I worried about this headache that I’ve had for three days, and tried not to become a hypochondriac, fearing it is a tumor or something horrible.

Am I  presenting a clear picture of my personality, and does it even matter?  I had an IM conversation with someone last week who seemed to be under the impression that I was some sort of Lothario having sex chats with women in every American city.  When do I have time?!   Truthfully, online sex chats would be too difficult for me because I would feel obligated, as a writer, not to be cliched.  How many unique ways are there to say, “So, are you unbuttoning your blouse now?”

Me:  “My hand is touching you…”

Her:  “Here?”

Me:  “Yes, there… but that’s not very descriptive.  Let me go on Wikipedia and look up what it is actually called in the  English language.   Also, I already used “touching you” twice already.  There must be some other way of saying that!”

Her:  “OK, enough.  I had my orgasm.  Thanks.  Bye.”

 I would feel too much literary performance anxiety to have any fun. 

I present myself as a nice Jewish boy who’s calling his mother every day, and then the next day I’m f**king four women in my bedroom.  Who am I?   I’m not sure I really know exactly who I am, so why should you?

But let me just stick to the blog — my writing.  Would be better to focus more on the reality in my life, or continue writing whatever shit comes to my mind?  The inconsistency of this blog’s tone must be very frustrating for some readers. 

I can also go the other way — not caring about you, the reader, at all.   That could be refreshing.  That would probably be the most honest approach.   I could explore different facets of my personality.  I could write a post like I was a woman.  I’d like to imagine what it would be like to give birth.  Would that be weird for you?  I’d like to be racist or nasty and say things that I don’t really believe, but not worry about your reaction. Why do I always have to write about what I believe?  It might be more fun to write about someone else’s beliefs. 

I’d like to finish a post without having to make the ending work.

A Five Minute Long Wild Sex Comedy

April 27, 2008 / / 20 Comments

— starring Neil, Sophia, Neil’s Mom, several half-naked girls from Queens, and introducing Moondog, as Neil’s surfer dude buddy.

FADE IN:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS – REDONDO BEACH – DAY

Neil and Moondog have just finished hanging ten at Redondo and are now chilling at Don Carlos’, the sweetest joint in town for fish tacos. Hot girls in bikinis are constantly walking by. All the girls seem to know Neilochka (his surfer name) and Moondog.

Neil: “I think it is time, Moondog. I’m gonna find me my own place and move out.”

Moondog: “About time, dude. My ear was burning like the hot sand hearing this every week after week… for three years…”

Neil: “Maybe I’ll first go to New York for a few weeks cause I still don’t have any digs. Just feeling as down as GeekDude without his Red Bull. I’m feeling major wipeout over my babe.”

Moondog: “Sure, man. We’re all bummed about you and Sophia. But maybe it’s time to move on. Time to ride the next big wave. Definitely go to New York for a trip.”

Neil: “Yeah, I can go see some of that, what do you call it, art. At that museum from that movie. That museum rocks. They got the stuff from the posters… but they’re real!”

Moondog: “Hell no, forget the old dead white dudes. You need to get over Sophia. You got to start schtupping everything is sight. There’s some pretty hot skirt over there in New York.”

Neil: “Sweet. But can’t I do the same here in LA?”

Neil looks over at a buxom beauty in a tight bikini as she rollerblades by, her breasts a bouncin’!

Moondog: “Dude, surfer dudes like us are a dime a dozen at the SoCal surf and turf. In Gotham City, we’re exotic. They hear your LA accent and your Hollywood style, and they’re already getting wet from the tide. It’s time for you to get on that plane, and shine off your own Big Apple hidden away down there…”

Neil: “And where do I meet this chicks? I don’t have the Benjamins for those Samanthas and Mirandas.”

Moondog: “LOL, dude. NYC is P***y Grand Central. They’re everywhere. East side, west side, all around town! Just look at a map of Manhattan. It’s shaped like a giant breast with the nipple pointing out to Brooklyn.”

Neil: “That’s no nipple. That’s the Brooklyn Bridge.”

Moondog: “I’ve felt up two girls from Brooklyn and there must be something in the water there because Brooklyn nipples could slice a pizza pie. No wonder the Dodgers had to move to LA. They couldn’t concentrate on the game. All those Brooklyn nipples.”

Neil: “Well, I won’t be in Brooklyn. I’ll be in Queens. And I’ll be staying with my mother. That’s not a very good spot for a little romance.”

Moondog: “Hey, I met your mother. She’s cool. The babes won’t even know she’s there. But be strong. This is for you… to live it up… don’t call Sophia… for anything…”

CUT TO:

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – NIGHT

Neil is making passionate love to Freya Aaronson, the once Orthodox, now Reform, Jewish girl he loved in high school but never looked his way, but is now a an assistant editor at Random House and currently submitting her fiction to the New Yorker Magazine.

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me harder, Neilochka! Nothing could feel as good as you f**king me, Neilochka… maybe except getting published in the New Yorker! F**k me, Neilochka!”

Neil: “Could you just be a little quieter? My mother is sleeping next door. She has to go to work tomorrow early.”

Freya: “F**k me, Neilochka! F**k me, Neilochka! Wasn’t your mother written about in the New Yorker because she’s been working forever at Farrar, Straus, and Giroux? Would she mind if I left behind a few of my stories, Neilochka? They’re perfect for the New Yorker. F**k me, Neilochka! Your mother is amazing. F**k me, Neilochka!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed, being ridden by Yvonne, the flirtatious black girl from the local stationary store, a brainy grad student at Fordham. The bed is pounding against the wall.

Yvonne: (as she rides him) “Oh my god, dinner was amazing, Neilochka. So good. And my friends consider me a foodie! I can’t believe your mother’s secret ingredient for her brisket is… ketchup. I never would have guessed. How long does she cook the brisket for? It was so tender. So soft.”

Neil: “Can we talk about this later? A conversation about soft, tender meat is not something a man wants to hear when…”

Yvonne: “Do you think she would mind if we went for seconds of the brisket? I can’t stop thinking about it! That brisket was so good. I need to get the recipe. Will she be serving this brisket for Passover?”

Neil: “Passover was last week.”

Yvonne: “Too bad. Try to come fast so we can go have some more brisket.”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil is in bed with the petite Emily Ning, a divorced mommyblogger. She lives on the third floor of the same building as Neil’s mother. She works in PR for a Hong Kong-based bank downtown. She is an ardent blogger and loves reading Citizen of the Month. She is giving oral sex to Neil.

Emily: “Do you like how that feels? Do you like that? Am I making you dizzy? You didn’t expect me to know how to do that, did you? How about if I use BOTH hands on your?”

THE CAMERA PULLS BACK

to show that Emily not only giving oral sex, but is also throwing punches in the boxing ring on Neil’s Wii-connected TV, and talking to her opponent, another mommyblogger, via cell phone.

Emily: (into phone) “You didn’t expect to go right, left, did you? You’re going down!”

Emily continues on with her oral sex, looking bored, then leans over to her laptop and sends a quick message to her opponent via Twitter.

Emily: “Knockout, sucker!!”

INT. NEIL’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – QUEENS – THE NEXT NIGHT

Neil’s head is between the thighs of Anna Castro, his long-time friend from elementary school, who he has liked ever since they danced the Tarantella together at the fourth grade dance festival. Anna is lying in the bed, her legs apart, waiting impatiently for Neil to take some action. Now, Neil is on the phone, looking frantic:

Neil: (into phone) “I know what I said, Sophia. I said I wouldn’t call you. But I’m telling you… it’s not in the right place with her. I can’t find the spot. Yes, I have my glasses on. Isn’t it in the same place on every woman?… You don’t have to be sarcastic! I didn’t complain when you called me with that stupid computer problem about Photoshop Elements… Yes, she’s nice… It’s none of your business… OK, her name is Anna. .. Yes, the one from the fourth grade dance festival. .. No, I didn’t step on her feet… Yes… yes… Yes, I’m taking the damn cholesterol medicine… Listen, I didn’t call you to chat…”

Neil’s mother opens then door to Neil’s room, carrying a tray of Oreo cookies and low-fat milk.

Neil’s Mother: “Would anyone like a snack?”

Anna quickly jumps out of bed.

Anna: “Thank God. Yes!”

Neil’s Mother: “I’m watching “Dancing with the Stars” on Tivo, Anna. Would you like to join me?”

Anna: “Absolutely!”

Anna exits with Neil’s mother.

CUT TO:

INT. DON CARLOS’ FISH TACOS – REDONDO BEACH – TWO WEEKS LATER – DAY

Neil and Moondog are chilling at Don Carlos’, chowing on fish tacos and drinking Coronas. Moondog is shaking his head in disbelief.

Moondog: “Dude… never tell this story to… anyone.”

The End

A Cliched Story That I Will Never Bother to Finish

April 13, 2008 / / 33 Comments

pulp

Jill Landow moved herself to the edge of the bed. Simon was kneeling on the carpet, in front of her. Jill liked it when he went down on her. The windows of the penthouse were wide open. Jill didn’t care. Let all of Chicago see her being worshipped. Simon was a risk-taker, unlike her husband. Just the thought of her husband made her tense. She must get her husband out of her mind and relax. And Simon was perfect for getting her mind off of life, and just plain getting her off. She knew Simon was special from the moment she met in in the Oak Bar, and he bought her a martini, dry.

“Oh, yes,” said Jill, leaning back in the bed.

“You taste like the finest Merlot,” said Simon.

This turned her on tremendously.

Jill looked down at Simon, his head bowed. In another context, it would look as if he was praying. She laughed to herself. Jill had fond memories of when she prayed as a child, of the musty odor of the old St. Agnes Church and her dear ol’ grandmama. But that was so many years ago, before she learned about the pleasures of sin.

Downstairs, in the lobby, Carl Favela was daydreaming. He was lucky to have gotten such a cushy job as doorman at the Lakeshore Apartments. Opening the doors for Chicago’s movers and shakers meant one thing — good tips. Perry Landow approached the Lakeshore, wearing his usual tailored blue suit. Carl found it odd to see the busy executive home at lunchtime. He never came home before 9PM. Never.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Landow,” said Carl.

Perry Landow didn’t answer. His eyes were focused straight ahead, filled with an anger that made Carl shudder.

The police arrived at midnight. It was Carl who had called him, screaming like a mad man. “There’s blood. There’s blood!” was all he could say, over and over.

Carl led the police into the Landow penthouse. Perry Landow lay flat on his back in his large bed. He was naked, bloody from the multiple gun shots to his body and head. His wife was nowhere to be found.

Jill reached her second orgasm of the night in the backseat of Simon’s car. Simon zipped up his fly, whistling. Jill looked out at the waterfront. It was so calm. It was as if time had stopped. Jill looked down at her pubic hair and saw a gray hair. She plucked it out.

“I hate getting old.”

“You ain’t getting old, baby,” said Simon. “You f**k like a wildcat!”

Jill laughed. She was a wildcat. In fact, when she was in high school, she literally was a Wildcat, a Tucson High School Wildcat cheerleader. It was on graduation night at Tucson High where she first met Perry Landow. Her friends thought he was way too old for her, being that he was her father’s business partner, and 30 years her senior. But she knew if that she was going to lose her virginity, she might as well profit from it. And profit she did.

“I better get driving.” said Simon. “It’s a long way to Mexico. Maybe we’ll stop in an hour or two and we’ll f**k again. You’d like that sugar, right?”

Jill reached into her purse for some Kleenex, but instead her fingers starting fondling the cold metal of her 45 caliber gun.

Carl returned to his studio apartment that night. His neighbors were fighting again, cursing in Ukranian. When he turned the lights on, the roaches scattered, mocking Carl, as if saying to him, “You just try to stop us, loser.”

Carl opened a bottle of Bud and sat on the couch. The TV was on the fritz, again. Maybe next month, he’ll actually pay for the cable, rather than trying to steal it from the neighbors. Carl downed the beer, trying to drown out his pain. When are things ever going to go his way? When was he ever going to get a woman like Jill Landow to love him? He started to fantasize about her, the feel of her hard nipples between her fingers.

Captain Ed Johansson was counting the days until his retirement. He already put a down payment on a nice little place near San Diego, where he would live out his time drinking margaritas, and buying Mexican hookers with his pension money. The last thing on his mind was the Perry Landow case, no matter how high-profile it was to the asshole DA.

Carl was still imagining making love to Jill, the bulge rising in his pants, when there was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” he asked nervously.

“Carl, it’s me. Jill. Jill Landow. From the Lakeshore.”

Jill Landow? Carl ran to the front door, looking through the keyhole. Jill Landow was standing there, holding a gun, fresh, brightly-red blood stains covering the designer dress.  He loved that dress.  He had seen her wear it so many times during the summer when she sauntered through the lobby like a runway model, her breasts visible through the thin fabric.  Jill Landow was coming her?  To him?  Why?  Of course… she’s in trouble!  Should he let her in?  Should he call the police?

He put his hand on the door knob, ready to open it, knowing that this action would change his life forever.

Choose Your Own Blogventure

April 3, 2008 / / 23 Comments

(Note: I’ve always had a thing for librarians, especially when they take off their glasses and let their hair down, transforming themselves into the hottest chicks on the planet. And they like to read. Although, they usually have to put their glasses back on to do that. Nancypearl Wannabe blogs at Musings of a Semi-Coherent Mind. She is also a librarian. I had no choice but to say “yes, ma’am,” when she came up with this idea to create an online “Choose Your Own Adventure” book. The adventure story starts at her blog Friday morning at 10AM– start HERE — and then it is up to YOU to create your own unique version of the tale, depending on the choices you make, and which option you click. You’ll figure it out. There are 26 bloggers working on this story, none knows where the story is heading. Will it be coherent? Will it be a mess? That’s part of the adventure.)

Previous Section of the Story (You came here because you think Emma should ignore the zombie-like figure and continue to the Store 24)

continued —

Emma entered the brightly-colored Store 24 convenience store, grabbed a package of orange Hostess cupcakes, and went to pay the $1.25, all in quarters, tightly gripped in her right hand, just like she always did when she came in to buy her favorite treat. But where was Henri, the smiling French-Canadian owner of this franchise, the happy-go-lucky gentleman with the graying hair, the quick wit, and the polite manners, who would always say to Emma as she walked in, “A beautiful day, isn’t it?” in both English and French, and sometimes, when he was in a extra special good mood, in Ukrainian as well? It wasn’t like the proud and conservative-minded Henri, a man who kept a gun at his side at all times, to leave his store unguarded. Was he in any danger?

Just then, Henri rushed out of the stock room. He was not in any trouble. He was fine. In fact, he appeared quite dapper. He was dressed in a top hat and polished black tap shoes. He was also wheeling a large red Samsonite suitcase.

“Henri! What’s going on?” asked Emma. “Where are you going?”

“I’m done with the convenience store business,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I want to follow my dream – to be a Broadway hoofer! I’m leaving this podunk town and moving to the Big Apple.”

Henri jumped onto the front counter and started to do a little tap dance, right in the empty space near the cash register, between the beef jerky and the TV Guides.

“Gotta dance! Gotta dance!” he sang with gusto.

“But what about the store?” cried Emma, trying to reason with him. “How will it survive?”

“Why don’t YOU take it over,” he said, pointing right at her. “You know more about the products at Store 24 than anyone.”

Emma paused, her head spinning. Had Henri gone crazy from breathing in the fumes from the Orange Slush machine?

“Hey, I have a better idea!” shouted Henri, jumping down from the counter. “Why don’t you come with me to New York, where we can become lovers? We both know that you coming here all the time has nothing to do with orange Hostess cupcakes. You love me! Admit it!”

If you think Emma should go to New York with Henri, click here.

If you think Emma should take over the Store 24 franchise from Henri, click here.

Note: The other participants have terrific “pieces” of the story on their blog. There are so many good writers online. Check them out:

RA from Definitely RA
Chris from Brick Window
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My Name is Ozymandias

March 31, 2008 / / 43 Comments

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During the coronation of a new Pope, it is traditional for a monk to hold up a burning piece of flax.  After it burns, the monk says, “Pater sancte, sic transit gloria mundi,” which is translated as “Holy Father, thus passes the glory of the world.”  Catholics are supposed to remember that despite the power of the Pope, he is still a mortal man.

This is how we get the expression — “Fame is fleeting.”

Bookfraud was down on himself last week because so many novelists publish their first novel before they are 30:  Jonathan Safran Foer, Zadie Smith and Gary Shteyngart.   And he felt that the deadline had passed.

I can relate.  We all want to be acknowledged for our work.  It would especially cool to be famous.

But let’s think about this “fame” business a bit.  Is writing a book really going to give us what we want?

Jonathan Safran Foer?  Gary Shteyngart?  Seriously, I bet you that 95% of the American public think these are the names of the two main characters on “Two and a Half Men.”

What is fame anyway?.  American Idol has millions of viewers, but how many of the contestants will be remembered?  How many CDs have you bought that were released by any of the former contestants?  Quick — who won the runner up in season two?

From 1915-1922, the biggest female box office star in Hollywood was Mary Pickford.  From 1923-1926, it was Norma Talmadge.  Other than Danny from Jew Eat Yet?, do any of you know anything about these hugely popular actresses — the superstars of their day?

The #1 Blog on Technorati is Techcrunch.  Enough said.  No one will remember Techcrunch in 100 years.

In Junior High, I was forced to memorize this poem.  At the time, I was too young to understand it.  But now —

OZYMANDIAS by Percy Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Every single writer, politician, movie star, and celebrity will eventually be forgotten. 

But all is not hopeless.  There is one celebrity from today who will be remembered forever — Arnold Palmer.

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Yes, Arnold Palmer, was once the greatest golf player of the day.  But like, Mary Pickford, a person can only be at the top of the game for so long.  Eventually a Tiger Woods comes along, and everyone starts to ask, “Arnold who?”

Arnold Palmer, however, was a marketing genius.  He instinctively knew the lesson of Ozymandias.   By creating a drink — the Arnold Palmer — half lemonade/half ice tea — he did what no other celebrity could do — made sure that his name would be famous forever.  Just today, I was eating lunch in Beverly Hills, when I saw a beautiful women calling her waiter over to order an “Arnold Palmer,” her lips smacking in anticipation.   Can you imagine what it must be like to have women all around the world wanting you like that? 

Arnold Palmer is the only media consultant who deserves to speak about “branding” at web conferences.  Arnold Palmer — the ultimate brand.  There’s even a drink named after him.

I was once misguided enough to think that this blog would give me fame and glory.   Every day, people would wake up, rub their eyes, turn on their computers , and come to Citizen of the Month, ready to be astounded.   I had this illusion that even if  flying robots from Mars were destroying the United States outside, my loyal readers would not flee for their lives until they finished writing a witty comment on my latest post. 

But is this loyalty a constant? 

Already, I’m noticing newer and more exciting blogs catching your eye, your attention spans dulled by years of MTV, video games, and prescription drugs. 

Luckily, I have a plan for when this blog loses its buzz.  The Neilochka —  1/3 Pomegranate Juice, 1/3 Cranberry Juice, and 1/3 Seltzer.

Please, start ordering it NOW at your favorite watering hole.  Remember to order it by NAME.  “I’ll have a Neilochka.”

This is the only way it will catch on, insuring that my name will live in glory forever.

The Year, 2246

Bar, Moon of Saturn Outpost #23A

Beautiful Female Cyborg:  I’ll have a Neilochka, straight up!

Bartender:  Excellent choice.  Coming up!

Beautiful Female Cyborg:  I’ve been wanting a Neilochka all day.  I’ve always wondered why this delicious drink is called a Neilochka.

Bartender:  At Harvard Bartending School, they taught us that Neilochka created this drink.  He was a famous blogger about 200 years ago. 

Beautiful Female Cyborg:  He must have been an amazing person.  No one could create this wonderful drink without having been super talented.  If I lived back then, I would have definitely f**ked him.  What else do you know about him?

Bartender:  Supposedly he was very famous.  Very popular.  Did this thing called blogging.

Beautiful Female Cyborg:  Blogging?  What the hell is that?

Bartender:  I have no idea.  But, he’s certainly remembered for this drink!  I better stop talking and get back to work before I’m dooced.

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!

A Sh***y Post

March 12, 2008 / / 54 Comments

For the first time in a very long time, I spent a good hour just looking at a blank screen.  I was thinking about why you come here to this blog.  I figure you come here because you like something about the writing.  Maybe I commented on your blog at some time, and then you commented on mine, and before you know it, we assumed we knew each other. 

There is a dark side to this.  If I start writing boring stuff, you will probably go away.  After a whole bunch of tedious posts — say, about my fingernails — only my mother would be left reading this blog.  My mother would not abandon me.  She would keep reading the blog no matter what.  That’s what mothers do. 

Sometimes, I’m afraid of writing something shitty.  I’m worried that you will drop me like a hot potato.  After all, there are plenty of other blogs out there.

It would be cool to write something really shitty.  I think I would enjoy writing something really shitty once a week.  Should I tell you in the tags or beforehand, so you know when I KNOW the post is conceived as shitty, opposed to when it just comes out shitty by poor planning or distraction?

For instance, this is a pretty shitty post.  I know it.  It is not an accident.  I enjoyed writing this shitty post.  I’m writing it on Notepad.  I can delete it or I can copy it and publish it on my blog so you can read it.  The question remains:  Why would you want to read it? 

I have no idea. 

No, that’s a lie.  I actually do.  I think I would enjoy reading it if YOU wrote it.  But I’m odd in that way.

A few days ago, some blogger wrote a comment where she said, “I love you, Neil.”  I took this nice comment as meaning that the person liked the current post, or that something in my writing connected with that person.  I know the person doesn’t REALLY love me. I’ve had this lovin’ feeling myself at times.  On my last count, I have been in serious love with seven female bloggers over the years, and three male bloggers.  These are bloggers who I have grown attached to in the most unhealthy of ways — caring about them way beyond normality, crying when they write about being miserable, laughing when they are happy, worried when they don’t blog, mad when they didn’t comment. 

I usually fall in love with a blogger because of her writing.   And then she writes something shitty, and the magic is gone. 

But gradually, I learn to respect her in a healthier manner, as I see that her writing that shitty post was important for her to write.  It reminded her that her writing is her own — and not others — and that if she wants to write something shitty, she should do it, confident that even if everyone thought she sucked, her mother would still read her blog.

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