the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Literary (Page 13 of 17)

Confessions of a Poemphobe

One of the most surprising blogging relationships is my unlikely friendship with Dana and Liz Elayne of Poetry Thursday.  I say “unlikely” because they are both creative women very much in touch with their emotions and inner selves, and I live my life to avoid those things.   I really enjoyed their Poetry Thursday blog.   Sadly, they recently stopped publishing the site in order to focus their energies elsewhere. 

From day one, I appreciated the way these two women weren’t snotty about poetry.  They told me that reading poetry was good for the soul and the brain.  They used every trick in the book to seduce me into the world of poetry.  They introduced me to Billy Collins, to funny poets, and to poets who wrote love sonnets to women’s breasts.  They appealed to my interests and soon I was even reading poems about things foreign to me, like trees and animals.

Today, I was feeling sad about the destruction caused by the California wild fires.  The sadness made me think of poetry, and poetry made me think of Dana and Liz. 

A few months ago, Dana and Liz asked me to write a column for Poetry Thursday titled “Confessions of a Poemphobe.” I only had the chance to write three columns.  I don’t know how long Poetry Thursday will be archived online, so I’m republishing them here on Citizen of the Month.  Re-reading the posts reminds me how lucky I’ve been to meet such wonderful people like Dana and Liz.

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confessions of a poemphobe — poetry for men

My Russian-born wife loves to watch professional figure skating. Together, we’ve watched countless competitions on TV and I’ve even been dragged to few World Championships. Whenever we’re sitting in the arena, watching all the lifts, axels and flamboyant costumes, we end up having the same discussion — why do Russian male figure skaters look so “masculine” and athletic, while the American men look so … hmm, how can I say this while remaining politically correct … like interior designers from West Hollywood? Why does each country attract such different types of men?

I think the answer lies in cultural differences. In the Russian culture, it is considered manly to figure skate, to dance ballet and to write poetry. I’ve attended Russian dinners where it is almost an obligation for the men to recite poetry to the hostess, while drinking vodka, of course.

I know I’m skating on thin ice here (ha!), but most American men are leery of artistic expression that is considered “too feminine.” While any ballet dancer is probably more athletic and stronger than a typical soccer player, how many fathers would want to hear that their son is interested in taking ballet lessons?

I think the TV networks and the U.S. Figure Skating Federation are fully aware of how figure skating is perceived by the average American man. When Michael Weiss, one of the few “manly”-looking American figure-skating competitors had a child, the ESPN cameras were all too eager to show him holding his baby in the air and kissing his blond model-type wife, as if to announce to America, “Hey men, he’s a figure skater AND a hot-blooded American man. It’s OK for YOU to watch the coverage with your wife!”

This ridiculous type of masculine/feminine stereotyping has affected my own enjoyment of poetry. I write fiction, screenplays, nonfiction. But poetry … what would my friends think?

What makes this especially sad is that I’m not some macho guy who watches football on Sunday or even fixes his own car. I’m an English major from an Ivy League university. I’m knowledgeable about the Western canon, from Blake to T.S. Eliot. I even enjoy reading poetry. But the truth is, poetry makes me feel awkward. Fiction feels more “masculine” to me. With fiction, there’s a plot — a thrust from point A to point B. Narrative deals with ideas and action. Can it be that this fear of poetry boils down to another cliché about men — the fear of expressing emotion and revealing vulnerability?

Of course, fiction requires emotion, but it is easier for the writer to hide behind a plot, a character or a concept. Writing poetry makes me feel naked, and no man wants to be seen naked, unless he works out at the gym first.

Like many men, I’m also more “practical” than my wife. It took me years to understand why a woman would want to get flowers. After all, they just die in a few days. Wouldn’t a blender be a better Valentine’s Day gift? Like flowers, poetry isn’t always meant to be practical, and this is sometimes hard for me to “get.” Sometimes there isn’t even a “point” to a poem other than it being an expression of emotion. I’m always looking for “meaning,” rather than taking the emotion in. The words, the image provoked or the music of the poem should be just enough to make a piece of writing special.

I’m learning to appreciate poetry more by reading poems, including many of the poems I see here on Poetry Thursday. It is good to be reminded that not all poems are about flowers or “girly” things, or topics that make you go out and buy a black beret. You can write poems about baseball games and pissing in the forest, and it can still be considered a poem.

Did anyone see the Rich Snyder poem “How Are You Doing?” reprinted in last week’s “American Life in Poetry?”

Rich Snyder is my new Michael Weiss. His poem reads like the poem of a regular hot-blooded American man.

How Are You Doing?

As much as you deserve it,
I wouldn’t wish this
Sunday night on you—
not the Osco at closing,
not its two tired women
and shaky security guard,
not its bin of flip-flops
and Tasmanian Devil
baseball caps,
not its freshly mopped floors
and fluorescent lights,
not its endless James Taylor
song on the intercom,
and not its last pint of
chocolate mint ice cream,
which I carried
down Milwaukee Ave.
past a man in an unbuttoned
baseball shirt, who stepped
out of a shadow to whisper,
How are you doing?

Reprinted from “Barrow Street,” Winter, 2005, by permission of the author. Copyright © 2005 by Rick Snyder. This weekly column is supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. This column does not accept unsolicited poetry.

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confessions of a poemphobe — ‘wow! you are good!’

Lately, on my personal blog, I’ve been complaining about the whole system of “commenting” on blogs. After a while, these short little back-and-forth statements seem superficial, even frustrating. I wish I could be there with you, sharing a cup of coffee, rather than writing three sentences of encouragement. At other times, if you are having a bad day, I just want to hug you. Writing a comment saying, Don’t worry. Things will be OK! just seems phony and is NOT what I really want to say to you.

I find it especially difficult to comment on a poem. What is the appropriate response? I love the poetry of the Poetry Thursday participants, but how many times can I write Wow! You are good!

I come from a family of gabbers and kvetchers — so I love to talk. I can talk for hours about any subject, even those I know nothing about. Surprisingly, words frequently fail me when I experience something artistic. If I see a really great film, I want to keep the experience floating in my brain, not analyze the director’s vision or the acting of a new starlet. You can imagine the trouble I had dating when I was in film school. Brainy female film student always wanted to talk about the movie! Not now! I would say. It’s still fresh in my mind!

Language cannot always capture my true feelings about art. What is there to say the first time you see a famous painting, like Mona Lisa? It’s nice, but it looks smaller than I imagined just doesn’t cut it.

For me, poetry is the most difficult subject to discuss. In a novel or a film, I can talk about the narrative or characters. In a painting, I can talk about the color and movement. But how do you find the right words to talk about words that are more beautiful than yours?

If I like a Poetry Thursday poem, I usually write a variation of That’s wonderful! I know it’s lame, but I feel it is important to connect with the writer. (And frankly, everyone likes comments, even the dumb ones!)

I would like to write better comments. Maybe as I learn more about poetry, I can feel more confident in my ideas about poetic expression. I feel intimidated about saying what’s on my mind, particularly if I don’t understand a poem. For instance, I love the images in the first stanza of Carolyn Kizer’s “On a Line from Valery.”

The whole green sky is dying. The last tree flares
With a great burst of supernatural rose
Under a canopy of poisonous airs.

Do I really understand what she is describing? Not really. Under a canopy of poisonous airs? Huh? Is she talking about a forest fire? Now, honestly, if you were the poet, would you want me to ask you in the comments to explain this to me? I probably wouldn’t have the nerve to do it. Am I an idiot? I might ask myself, or is everyone just too afraid to ask the same question?

I understand that it is not a requirement to “understand” a poem completely. The poem can still work and be a little mysterious. But what can I say that sounds intelligent? How can I match the beauty of a poem with the appropriate response? Some of you are trained poets and can talk about the line breaks. I’m sometimes interested in mundane things — Is this autobiographical? How long did it take you to write this? Did you really write this in the bathtub?

Are these legitimate questions?

I think there are a lot of people like me — they enjoy poetry but are unsure how to participate in the discussion of it. I have no dreams of becoming a professional poet, but you want readers like me to keep poetry vibrant. I think poetry is too insular lately, with poets mostly writing for other poets. Any suggestions for how a layman like me can better participate in the conversation? Do poets actually want to know if someone doesn’t understand their poem? I hate saying Wow, nice! all the time.

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confessions of a poemphobe — anger management, poetry style

Last night, I think I wrote my first real poem. By saying that, I mean that I expressed some emotion on paper that was consuming me, rather than just trying to be clever or witty with words. Unfortunately, this emotion was a negative one, and I’m not sure I enjoyed the experience of dealing with it. I’m certainly not ready to show YOU the result.

There’s been a lot of tension in my household over the upcoming surgery of my wife, and if life was high school, I would get a failing grade in “Handling Stress.” I had trouble sleeping last night. I tossed and turned, and had an unpleasant dream about being in a bloody fistfight in an alley. This was an unusual dream, because I’ve never been in a fistfight and I rarely go into alleys. I even punched the bedroom wall while sleeping, jarring myself awake and scaring the hell out of my wife.

It was four in the morning and I was wide awake, so I went to my office to write “something” on my computer. What that “something” was, I wasn’t sure. At first I was going to write a post for my personal blog about punching the wall, but I found myself getting lost in unknowns of the narrative.

Why was I angry? “I’m not sure.” Who was I angry at? “?????.” Time to look into therapy.

I decided to write a poem. Actually, I didn’t really “decide,” I just did it. It was a primitive poem, but since there was no narrative, the writing came easy. No characters. No story. Just an expression of the emotion named anger. It was a poem about a bloody fistfight in some unnamed alley. It was a bad poem, but it was cathartic.

But afterwards, I felt a little dirty. It was uncomfortable expressing anger ― even to myself. It’s not something you do in my family.

But back to poetry.

Poetry is an ancient literary form. It is a form that many use to express themselves with more intensity than other types of writing. Is that why I ran to “poetry” to deal with some unpleasant emotion? Has this happened to you? Does writing about your unpleasant emotions make you uncomfortable? Do you try to push them onto the page for your art or for your own therapy? Do you get worried about what others might think if they saw this part of you?

And most importantly, if you read an angry poem about a bloody fistfight in an alley, would you cross to the other side of the street if you encountered this “poet” walking in your city?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  What Did You Have for Lunch?

Pumpkin Pie

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I felt bad about the last salacious post, and I thought it was time for me to write something a little more wholesome, in honor of the arrival of October and one of my favorites – Pumpkin Pie!

Pumpkin Pie

Women love – they crave – pumpkin pie
And clueless men ask me, “Why oh why?”
Seriously, men, why such a surprise
Women love pumpkin pie just like us guys!
So listen carefully to my little poem
And make her happy at home sweet home.

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Pumpkin pie will make her day
When it is served a certain way
Some like it cold, some like it hot
Do whatever will hit her spot
Some like the pie with a little whipped cream
If you serve it right, she’ll likely scream.

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So bring her over to the Pumpkin Patch
She’ll find the pumpkin to itch her scratch
Pumpkins of every shape and size
Lying there, waiting — a feast for her eyes
It’s October, the heavenly bells do ring
The time of year when all women sing

“Pumpkin Pie! Pumpkin Pie!
Bring me some of the Pumpkin Pie!
Pumpkin Pie! Pumpkin Pie!
Without your sweetness,
I might as well die!”

You Talk Like You’re a God

I was about to sit down and write about my first therapy session, but I’m not sure what to say yet.  Am I even supposed to write about my therapy  or does this fall into “confidentiality?”  I’ll say this — the therapist was very nice and nurturing, but I have no idea yet whether she will be “effective” with me.

I came home tonight and was amused to find a unfriendly comment on an old post — “Why is Los Angeles So Ugly?”

from YOU SUCKER:

you suck. you talk like you’re god or something, thinking you’re right and everyone is wrong

I’m not sure why this weird comment struck such a nerve with me.   I don’t even remember the post to be controversial.  But I have to admit, I like the poetry and drama of the comment.  What did I say that made him so upset?  Do I really appear “god-like” to him?  Cool! 

Being a little tipsy, I thought I would help this commenter expand on his comment to me.

to MYSELF:

You suck.  You talk like you’re a GOD or something, thinking you’re right and everyone is wrong.  What hubris!  Do not the stars shine on us all?  Do we not all fall and stumble?  If you are a GOD, you are a weak one.  You stand there naked, your stance unsteady, pleading for a woman’s flesh.  You are no knight going into battle, or even a farmer growing fruit.  You are just a man, drunk on margaritas, hours after therapy, taking off your glasses, your body wanting.  

Besides, no real God would order the chicken tacos at El Torito.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Wolfgang Puck Hates My Family

Beautiful

I read over the last few posts and thought there was too much sex stuff going on. I really feel like expressing something beautiful today, like a tender poem, written from the heart. I just can’t think of anything. Sorry.

I searched on Google for a famous painting that I consider beautiful, a Gauguin or a Matisse, and I was going to just publish it as an example of beauty, but it just seemed stupid, publishing someone else’s famous painting.

A few weeks ago, Sophia and I were staying in a hotel, and on Saturday night, there was an Indian wedding. The women and men both wore such exotic clothes, multi-colored saris of the finest fabrics and rare silks for the women, and light-colored suits with intricate embroidery that enhanced the dark complexions of the Indian men.

Indian wedding clothes are beautiful.

I don’t find mountains as beautiful as grasslands. I think I would like living on a farm for a while. I really love rivers. Rivers are beautiful. The Brooklyn Bridge is beautiful. I would like to live by a brook. I really enjoy the sound of water moving, even when I’m standing in the shower. I can shower for an hour. I like to move around, letting the water hit me in different spots, listening to the shower spray off me at different angles, which changes the musical tone of the final splash.

I like that last line. It makes me laugh. The line isn’t beautiful, but laughter is.

There’s no point to this post. I like that. Not everything has to have a point. Like when you give a flower to a girl. What can she do with the flower? Not much other than look at it and enjoy the beauty.

I wish this post was more beautiful, like the sunset in Malibu or the leaves changing to orange in Vermont during the briskness of early Fall.

But I’m not God, so it isn’t easy.

Truth and Fiction

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When I took baths as a child, I would create James Bond-type adventure movies right in the bathtub. I didn’t use toys. My hands were my toys. Each hand was a different character. My right hand was the “hero” and the other was the “villain.” These “movies” were action-packed. My hands would have have fist fights. They would swim during underwater battles. The soap dish was a mountain cliff in Hawaii, and when the right hand was trapped by the evil left hand, the hero would jump off the cliff into the “ocean” below. As the hero swam away, he make his final escape by boarding his super-powered motorboat, which was played by my Penis. There was nothing sexual in any of this. My hands and my Penis were actors in a studio blockbuster.

My Penis retired from acting for several years, then — like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction — he made a dramatic comeback when I started this blog. My conversations with my Penis in this blog are not a joke to me.  I see them as true, as I do most of things that I write about on this blog.   At times, they might take place in an alternative reality, one different than the one where I went to Mamma Mia with Sophia.

I’ve always had the habit of drifting off into fantasy. Maybe I should talk about this when I go into therapy. Do I use fantasy to escape from reality? Am I still stuck in a world where James Bond still lives in a bathtub in Flushing, New York, and uses my Penis as a motorboat?

When I was twelve, my mind would drift off at the dinner table while the adults talked. As they blabbed, I would imagine the entire table levitating That’s sort of cute. But it’s not adorable to do this as an adult.

In a few weeks, I’m supposed to be moving out of “Sophia’s place.” How am I dealing with this? Am I looking for a new apartment? Have a made a decision about living in NY or LA? No. I’m completely avoiding thinking about it. So, what AM I thinking about?

You already know. How long would it take me to sleep with 50 women in all 50 states?

As Sophia might say, “Like a child.”

One of my fears about therapy is that I will actually have to look at things IN REALITY, something I try to avoid at all costs, like watching Regis and Kelly .

Yesterday, I called up a clinic about going to therapy with one of their therapists. Today, some intern called up and wanted to interview me — on the phone — to learn more about me before I came in for a session.

She asked me all sort of personal questions.

“Do you feel anxious a lot?” she asked.

“Sometimes… uh, maybe… not all the time, but sure, when something is going on that causes anxiety…”

I was not prepared for her questions, certainly not by some faceless intern, who I visualized as a pretty twenty-something brunette with tortoise-shell glasses. I don’t want her to think I’m a loser!

“How is your sex life?” she asked. “Are you happy with your work?” What can you afford to pay?” Are you taking any medications? Have you ever been hospitalized for a psychiatric problem?”

“Uh… it is… uh… uh… no, of course no. Sex life? Well, we are separated, but…. Work? You mean real work? Are you supposed to like work? Sure, everyone can be happier. I’m happy enough? What do you mean about happy?”

Later, during dinner at the Cheesecake Factory, Sophia took me to task.

“Why didn’t you just answer her the truthfully?” she asked. “You shouldn’t go into therapy if you are going to lie to the therapist.”

“I didn’t lie. I wanted to tell her the real truth. I’m just not sure what the “real” truth is?”

“You’re not going to tell me about this childish alternative reality nonsense again? Do you want to do therapy or not?!”

“Well, of course I want to do therapy. It’s just… it’s…it’s…”

Suddenly, our table started to levitate, floating in the air at the Cheesecake Factory. Sophia was so astounded by this amazing event that we never did finish the rest of our conversation.

And that’s the truth.

The Next Neilochka Adventure!

First there was —

Neilochka and the Sorcerer’s Wand

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Audiences around the world loved the first book of the Neilochka series, as we first meet the young Neilochka, his separated wife, the Sorceress Sophia, and Neilochka’s trusty talking “magic wand.”  After the death of his father, the wizard-in-training and the Sorceress Sophia go on several magical and enchanting adventures, including the exciting battle over the Golden Coupon at Lord Dumbledum’s Olive Garden.

And then you were enchanted by —

Neilochka and the Chamber of Redondowarts

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The second Neilochka book, another fan favorite, was the perfect blend of wit, whimsy, and macabre, as Neilochka and Sorceress Sophia try to live together in the mysterious Redondowarts School, an imaginative, garden-filled school of Witchcraft, Wizardry, and Purple Bathrobes.   The tone of this sequel turns dark as the duo face the evil Pink Dragon of Fire, but they are luckily aided by two of the series’ most colorful characters, the Baby Pigeon of Dimwit and Queen Abbbabba, the musical Dancing Queen.

and now, coming soon  –!

Neilochka and the Order of the Mistress

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Soon, readers everywhere will be spellbound by the most breath-taking Neilochka book ever!  The heart of Book 3 is a hero’s journey, not just Neilochka’s search for fame and glory, but Neilochka’s journey into manhood.   Traumatized by her battle with the Pink Dragon, Sorceress Sophia is told by the Magic Headshrinker of Freudinroy that she requires healing.  Fans of the series will be shocked as the Sorceress requests that Neilochka leave Redondowarts for several months, giving her the space so she can work on her spells. 

But where will Neilochka go?  Will he go to the big city and reconnect with his long-lost mother or will he live as a prisoner in the Azkabian Bachelor Apartments of Muggyville?  Will Neilochka and the Sorceress ever reunite or is this their final chapter together?

Readers beware.  This journey is hard, filled with events both tragic and triumphant.  However, as long as Neilochka has his trusty talking magic wand, ready to  perform the protective Erecto Patronum when it is called for, he will never be truly alone.

L.A. Heat

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I love when it gets hot in L.A., 100 degrees hot, and the AC conks out for those on the 405, and Jesus Gonzalez climbs from his stalled Toyota truck, sweaty and wet, but happy because his radio still works, and his favorite song blasts on Latino 96.3, and the sisters Johnson — Francee and Frenchie from Compton, CA — exit their Hyundai and dance on the hood, stripped to their bras, and the Goodyear Blimp flies overhead, barely seen because the rising heat fogs up the sky like a steam room. 

“Pump it up, Jesus,” I yell from above. 

I am the pilot of the Goodyear Blimp. I came to L.A. in ’87 from Phoenix, after my bitter divorce.   “Louder!”  I cry, only knowing the song because it is a favorite of Rhonda, the fortyish woman I met at Winchell’s Donuts a few days ago, the woman I left in bed this morning with her nipples still hard, the one I thought about all morning while eating my Egg McMuffin, while reading about the Dodgers, while driving to my job in which I fly the Goodyear Blimp high in the air, over the oven of a city, over the traffic of the 405, over the music blasting from the Toyota truck of Jesus, over the sisters Johnson, dancing in their bras, and while I listen to the beat and the Spanish lyrics that I cannot understand, I swear I can feel Rhonda’s heat still on my fingers.

The Pigeon on the Patio – Part 3

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The Pigeon on the Patio – Part 1

The Pigeon on the Patio – Part 2 

Whether the little bird had a heart attack or not, was a moot point.  It was dead.  I had to remove it from our patio. 

The atmosphere on our patio had completely changed.  Just a few moments ago, the flowers were a sign of beauty and life.  Now the patio made me think of a cemetery with wreaths.  I got the shoe box ready and reached for the dead pigeon.  This would be his final trip.  The poor creature was gone before he even had a chance to fly.  If only he once had the joy of flying with the wind, looking down at the world where the humans would appear small to him.  Small, but close enough to crap on their heads. 

I want to fly like a pigeon
To the sea
Fly like an pigeon
Let my spirit carry me
I want to fly like a pigeon
Till I’m free

Time seemed to stop as I gently grasped the pigeon with my left hand, when suddenly, there was a crazy movement, prying my hands open.  The dead pigeon screamed, chirping louder than ever. 

He wasn’t dead, only faking it!  What a clever sun-of-a-pigeon!

“He’s alive.  The mother****er is alive!” I yelled to Sophia, as if I had just seen a miracle akin to Jesus being resurrected.

I tried to grab it again, shaking like a leaf (me, not the pigeon).  I totally missed the bird, because this time the pigeon didn’t just retreat.  He careened right past me and across the patio, weaving his way in and out through the obstacle course of pots and patio chairs.  It was if the bird had never walked before, but nature or God and adrenaline had finally given him this amazing ability to be the fastest pigeon that ever existed.

“Get him” yelled Sophia.  “Get him!”

I ran after the bird, but he kept on zigging and zagging out of the way, like LaDainian Tomlinson of the San Diego Chargers. 

“He’s under the patio table,” said Sophia.

I took the shoebox and tried to block his way, and then I went to scoop him up, like a ball in a glove.   The little pigeon ran away again, but this time — horror of horrors — he ran straight INTO OUR LIVING ROOM!

“You forgot to close the patio door, you idiot!” screamed Sophia.  “We now have a  f***ing  pigeon inside our house!”

Now, in the past, I’ve heard Sophia use some “salty” language, but nothing compares to what she said to me when she saw this dirty pigeon running under our couch.  Even Samuel L. Jackson would blush.

“Neil, get that ******** pigeon the **** out of the ******** living room***** right the **** now!  I don’t care what the ****  you need to do!  Do it!”

And then she added some long-winded curses in Russian, Hebrew, and Arabic that I couldn’t understand, which was probably for the best.

I chased the pigeon under the coffee table and finally trapped it behind the entertainment center.  He had nowhere to turn.  I was on one side, the cabinet on the other, an extension cord blocking him from a quick getaway.   I was shaking so much that I leaned against the entertainment center for support, perhaps too strongly, until Sophia screamed out, “Be careful!  The big screen TV is going to topple over and kill both of you!”

The pigeon and I were both crazed by this point — man vs. beast, both breathing as heavily as we could.  But as it says in Genesis, man shall be ruler over beast.  I also knew that Sophia would kill me if I left a pigeon walking around the living room.  I finally grabbed the sucker and placed him in the shoebox, quickly covering the box.  I could feel the pigeon bouncing up and down, but I held it down with all my might.

“Open up the ****** front door!” I screamed to Sophia.  “Open it NOW!”

Sophia threw open the front door and I ran outside without my shoes, carrying the shoebox, protecting the pigeon like it was the most precious cargo, bringing it across the street and out of any danger. 

Across the street from our house is a tree-lined area which is shady and inaccessible from the main street.  I propped the shoe box near a branch that was both low enough to prevent the bird from falling and hurting himself, but high enough to keep him out of reach of the cat.  The pigeon jumped out of the box, onto the branch, and scrambled away until I couldn’t see him anymore.  He was on his own now.  I had the proud but sad feeling that a father must have when he sends his son away to college.

I returned home, my heart still racing.  Sophia was glad that the whole experience was over.  She was ready to return to the patio to work on the flowers.  But I WASN’T ready yet.

“That’s it.  I’m done for the day.” I said, without hesitation.  “I’m sitting outside in the front and having a beer.”

“Did you just say you are having a beer?”

I opened the fridge and took out a bottle of Stella Artois.  It had been sitting there for months because Sophia couldn’t drink during her surgeries, and I never drink beer.  I don’t even like beer. 

Today, I felt like having a beer.  Beer feels manly.  I felt manly.

I sat outside on this white plastic chair that we keep near the front door and enjoyed my manly beer. 

Will the bird survive?  Who knows. I can’t run his life, anymore than my father could run mine.   Later that night, I would finally receive a call back from some woman at the Los Angeles Animal Control.   She told me that the bird probably fell out of the nest and if so, he was in danger of being eaten by a cat.  She also said that the mother pigeon must have put him in that bushy corner for protection until he can fly, and was feeding him there.

I gasped. 

“My god!  I separated a child from his mother?  I broke the sacred bond!  How will she ever find him?”

“The mother will always find him,” she said.  “She will recognize the chirping.  You did good.”

I did good.   I felt heroic.   Most importantly, I knew my father was impressed.  I could hear him say, “This is the best Father’s Day gift I ever received.”

The next day, the pigeons thanked me by taking a crap on my car.  I think my father would find that funny. 

Happy Father’s Day and Happy Birthday, Dad.   Be of good cheer.

The Pigeon on the Patio – Part 2

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(The Pigeon on the Patio - Part 1) 

My first step after deciding to save the baby pigeon from the clutches of the cat was to go upstairs and log onto Yahoo Messenger, hoping that some blogger was online who might have some insights on what to do next.  Of course, as usual, no one was online when I needed someone.  I only get “buzzed” by an “online friend” when I’m about to do some important work or I’m in the middle of having virtual sex on Second Life.

My mind raced, looking for a solution.  I decided to call Petco, remembering that there was a store on Pacific Coast Highway, right next to the overpriced “gourmet” Mexican cafe.

“Petco!,” answered the whiny voice of what I imagined to be a bored female sophomore of El Camino Community College, stuck with an awful summer job.

“Hi there,” I said.  “Is there anyone in the store who specializes in birds?”

“She’s on vacation.”

“Maybe you can you help me.”

“I’ll try.”

“Well… this might sound like an odd question, but I live near your store and there’s a baby pigeon on my patio that may be injured or can’t fly, and I have no idea what I should do…”

“And how CAN I help you?”

“I thought you might be able to tell me what to do or who I should call for help.”

“Uh, I don’t know.  Did you buy the bird at Petco?”

“It’s a pigeon.”

“So, you didn’t buy the bird at Petco?”

“It’s a pigeon.  You know, like the pigeons that fly around all over the place… all over the world”

“So maybe it will just fly away.”

“I don’t think it can fly.  That’s the problem.”

“Do you know how to use the computer?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you can do a search on Google for this type of bird.  Do you know how to do that?”

Yes, that’s how I found you.  Would you know if I should feed it?”

“We do sell bird seed.  Different birds eat different bird seed.  What type of bird do you have?”

“It’s a PIGEON!”

“We carry parakeet food.  But I don’t see any pigeon seeds listed on the computer.”

Jesus.  Petco — the “Best Buy” of the pet world.

“OK, THANK YOU,” I said, having just wasted precious moments of my life with a woman who will, no doubt, one day  end up doing something important, like running Paramount Pictures.

I went back downstairs and told Sophia about my decision:  we needed to feed it, in case it was starving.

“Feed it what?”  she asked.

I went into the kitchen, and returned with a box of Cheerios.  I handed her the box and asked her to feed him for me. 

“Why me?”  asked Sophia.

“Babies like to be fed by their “mother.” I said. 

I made this up.  I just didn’t want to do it.  Despite the bird’s tiny size, I was afraid of going near it, thinking it might bite me and give me rabies.  And, besides, this bird was particularly ugly.

Sophia threw some Cheerios in the vicinity of the bird.  We waited and watched, but the pigeon didn’t budge.

“Let’s move away and not watch him.” I said.  “Maybe he doesn’t like to eat while people watch.”

I’m not sure why I came up with that theory.  After a certain age, you come up with bits of information in your brain, some factual and some nonsense.  I vaguely remembered reading that dogs didn’t like to go to the bathroom while people stared, because it made them insecure.  I could understand this, because I also hated it when I was on the toilet and Sophia came in to grab a hairbrush.   Maybe birds only eat when they are alone, like the anorexic models in Brentwood.

We walked away and turned our backs to the bird, letting him enjoy his Cheerios in peace.  We waited a bit, then returned to see what happened.  The pigeon hadn’t touched the Cheerios.  He retreated even further into the corner, as if he was deathly afraid of the product’s “wholesome oat goodness.”

“I’ll be back,” I told Sophia, saying it with the inflection of a Jewish Terminator.

“Where are you going NOW?” she asked.

“I’m getting HIM some bird seed.”

I went to the supermarket, where I was surprised to learn that they actually HAD bird seed..   I chose the seeds that looked the smallest, hoping that these would be the easiest for the tiny bird to eat, the equivalent of giving Gerber baby food to an infant.

 I returned with the seeds and handed the bag to Sophia.

“Why don’t you do it?” she asked.

‘You’re the mother.”  I said, trying to manipulate her by appealing to her maternal instincts.

Sophia spread some seeds near the bird.  We looked away and waited.  Nothing.  The bird didn’t move an inch.

“Well, we tried,” said Sophia.  “We should get back to work.  Maybe someone will give us an answer soon.” 

She was eager to finish the planting so we could set up our new fountain.  She was excited about hearing the calming water as it dribbled down the three “levels” of fake stone.

Maybe Sophia was right. 

“We tried,” I told myself.  “We did our best.  If the bird doesn’t want to eat, its his own fault.   I don’t know how to protect the bird from the cat.  Nature is dangerous.  I’m not bringing the pigeon inside to live with us.  I don’t even want to touch it.   It’s a stupid, ugly pigeon.  I’m not sticking my neck out and get rabies just for a dumb bird.”

I was about to give up completely when I felt the presence of my father — and I felt ashamed of myself for wanting to give up so easily.

“I’m going to call Los Angeles Animal Control,” I told Sophia.  “Maybe they’ll come over and take him away.”

“Isn’t Animal Control there for taking away crazy pitbulls?”-  said Sophia.

Since it was Father’s Day, no one answered the phone at animal control.  There was only a long recorded message asking me to leave my phone number, and that “someone would get back to me.”

“…if this is about an injured or abandoned bird, please press #5.”

I pressed #5 and listened to further instructions on what to do.  Apparently, I needed to take care of the situation myself.  To prevent the bird from being in harm’s way, I needed to put him into a box, then move him to a safe location, perhaps high on a tree branch.

I told Sophia the details, then took a shoe box from her closet.  I handed it to Sophia.

“You need to get him into the box…” I said to her. 

Sophia glared at me.  She was done doing my dirty work.

“If you really want to deal with this bird, YOU DO IT.  Stop being such a scaredy cat, no pun intended.”

She knew me well.  I was scared of the bird. 

I slowly went over to the corner of the patio and got down on my knees.  The bird was pretty far back, so the only way to reach him was to stick my hand around some overgrown tree roots, and then all the way in to take hold of him. 

And there was NO WAY I was doing this. 

 I took another approach.  I decided to reason with the baby pigeon.

“Come into the box, little bird.  It’s for your own safety.  Come here.  Tweet tweet.  I won’t hurt you.  Tweet tweet tweet!”

The pigeon stubbornly ignored me.  Sophia laughed, but not a fun laugh.  A mocking laugh.

This made my blood boil.  Now I needed to prove myself to the woman I once married.  I leaned forward, hoping to get more leverage, moving closer to the bird, until I saw those beady eyes peering at me from out of the darkness, and fear stabbed me in right in the stomach.  I couldn’t do it.  The anxiety was overwhelming.  

The neighbors next door were having an afternoon BBQ party.  I thought about going over to their house and asking someone for help.  Surely, one of the guests MUST have some experience with birds.   Then I looked over at Sophia.  Would she ever be able to look at me like a man again if I ran crying to the neighbors’ house?

I took several deep breaths, trying to wipe my mind of all fear, hypnotizing myself into emptiness, and forcing myself to just GO FOR IT.

After placing the empty shoebox at my side, I reached behind the tree and into the heart of darkness.  My finger grazed a bit of feather, and then my hand began to surround the pigeon’s tiny body.  I could feel the bird’s heat and the vibration of his life energy.  Just as I was about to grip him, there was a sudden jolt and the pigeon SCREECHED loudly, with a might and power that even surprised the bird himself, as he flapped his useless wings and twirled like a Waring blender.  I jumped up, shrieking in unison.  I released the bird, then pulled my hand back to protect myself, banging the back of my hand against the wall.  The pigeon jumped up and down, as if he was having an epileptic fit, banging his wings into the branches of the tree.  It then slid back into the corner, in a final kamikaze move… and then there was SILENCE.  Absolutely NO SOUND, other than my own rapid breathing.  I slowly pushed my finger in, touched the front of the little bird, but there was no movement.  He was like a solid rock… lifeless.

“I think I just killed the pigeon!” I yelled at Sophia.  “I scared the hell out of him.  I killed him!”

What could be worse?  I wanted to save the bird for my father.  Instead, he died in the same way my father did – by having a heart attack!

(CONCLUSION TOMORROW)

Transform Your Blog into a Book!

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I felt guilty about my last post since mommybloggers have been so nice to me lately, sending Sophia cards and wishing her well on her surgery. And how do I respond? — by attacking their precious children! What a jerk I am!

It occurred to me that people write what they know. Businessmen write blogs about stocks and Microsoft. Mommies write about their kids. What’s so wrong about that? (except for the fact that so many of these mommybloggers never come to read my blog) But that’s my fault, not theirs.

Sometimes, I wish I had a clearcut theme… I wish I could say I was a “something”-blogger. It gives you an instant community. I love all my readers and blogging friends, but I’m not sure how to describe this bizarre community. I always hear about bloggers getting book deals from their blogs. I think agents and publishers also like blogs that have a clearcut theme or “story,” because it helps them visualize the book.

For example:

Blog about having sex with everyone in Washington D.C. = book about having sex with everyone in Washington D.C.

Blog about working for big law firm and having sex with everyone in law firm = book about working for big law firm and having sex with everyone in law firm.

Blog about working in hip restaurant and having sex with customers = Book about working in hip restaurant and having sex with customers

Blog about getting divorced and taking up knitting = Book about getting divorce and taking up knitting (I’m not sure how much sex is in this one, though, but there are a lot of cats)

Blog about being a wonderful mommy = book about being a wonderful mommy.

WTF is my blog about?

I’ve been really distraught about this issue, but luckily, like magic, help came this morning in the way of a pop-up ad while using Internet Explorer (kids, use Firefox!) It seems that writing guru Ann Mcindoo has all the answers to turning your blog into a book.

A book? From my blog? What fun! After taking one of her very short seminars, I’m now about to visualize the whole plot of my book.

Agents! Publishers! Here is the summary of “Citizen of the Month,” the book:

Writer guy in Los Angeles is separated from his wild foreign-born wife. Sexually frustrated, he tries to flirt with women online, but they end up mostly seeing him as their “metrosexual” friend, except for that one time he went a little further with a nice blogger back East. Guy’s Penis gets upset at him and wants him to start f**king again, and threatens to “move on” if he doesn’t get any p***y. Guy’s beloved father dies but continues talking to his son from the beyond, telling him to “always be good to women.” Guy’s mother transforms her life and becomes a professional Mah Jongg player, while having an affair with Santa Claus. Guy sneaks back to live with his separated wife when she is away working and he then refuses to leave, even though he isn’t very fond of living in Redondo Beach, finding it too “goyish.” Separated wife faces breast cancer. Penis scolds guy for not paying him “enough attention.” Mother scolds guy for forgetting to send mother’s day card. Separated Wife scolds guy for telling her “don’t be upset” over having surgery. Blogger comments on Dooce, but gets no response.

The end.

(but in the Hollywood version of the book, Dooce does comment, and they have an affair, which makes guy’s wife jealous, so guy and separated wife reunite in a gala second wedding in Hawaii, officiated by Communicatrix. During their second honeymoon in Italy, guy’s totally satisfied-sexually wife tells husband that he is a “real man who should be shared with the world,” and that it is OK for him to continue flirting with other female bloggers — in fact, it is his destiny!)

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