Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Literary (Page 16 of 17)

Plagiarism, Lies, and Total BS in Writing

May 1, 2006 / / 43 Comments

 

This weekend in Los Angeles was the 11th Annual Los Angeles Times Festival of Books.   It's an enormous literary event attracting  thousands of readers to the UCLA campus to attend lectures by such high-profile writers as Frank McCourt, Mitch Albom, Mary Higgins Clark, Joan Didion, Sebastian Junger, Joyce Carol Oates, Gay Talese, Amy Tan, Susan Vowell, and Gore Vidal.

I was very honored to be asked by the festival organizers to moderate one of the most controversial seminars, titled "Plagiarism, Lies, and Total BS in Writing." The panel consisted of several noted writers:

Kaavya Viswanathan, the Harvard undergraduate who's been accused of liberal 'borrowing' for How Opal Mehta got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life.  I had just written a post about her, so I was very familiar with her situation.

James Frey, who wholly fabricated details of his outlaw life in order to sell his book, "A Million Little Pieces."

Jayson Blair, the New York Times reporter who faked quotes and even entire interviews, and plagiarized from other newspapers.

Michael Hiltzik, who just lost his LA Times "Golden State" column this weekend after it was found out that he was putting phony comments on his own LA.Times blog.

William Shakespeare, noted dramatist and poet, who plagiarized most of his historical plots from Raphael Holinshed's Chronicles.

A complete transcript of the seminar can be found at the book festival website.

The Dark Side

April 27, 2006 / / 42 Comments

I think it all started in the seventh grade.  Up until then, I was always the goody-two shoes in school, the student who was always picked to be the "Citizen of the Month."  I had no knowledge at all of the "dark side."  But then, in seventh grade, something changed.  There was a New York City teachers' strike that year that was causing chaos in the school system.   I remember having ten substitute English teachers that one year.

Our class was incredibly mean to these substitute teachers.   Some kids threw spitballs; some threw paper airplanes.  The third substitute teacher was a nervous wreck.  Every time she would turn her back, the class would intentionally bang their desks against the floor, using their knees to lift the desks up and down.  When the teacher would turn to face the class, everyone quickly stopped the banging and feigned innocence.  One day, this hard luck teacher just disappeared in the middle of the day, and we later heard rumors that she had a nervous breakdown in the teachers' lounge.

I'm proud to say that I never participated in any of this nastiness.  But, then again, I never took a stand or protested, an action a more heroic student might have done.  Lisa Simpson would have said something.   I just pegged my peers as "immature" and hoped for the strike to end, so we could go back to learning punctation and grammar.  How would I do well on my SAT?

Finally, English teacher substitute #10 showed up.   I don't remember his name.   I just remember that he had wild hair and looked like an ex-hippy, more comfortable at a Grateful Dead concert than a classroom.  Where did they find this guy?  When the class started to get rowdy, he told us that he was a black belt in karate.  At first no one believed him, but then he showed us some of his moves, which really impressed the class. He became an instant favorite, particularly with the boys.   Although he was very entertaining, he was probably the worst English teacher ever.   He never taught us anything.  Some days he would just let us sit at our desks and read whatever we wanted.

One day, after the bell rang, substitute #10 — who's name I still can't recall — asked me to stay after class.  I was horrified, thinking I did something wrong, but it wasn't the case at all.

"I see you like to read a lot of books." he said.

"I do."

"Me, too.   Reading is great.  Reading can really blow your mind.  You want to read some of my favorite books?" he asked.

"Uh, sure," I said, having never said "no" to a teacher before, being a "Citizen of the Month."   This was still very unusual for me — a teacher offering me books to read…

He opened his briefcase and took out three large books.

"It's called "The Lord of the Rings."  It's going to blow your mind."

I had never heard of these books.   They actually sounded pretty weird, and dangerous. 

The dark side.

Those Dancing Feet

April 20, 2006 / / 27 Comments

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On Saturday, writer and blogger Billy Mermit is offering a seminar at UCLA titled "Exploring the Core Elements of Storytelling in Film and Fiction." which will deal with the similarities and differences of "story" in movies and literature.   It sounds like an exciting seminar.  While thinking about the subject matter last night, it occurred to me that one difference is obvious — the writer of fiction must use the written word to convey EVERYTHING, while a filmmaker has many tools, such as visuals and music to manipulate the audience.   We all know the cliche "a picture is worth a thousand words."   One glance of a movie actor can equal  ten pages of description.   Visual content seems to always do a better job in capturing our attention.  As an example — yesterday, I spent a good amount of time writing my "sexology" post.  I spent one minute uploading the photo of the "penis bed."   Can you guess which was talked about twice as much in the comments?

Some of you are amazingly good writers.  You convey all of your emotions and information through Words.  You create imagery and poetry through the English language.  

I’m a lazy writer.  Words frequently fail me.  That’s why I reach for every trick in the book — photos, songs, cheap sex jokes.

Some of my favorite blogger-writers are meeting in New York this weekend for TequilaCon 06.  I’ve been excited about this event for over a month.  Even though I already have an airline ticket, I unfortunately needed to cancel my trip, since I have some pressing matters I need to deal with in Los Angeles. 

I am very disappointed about not going to New York this weekend and meeting some of you.   I hope those who attend will think of me as there in spirit.  I hope everyone has a great time in New York.  I wish I could better communicate my emotions to you, but, as usual, I can’t find the words.  So, I guess I’ll need another way of showing you my love — through the magic of tap dancing.

ORCHESTRA STARTS PLAYING.

I rip off my clothes to reveal a tuxedo underneath.  Sophia throws me a top hat and cane.   I jump on top of my bed.  The entire bed levitates and a staircase folds out in front of me, covered with flickering lights  A neon "New York City Skyline" descends in the background.  I start to SING:

Come and meet those dancing feet,
On the avenue I’m taking you to,
Forty-Second Street.
Hear the beat of dancing feet,
It’s the song I love the melody of,
Forty-Second Street.

Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap
Tap Tap
Tap
Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap 

David Sedaris Ruined My Blog

February 27, 2006 / / 58 Comments

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Most of my blogging friends think of me as a sophisticated bon vivant, a modern-day Oscar Wilde, known for his wit and clever wordplay.  So when a fellow blogger recently asked me for my opinion of David Sedaris, one of America’s best known humorists, I immediately said, “He’s excellent.”  This is not the first time that I’ve given someone my whole-hearted approval of a writer that I’ve never read, heard, or seen.   Have you read Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow?  It’s an amazing novel!  I never read it.

Today, I was driving past my local Barnes and Noble when I said to myself, “Maybe today’s a good day to finally read some David Sedaris.”  There were four reasons I decided to read him today:

1)  I have some socializing planned in the near future.  What if David Sedaris comes up in a conversation and I have to say something smart?

2)  I’m interested in impressing women, and I know women like it when a man is “sensitive” enough to enjoy reading a “gay writer.”

3)  I know David Sedaris writes essays, which are usually short and easy to read, so his writing won’t take too much time away from “Dancing with the Stars.”

4)  I could  read the book right in Barnes and Noble and save myself fifteen bucks!

I entered the bookstore and found David Sedaris right in the “Funny Gay Essayists” section.  There were a number of his books there, but I chose “Me Talk Pretty One Day,” mostly because the light green jacket cover matched the color of the Zen Green Tea that I had just bought at the in-store cafe.  I settled down at a table and started to read the book.

It was a mistake to read David Sedaris.

The first story, Go Carolina, was about Mr. Sedaris’ experience in his elementary school’s Speech Therapy Lab, which he was forced to attend because he lisped.

“Shit,” I said to myself, “He’s screwing up one of my stories that I was saving to put on my blog!”

When I was in elementary school, I lisped.  My friend, Rob, and I used to go visit Mr. Fox, the speech teacher.  We would repeat the same ridiculous statements over and over:

“Silly Sally sat by the seashore and something something something…”

Sucked Some Sailor’s Salami.  Or something like that.

When I went to sleepaway camp, I was nicknamed “Juice,” because at breakfast, I would lisp, “Please pass the juith.”  Even when the lisp disappeared (thanks to orthodontal work), I still was called “Juice.”  I loved my nickname.  Recently, I got an email from someone I haven’t seen since I was thirteen years old.  He went to camp with me and found me via my blog.   He is currently a therapist with two children.   He still called me “Juice.”

So what can I do with my lisping story now?  I certainly can’t write a blog post about my speech class.   I just know some jerk is going to write in the comments, “Hey, did you rip that idea off of David Sedaris?”  Or someone will send me an email, “What’s the matter, Neil?   So desperate for blog ideas that you’re stealing stuff hoping we don’t notice?  Well, I noticed!  And I’m taking your off my blogroll.  There’s no place for cheats and crooks on my site.  I’m disgusted with you.  I spit at my monitor — and at your second-rate blog.”

You can imagine how upset I was, sitting there in Barnes and Noble.   A great personal story, gone to waste.

I moved on to the second essay in the book, titled, “Giant Dream, Midget Abilities.”  In this essay, Sedaris’ father, a jazz aficionado, pushes his children into learning musical instruments.  David Sedaris is pushed into guitar lessons, but he isn’t very interested in the guitar.

“This Sedaris guy is a real bitch.” I said to myself.  “He’s screwing up another one of my great stories!”

When I  was a kid, my father pushed me (and my friend, Rob, again) into taking guitar lessons.  I found learning to play guitar incredibly boring.  My father kept on telling me that when I got to college, I would appreciate knowing to play the guitar.

“All the girls will gather around you in the dorm as you’re playing some beautiful song — and I promise you – they all will be falling in love with you.”

His image was more Peter, Paul, and Mary than Van Halen, but even so, as a twelve year old, I had little interest in girls “loving me.”  I quit my guitar lessons.  My guitar still sits in my room in Flushing, years later, leaning against the closet.

Giving up the guitar was probably the dumbest, stupidest thing I ever did in all my life.   In my Columbia College dorm, I had an ugly neighbor who used to have sex all the time with the most gorgeous girls, all because he would play Springsteen songs for them on his guitar, melting their hearts right into his bed.  I once tried to impress a sophomore girl by playing the “Theme from Star Wars” on my clarinet, but it just didn’t have the same effect.

I love my guitar story.  But now it is as good as dead.  Thank you, David Sedaris!    I know I could get in trouble with the gay community for saying this — but I hate your guts!

After reading this second story, I spit out my green tea and ran to the bookshelf.  My goal:  to skim through every essay that David  Sedaris has ever published.   My biggest fear as a writer is being told that “someone already wrote something exactly like you just did.”

Luckily, my next post is safe — a terrific autobiographical slice of life that really happened to me.  Thank God David Sedaris never wrote an essay about his experience going out to sea to kill a giant whale.  You’re going to love this story.

Ms. Neilochka

January 27, 2006 / / 59 Comments

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Because of the well-oiled media machine that loves this stuff,  I’m sure you’ve heard of the controversial book, Self-Made Man, by journalist Norah Vincent.  In it, Ms. Vincent dresses up as a man to explore what life is like as the opposite sex.   The reviews have been mixed,  especially in view of the author’s "shocking" revelations:

Strip joints are about "pure sex drive – completely empty of any meaningful interaction."

OR

Male sexuality is "a bodily function. It’s a necessity. It’s such a powerful drive and I think because we [women] don’t have testosterone in our systems, we don’t understand how hard it is."

You can hear her being interviewed here.

Like Ms. Vincent, I’ve always been curious about what makes the opposite gender tick.  What is it that makes women so mysterious?  So sexy?  How do they view us?  What hardships do they have to go through on a daily basis that I, as a male, can never understand?

Today, I found out.  I went undercover as a woman.

I woke up early in the morning to begin my experiment.   Luckily, Sophia had left some of her clothes over at my apartment. Like Robert De Niro in Raging Bull, I was going to get completely into my character. 

I started by putting on a pair of Sophia’s cotton panties, the cute ones that say "If You Can Read This, You’re Getting Laid" on the ass.   Next was picking the outfit, which wasn’t as easy as I expected.  I once saw a neighbor on the second floor wearing the same Donna Karan dress that Sophia left in the closet, so there was no way I was going to wear it today.  What if I met the neighbor in the elevator and we were wearing the same outfit?!  How embarrassing. 

I finally settled on this perfect little black dress that Sophia found at Nordstrom.  It was simple, but chic.  It also did wonders for my figure.  Girl, you don’t want to hear about my hips since I drank all that egg nog at Christmas!  Don’t worry, soon I’m going to start that New Years’s resolution and go to the gym.  Yeah, right.

The best part of my outfit were my new shoes.  Ladies, look and weep!

After I was dressed, I grabbed my purse and headed out.  I decided to start my experiment at my local Ralphs Supermarket.  Would I be treated there any differently as a female than I had been as a male?

As I went up and down the aisles, I made sure that I only  bought gender-specific products:  low-fat yogurt, low-fat ice cream,  low-fat milk, Kotex, and Soap Opera Digest.  I did buy one small package of regular Oreos, but don’t tell the others at Weight Watchers.

At the check-out counter was a real hunk.  He was a good-looking young Latino with strong arms and sparkling blue eyes.  He scanned my items and I took out my VISA.  As I swiped my credit card, I noticed that he was staring at me.

"So, this is what its like to be a woman." I thought.  "To be a constant object of a man’s animal-like lust."

"I.D.," he said.

Suddenly, I realized I had a problem.  As I rubbed my chin, which is a nervous tic of mine,  it occurred to me that I had forgotten to shave and I had three-day old stubble. 

I handed him my I.D.

"Neil Kramer?"

"Yes."

"You look very different here."

"Oh, that’s a terrible photo of me anyway!  I never come out good in photos.  I always look so fat!"

"Excuse me for asking.  But, uh, Neil Kramer, are you a lady?"

I knew I had to lie.  Or my experiment would be ruined.

"Yes, I am.  And that’s Ms. Kramer to you,"

"It says here on your I.D. that you’re a man."

"Maybe you need glasses, sir."

"I don’t need any glasses.   Do you have another photo I.D.?"

"I resent the way you’re being condescending to me just because I’m a woman."

"Listen, you’re a dude, man."

"Oh, so why are you looking at my cleavage?"

"You have no cleavage.  You’re as flat as a tortilla."

"Misogynist!"

"What?  What the hell does that mean?  Is that some sort of insult about me being Mexican?"

"Oh, I heard about you Mexican guys.  You talk a good game, but three minutes in the sack and you go "adios, muchacha."

"I’ll show you adios, muchacha, you bitch!"

The Ralphs check-out guy jumped over the counter and threw himself at me.

"What the… Help!  Help!  This man is attacking a woman!"

‘You’re no fucking woman.  You’re loco, man.  Loco."

"Help!  Rapist!  The feminists are right!  They’re all rapists!  Men are all rapists!  Police!"

Luckily, there were three LAPD officers in the supermarket, buying a box of Krispy Kremes.  They jumped the check-out guy and knocked him out with a taser gun.  BZZZZ.

One of the cops was nice enough to comfort me.

"You’re OK now, Miss.  He’ll be out for quite a while." he said, as he pinched my ass.  "By the way, what are you doing later for dinner?"

MY CONCLUSION:  Men are Pigs.

Nauseous and Nauseated

January 25, 2006 / / 37 Comments

Sometimes I get so very sad because my English ain’t the best
Whenever we studied grammar in school, I always flunked the test

But today I made some progress with “nauseous and nauseated,”
For the rest of the day, I was goofing off — I felt so damn elated.

So, listen to the following and tell me how you feel.
And send me your good wishes to yahoo@dot.neil

I was sitting in a Starbucks, just doing my morning shtick
When outside, I see a homeless guy standing with his dick

Now, when I see a homeless guy who I think just masturbated,
Am I wrong to sit in Starbucks feeling all NAUSEATED?

According to Sophia, my grammar is atrocious,
But now I’ve learned, without a doubt — that guy was very NAUSEOUS.

So, hah-hah-hah — you see it? — I finally got it right!
Nauseous and Nauseated  — my ego’s taking flight.

I hope to use my brand new skills to talk to a new neighbor,
This amazing chick from UCLA, Professor Dina Haber.

So, speaking proper English is clearly my new aim,
I’m hoping I’ll get laid by this gorgeous classy dame.

My Brilliant Literary Career

January 19, 2006 / / 49 Comments

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Last week, Sophia was all upset about the James Frey story and his fraudulent memoir, "A Million Little Pieces." Well, actually, she was more upset at me. 

"It’s pretty clear that the book got sold because they thought he was an alcoholic and drug abuser."

"So?"

"So, you have no grit in your life.  You don’t even like beer."

"I like Merlot."

"No one wants to buy a memoir from someone who drinks Merlot.  You’re like that depressing guy from Sideways."

"I’ve smoked pot."

"When was the last time you smoked pot?"

"When I was 14.  But I didn’t really inhale."

"Jeez, you’re so vanilla.  Did you know I once went out with someone who liked to be spanked."

"Weirdo."

"He was a college professor."

"Why would anyone want to be spanked?  All my life, I’ve been proud that my mother never once had to spank me when I was a kid.  What would I tell her now?  Sorry, Mom, now I get spanked all the time."

"Hopeless."

So much for anyone ever buying my boring memoirs. 

But what about fiction? 

Well, today, there was another nail in the coffin for my non-existent writing career.

"Did you read Gawker today?" asked Sophia.

"No."

"Have you heard of Opinionista?"

"No."

"Well, it’s a blog written by an anonymous blogger, and it’s all about the inside stuff going on at her law firm."

"So?"

"So, she just revealed herself as Melissa Lafsky!"

"Do we know her?"

"No, but read this."

Sophia handed me "The New York Observer."  There was another article about this woman:

In recent months, Ms. Lafsky has been fluffing the pillows for her landing, a sort of “soft opening” phase for her product launch. Profiled but not named in The New York Times in November, she posed so that her face was obscured; in this month’s The American Lawyer, she hinted that her identity would soon be revealed; and her blog plugged an interview with The Observer minutes after the interview was complete.
 
Of course, prior to this week’s non-spontaneous self-disclosure, Ms. Lafsky had already procured herself an agent—ICM’s blog-adoring Kate Lee —and worked up 100 pages of a manuscript loosely based on her life as a lawyer-blogger. (“It’s not a roman à clef,” she said. “It’s not The Devil Wears Brooks Brothers!”)

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(Talented, Beautiful, and can Blog without looking at the monitor)
(photo by Melanie Flood)

I wasn’t sure what Sophia wanted me to make of all this.

"Good for her," I said.   "Or is this another one of those "I hate Stephanie Klein – type stories?"

"Don’t you get it," Sophia replied,  "There have been a number of anonymous bloggers that have gotten a lot of buzz by creating a mystery about who they are… and then they make a big reveal.  Do you see where this is going?"

"No."

"Only a really dumb blogger starts using his real name right from the beginning.  Like Neil Kramer.  You should have just been "Citizen of the Month" and then had a big reveal."

"Too late now."

"There’s nothing new for you to reveal.  Nothing buzz-worthy."

"I don’t know.  We can say I’m gay."

"Hmm…not bad.  We’re already separated.  We can say we got separated because you decided you were gay. 

"Good… good.. just how long do I have to be gay for?"

"Until you sell a book."

Jeez, that could be a long time."

"Well, you’ve always had a problem with procrastination.  Finally, we found a way to keep you focused.   No sex with a woman until you write a book."

"I’m not too sure about this idea." 

"Too much like a bad sitcom episode?"

"What if I’m gay, but you decide to transform me back to being straight again."

"Yeah, then I can write a book instead of you! — "The Gay Blogger and How I Made Him Straight Again.""

"Would I have to go around the rest of my life being known as "The Man Formerly Known as The Gay Blogger?"

Note:  After Melissa Lafsky signed with ICM agent Kate Lee and resigned from her law firm, she posed in a nightgown for a spread on female bloggers for a future issue of Fashion Week Daily.

Luckily, I’m all ready for my fashion shoot with my new Texas hold’em pajamas. 

Blog East, Young Man

October 30, 2005 / / 83 Comments

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(artwork by Hirschfeld)

A YOUNG BLOGGER approaches Neil.

Young Blogger:  "Master Neilochka, you are so wise.  I need your help.  I just started a blog. 

Neil:  "Very good, Young Blogger."

Young Blogger:  Yes, but I have a metaphysical question.  Is it really a blog if I have no readers?"

Neil:  "Ah, the ancient conundrum"

Young Blogger:  "How do I get people to notice me?"

Neil:  "It’s very simple, young blogger.  You write things that are interesting.

Young Blogger:  "I see… how profound.  So, you’re saying that the important thing to do is to write for myself because eventually people will see my unique vision and come wanting to hear more." 

Neil:  "No, you idiot.  You write things that are interesting to those who live in NEW YORK."

Neil turns to SPEAKS DIRECTLY to YOU from the other side of YOUR monitor.

Neil:  "Hi there, my good friends and readers.  Let me take a moment and bring you up to speed, as some of you seem to be having some problem following my posts lately.  Not that I’m insinuating anything about your intelligence, but — well, yes I am. 

As most of you know, Manhattan is a very small island.  But as the media center of the country, New Yorkers love to love themselves.  And since they run everything media-wise, if they’re not talking about you, you’re pretty much NOTHING.

Think about it.  A new movie opens.  Do the studios really care what the Des Moines Register says about the film?  Of course not.  It’s the New York Times.

When I started blogging, I was naive.  I became friendly with bloggers from such crazy places as Santa Cruz, California (the amazing Jenny and Ms. Sizzle)  and Montana (the writer and photographer Leesa)  (Montana?  Where the hell’s Montana?  Although I do think Robert Redford has a place there, but he’s one of the crazy guys that likes to live in the middle of nowhere).

But really, what was I thinking befriending bloggers living in God knows where?  How does it really help me move up to the Blogging B-List?

Look at a New Yorker’s blogroll and what do you see?  A New Yorker here and a New Yorker here and another New Yorker and maybe a New Yorker who got married and now lives in Connecticut.  And when I say New Yorker, I mean Manhattan.   A New York blogger would rather have someone from California on their blogroll than someone from (gasp) Queens!"

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(artwork by Natalie Ascencios)

"So, if you want some attention for your blog, you must capture the New York-centric minds of other New Yorker bloggers.  For our first lesson, here are some buzz words that you can drop into your posts that might end up showing up in a Technorati search:

H & H Bagels

Grey’s Papaya

Fashion Week

B.A.M.

Varick Street

schlep

But if you really want to OPEN THE EYES of a jaded New York blogger, the ultimate gimmick is to write a post about Stephanie Klein."

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Neil moves in closer to YOUR monitor and speaks loudly.

"Do you hear that, New Yorkers?!  Contact Blogebrity!  I’m writing a post about STEPHANIE KLEIN!

Now, you bloggers in the other 49 states might be asking, "Who the hell is Stephanie Klein?" "

Neil shakes his head condescendingly. 

"How innocent and naive you Red State Americans are — with your chickens and farms and church-going and nuclear waste centers.

OK, I’ll let you in on a little secret.  Until recently, even I, the ultimate hipster, had never heard of Stephanie Klein.  When I first heard her name, it did sound familiar, but then I realized I was thinking of Stephanie Kleinman, who sat behind me in Hebrew School.

No, Stephanie Klein is a popular and talented blogger who writes about the miseries of her upscale life, using "Sex and the City"-style details of her sex life and relationships.  Because of this, she got herself a big book and TV deal. 

Based on a blog!  Can you imagine that?! 

Because of her BLOG?!"

Neil starts coughing and choking on his own words. 

The always beautiful Sophia enters, dressed in a Vanna White-style outfit.  She pats Neil on the back until he stops coughing, then gracefully exits.  

Neil continues.

"While most of us sit here in our underwear blogging in our tiny apartments, she got a big deal because of her blog!  And this has brought out the envy, admiration, and hatred that comes with the territory.  Some love her writing.  Others hate her as a person.  Who to believe?  Why should I care?

But it mattered to a lot of people.  The talented Fauxy and Sarah started a funny blog called "Tale of Two Sisters," which was a parody of Stephanie Klein’s blog, Greek Tragedy.  I don’t know what exactly happened, but there seems to have been talks of lawsuits and angry name-calling all around. But, then again, there’s nothing New York literary types love more than New York literary types fighting each other.

In the last couple of years, I’m sure you’ve all  read the many negative portrayals of President Bush.  Those who hate him have called him everything from a war criminal to a Hitler.  But these are compliments compared to what people have to say about Stephanie Klein." 

The YOUNG BLOGGER raises his hand.

Young Blogger:  "Excuse me, Master Neil, but I have a question."

Neil:  "Of course."

Young Blogger:  "Are you saying that only New Yorkers have an opinion about this blogger named Miss Klein?"

Neil:  "Excellent question.  No, there are others.  Once New Yorkers become interested in something, they tend to talk about it so much that even those from far away take an interest in their weird obsessions — for example, look how America quickly took to that moronic Donald Trump.  Or let me quote what Tim had to say about Stephanie Klein on his blog.  And he lives in Costa Rica:"

(reading from Tim’s blog)

"To put it bluntly, she is perhaps one of the more superficial, immature, shallow, money hungry, status seeking people I’ve met through blogs… and I fear a woman seemingly devoid of a value system or boundaries. Her fixation on penis size, while humorous, is distressing as she has apparently not yet learned (at age 30 or so) that the most important sex organ is the heart.

Her lack of understanding of men is truly unfortunate.

If she was as socially immature at Barnard as she is now, I can fully understand why she was the only woman in her class not to be invited to join a sorority. They had her number."

Neil chuckles to himself.

Neil:  "Jeez, now I worry what MY readers think about MY obsession with MY OWN penis."

A can of Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda (NY reference)  flies in from off-screen that almost hits Neil in the head.   Neil turns to see Sophia, shaking her head, annoyed.

Neil continues.

I have to admit that I really haven’t read much of Greek Tragedy, so I really can’t comment on the content.  I don’t know this Stephanie, either.  All I know is that her writing (and success) touched a nerve in many New Yorkers, such as the passionate Anocsanamum:"

(reading from Anocsanamum’s blog)

"Stephanie Klein IS NOT a REAL NYC woman.

A NYC woman is not meeting for coffee with friends midday, and seeing matinees. A NYC woman winces when she ALONE has to hand over the $2500.00 ransom check for the closet she dwells in. A NYC WOMAN goes to the corner bodega to get a 6-pack because spending that much money on wine is not conceivable in this lifetime.

A NYC woman has REAL HARDSHIP over REAL BREAKUPS. Not the imagined "if I were by myself" scrawlings of a Dominatrix with a boytoy.

I can’t stomach her, for the fact that she is the face the world assumes to be me. When people outside of NY think of US real women who live in NYC – with a REAL PERSON’s life, responsibility – trials and tribulations – they think we are all Free-lance PAM slicked hussies who have nothing better to do then dwell on our OH-SO SCREWED UP CHILDHOOD AT FAT CAMP.

Here she is with a silver spoon screaming at the top of her lungs because she has no Lennox China.

GET OVER IT."

Neil walks over to a blackboard, picks up a piece of chalk, and writes the number "2."

Neil:  "So, the way I see it, there are two camps that dislike the woman.  One is the group who is repelled by the materialistic content of her writing.  The other group is the one who is jealous."

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"I didn’t realize how many people in New York are using their blogs to get ahead in publishing or writing for magazines.   Sophia is definitely pushing me in that direction.  And to think, my original intent was to flirt with women!

But frankly, all this flirting has been one big disaster.  After six months of blogging, I have not received one topless photo of any of my readers.  Well, I did see one reader on the Bobbie-thon site, but that required my own initiative. "

Neil winks at the audience.

YOUNG BLOGGER raises his hand again.

Young Blogger:  Excuse me, Master Citizen, but may I ask another question?

Neil:  Of course.  That’s what I’m here for.

Young Blogger:  Is there an actual point to all  this?   I mean your interest in bloggers’ boobies is interesting, but what is your opinion of Stephanie Klein?  Surely you must have some important insights into this controversial issue.

Neil:  Young Blogger, I see that you have a long way to go in your blogging career.  Don’t think so much.  It doesn’t matter what my opinion is.  I have no opinion.  All that matters is that I use the right New York buzz words like "Stephanie Klein" to get the attention of those bigwigs in the Big Apple so they’ll come and read my blog.   These New York types are so obsessed with themselves that you’ll never get noticed unless you make believe you care about nonsense like this Stephanie Klein brouhaha.  Now bring me over my "H & H Bagel" and my "New York Times" so I don’t have to "schlep" over there.

Simon & Garfunkel, meet Melville and Beck

October 29, 2005 / / 8 Comments

By popular demand (well, actually it was Sophia), I’ve moved this comment from my Jane Austen/Pussycat Dolls post over here so it can have its own home.  Why?  I’m not really sure. 

Here was Mernitman’s request –

“Risking the lit-esoterica zone, I’ll put my bid in to see the Melville/Beck mash-up, in which Bartleby the Scrivener sings, “I would prefer not to / I’M A LOSER, BABY!”…”

So, here it goes, just for you:

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Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when, without moving from his privacy, Bartleby, in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.”

In the time of chimpanzees, I was a monkey
Butane in my veins and I’m out to cut the junkie
With the plastic eyeballs, spray-paint the vegetables
Dog food stalls with the beefcake pantyhose

I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume; but in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, “I would prefer not to.”

Kill the headlights and put it in neutral
Stock car flaming with a loser in the cruise control
Baby’s in Reno with the vitamin-D
Got a couple of couches, sleep on the loveseat
Someone keeps sayin’ I’m insane to complain about

“Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement, and crossing the room with a stride. “What do you mean? Are you moon-struck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here — take it,” and I thrust it towards him.

“I would prefer not to,” said he.

A shotgun wedding and a stain on my shirt
Don’t believe everything that you breathe
You get a parking violation and a maggot on your sleeve
So shave your face with some mace in the dark
Saving all your food stamps and burnin’ down the trailer park
Yo cut it!

I looked at him steadfastly. His face was leanly composed; his gray eyes dimly calm. Not a wrinkle of agitation rippled him. Had there been the least uneasiness, anger, impatience or impertinence in his manner; in other words, had there been anything ordinarily human about him, doubtless I should have violently dismissed him from the premises.

Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby
So why don’t you kill me?

But as it was I should have as soon thought of turning my pale plaster-of-Paris bust of Cicero out of doors. I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk. This is very strange, thought I. What had one best do?

(double-barrel buckshot)
Soy un perdedor
I’m a loser baby
So why don’t you kill me?

Try one yourself!

Jane Austen and the Pussycats

October 27, 2005 / / 47 Comments

Hey, DJ Neilochka here tonight for all those brainy lovers out there who WANT their literature with a little funk, their books with a little BOOGIE — this is for you — a literary/song mash-up where the button down babes of the 19th Century meet the bottoms up beauties of today.

What is a mash-up?

So, here we go, a mash-up of Jane Austen’s "Pride and Prejudice" (now a movie!) and The Pussycat Dolls "Don’t Cha." 

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Pride and Prejudice – Chapter One

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

I know you like me (I know you like me)
I know you do (I know you do)
Thats why whenever I come around
Shes all over you (she’s all over you)
I know you want it (I know you want it)
Its easy to see (it’s easy to see)
And in the back of your mind
I know you should be f***ing me (babe)

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?"

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

"But it is," returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it."

Mr. Bennett made no answer.

"Do not you want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently.

"You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."

This was invitation enough.

Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?
Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?
Don’t cha
Don’t cha
Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was raw like me?
Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was fun like me?
Don’t cha
Don’t cha

"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week."

"What is his name?"

"Bingley."

"Is he married or single?"

"Oh! single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"

I know I’m on your mind
I know we’d have a good time
I’m your friend
I’m fun
And I’m fine
I aint lying
Look at me shit
You ain’t blind (you ain’t blind)
I know I’m on your mind

"How so? how can it affect them?"

"My dear Mr. Bennet," replied his wife, "how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them."

"Is that his design in settling here?"

"Design! nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes."

Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me?
Don’t cha wish your girlfriend was a freak like me?(like me)
Don’t cha (Don’t cha baby)
Don’t cha
Don’t cha wish your girlfriend raw like me? (raw)
Don’t cha wish your girlfriend fun like me (big fun)
Don’t cha
Don’t cha

Keep it Real.  Peace.  DJ Neilochka – OUT!

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