Steve was waiting in baggage claim at SFO, wondering if he shouldn’t have taken a suitcase at all. He would have saved twenty dollars and not had to wait with the pushy, impatient crowds. He was sure that he had clothes still in the closet at the house on Russian Hill, his abode for so many years before the separation and his move back to Cleveland.
He was nervous to see her. They had a lot to discuss. He tried to calm himself by thinking of the beauty of the Golden Gate Bridge and the joy of the cable cars, the ones he used to love listening to, as they rolled down the tracks in the distance, as he lay in bed with her at night.
She entered the terminal, walking through he revolving door. Steve’s head was spinning like the door. She had changed her hair… to red! While part of him was thrilled to see her, the other part was annoyed.
He thought to himself, “Red hair? Do we really need more excitement in our lives? Red is the color of fire and danger and communist governments.”
They kissed. On the cheeks.
“How do you like the hair?” she asked.
There was trouble brewing already. If Steve answered honestly, there was trouble with her. If Steve said he loved it, there was trouble within his soul for being dishonest.
Two weeks ago I went with Jen Lee to this Moth Storytelling Slam downtown. It took place at a small venue downtown, so audience members and storytellers were lined up for an hour before the show, in the freezing cold, just to get a seat. As Jen and I waited, she introduced me to her friends. She is a semi-regular. During my conversations with some of these storytellers, I was amused by the sub-culture that has grown up around these “slams.” As bloggers, we’ve become so used to chatting about WordPress and plugins, gibberish to outsiders. Well, every sub-group has their own insider lingo.
“You going into the hat tonight?” some hipster guy asked me.
“Huh?”
He explained to me that those who wanted to tell a story put their name into a hat, and ten storytellers are randomly chosen.
As he spoke, he gave me a aggressive look, ready to pounce on me if I said, “Yes,” as if this was the storyteller’s equivalent of a new blogger arrogantly thinking he was going to make as much money as Dooce in his first year of blogging. I assured him that I was just a visitor to this strange storytelling world, which eased the tension.
The line for the show was snaking around the block. There was a hodgepodge of social activity going on — networking, flirting, competitor bantering, cold stares, and camaraderie, while the intense loners stood apart, practicing their stories on a mini-recorder, praying to God that they be picked to present their story that night, catapulting them to literary success, allowing them to quit there job selling bathroom plumbing at Home Depot, and enabling them to give a big “f**k you” to all the less-talented wannabees on line next to them.
Sound familiar? Exactly! Like an invitation-only party at BlogHer.
Finally, the doors to theater opened and we were let in out of the cold. Jen and I found good seats. As the show began, I could feel a nervous tension in the air. The MC, a storyteller himself, pulled a name out of the hat and that individual was invited to come to the front and tell his story. Since no one knew who was going to be picked next, those waiting for their name to be called were always at the edge of their seats. The female storyteller in front of me, dressed in the 1970’s Annie Hall look, was tapping her foot the entire evening, waiting for her big moment, like a teenager waiting for the phone to ring to be asked to the prom. Sadly, the boy never called. At the end of the night, she was the first one out of the bar, on her way home to sulk.
Each night of storytelling revolves around a new theme. The subject is broadly defined, so the storyteller can almost mold any story into the current theme. The night’s theme was “cars.”
Smart writers know that there are two genres that always sell — sex and coming of age stories. Or both. It didn’t surprise me that the first five stories contained these elements, whether it was a story about a woman losing her virginity in the back of a 1970 Mustang or a man’s having a remembrance of the family trip to Disneyworld in the Chevy Nova.
The sixth reader to be picked from the hat was an Asian-American man of about forty, with black cropped hair. His story was different than the others. He began his story by telling the audience that when he was in his thirties, he worked in Silicon Valley, slaving away for twelve hour days. One night, as he was driving home, he had a heart attack. He then proceeded to tell us all the specific details of what it feels like to have a heart attack. He described the tightening of the chest, the discomfort, and the fear.
I found it extremely difficult to listen to his story. I could feel my own chest tightening. Suddenly, there was a cry for help. An audience member, just five rows ahead of us, a fiftyish man with his family, had slumped over in his chair.
The MC ran to the microphone.
“Call 911! Call 911! We need a doctor,” he shouted.
Everybody fumbled with their phones, because the MC had made us shut them off when the show began. There were no doctors in the house, since the audience was mostly thirty-ish writers with soul patches, but someone ran up to the slumped man and relaxed his shirt.
I should remind you that the venue was jammed. Audience members were sitting in the center aisle. If the fire department had seen the way storytellers had to climb over people to reach the front stage, the entire venue would have been fined, or closed down.
“Everyone in the center aisle has to leave,” said the MC. “We need room for emergency.”
“I’m calling an ambulance!” cried someone in the first row, his phone dialing.
The audience in the center dispersed. Since Jen and I had our seats, we remained seated. The Asian storyteller hid in the corner, horror on his face, wondering if his Moth Slam story had just killed a man.
After ten minutes of chaos, the slumped man sat upright, like a zombie awakening from sleep. As the emergency workers entered the theater, the newly-awake man stood up and said that he was OK. The audience sighed with relief. The formerly-slumped man was now red-faced, not from illness, but from embarrassment. He walked over to the stage and asked the MC if he could say a few words to the audience, including those who were re-entering from outside. The audience was confused, wondering if this was some sort of stunt. But it wasn’t.
“I’m sorry to scare you,” said the man. “I fainted. This was not the first time this has ever happened to me. Whenever I hear stories of people in pain, I become so sensitive to their pain, that I begin to feel the sensations themselves and stop breathing. I once fainted in the middle of church. When this storyteller started telling his story about his heart attack, I had a feeling that this was going to happen, and I tried not to listen, to think about something else, but I could hear his words, and I felt compelled to listen, and as he described the pain in his heart, I felt a pain in my heart and — I’m sorry. Maybe I should go home.”
The audience clapped, and the fainting man left. The Asian storyteller returned to the stage and continued with his heart attack story, but the magic was gone. None of the remaining storytellers could match the real life drama. The fainting man both proved the power of storytelling — his intense reaction to another’s intense story — and WAS the best story of the night, because it happened in front of our eyes.
+++
This little true life tale encapsulates — for me — blogging during 2009. We all put our blog posts into the hat, hoping that they get noticed by others. We listen to each others stories. Some tell funny stories. Some tell sad stories. Some stories are more popular than others. Some of us are not community-oriented at all. Some of us just tap our feet, waiting for OUR chance to be on stage so we can tell our story. At times, we are confronted by real drama — like having someone collapse right in front of us — right in the middle of our story. It is times like these, that we put aside our competitiveness and bickering, and offer support to those who need it. And then, there are those moments that overwhelm us, when we get so involved in the lives of others that we feel dizzy and faint.
The only solution for that is to apologize to everyone, take a breather, and come back refreshed.
Writing, Reading, Laughing, Caring, Overwhelmed. That was Blogging in 2009.
I have a feeling my December is going to be chaotic, so I wanted to thank everyone who came by to read my writing during 2009 NOW.  I read through my archives today, and picked out a few of my favorites.  Do you read through your archives at the end of the year? I strongly suggest you do it, because it gives you a good idea of where your head was for the last twelve months.
Most of my posts in 2009 were decent enough, but I looked for posts that still “spoke to me” or made me laugh. I tried to write more for myself this year, and I enjoyed it.   Surprisingly, I feel good about my writing this year. One troubling aspect of my blog in 2009 posts is how internal the themes became, as if my mind was collapsing onto itself. My blog theme for 2009 could be titled “Avoiding Real Life.”  For the first time in years, most of my posts had nothing to do with Sophia, at least openly.  Most of my favorite posts were fictional, silly, poetic, or without any connection to my day to day life. I’m not sure how healthy this is in the long run. It is something I am thinking about right now.
I split my favorites into three categories, even with five posts.
1)Â Stories with 0% Truth Quotient
2)Â True (Or Mostly True) Stories
and
3)Â Poetic (or Pretentious, Depending on Your Taste)
On Wednesday, I wrote about meeting Ms. Kate Inglis in Chicago during BlogHer.
Recently, I received her first novel, The Dread Crew: Pirates of the Backwoods, in the mail. I was quite surprised by the book’s appearance.  As you may recall, I had described Kate as one of those angelic-looking women surrounded by a constant glow.  So why was she writing about a band of dirty, smelly, and belching pirates?  Was this smudge-lover the same sweet woman I met in Chicago?
The Dread Crew is a “rollicking” pirate story for smart kids and adventurous adults about a very unusual band of hooligans in the Nova Scotia area of Canada. These rowdy and rude pirates travel in a giant crumbling woodship that rumbles through the forest, destroying everything in sight as the group searches for junk. Their lives are turned upside down when this mean-spirited bunch meet their most formidable nemesis yet — Grampa Joe, another junk collector, albeit a more successfully one, who wins clients over with his sunny disposition.  Before you know it, Grampa Joe becomes the teacher, showing the “pirates of the backwoods†a new approach to piracy, a “nicer” one.
The humor and sarcasm of Kate’s writing would have made this book a favorite of mine when I was a boy.  The tone reminded me of those oddball adventure books written by Roald Dahl.   “The Dread Crew” turns piracy on its head in unexpected ways. Pirate unions?  Pirate junk-collectors?  Pirates roaming in the forest?!
This novel has a strong sense of place, that of the Maritime Canadian woods, and at first, it seems like a strange place for a “pirate story.â€Â On further research, I discovered that there is a whole tradition of Atlantic Canada pirate adventures, and clearly Kate is playing with — and against — this long tradition, even presenting her readers with a very modern environmental message underneath all of the “heap o’ splinters” and maggots in beards.
Some younger kids might need a bit of guidance with this book because the pirates are nontraditional.  Don’t expect the Pirates of Penzance/Pirates of the Carribbean type of pirates.  These are Canadian Pirates of the Backwoods! Our friends up North do things differently.
After I finished the book, I gave it to my mother to read, hoping to share my enjoyment.  After she read a few pages, she came into my room, asking, “What kind of pirates are these? They don’t go on the water?â€Â Luckily, the beautiful illustrations by Sydney Smith help clarify what the pirate “ship” looks like on land, and how it travels through the forest.  Once my mother “got it,†orienting herself to the time and location, she loved the novel as much as I did.
Kate is an amazing writer, particularly in her descriptive powers. You can smell the lousy odor of the pirates in her words, and hear the burps of Captain, Hector the Wrecker Gristle, in the sentences.
+++
SPECIAL TREAT JUST FOR READERS OF CITIZEN OF THE MONTH!
Last night, I was able to get Kate to do an impromptu “interview” with me about her book.  One caveat — even though she is now a professional novelist now, I am NOT a professional interviewer. This is less of an interview than a recording of our Skype conversation as some handyman was fixing the roof in her home. The interview is fairly long. I promised her that I would cut it down, but well… I lied.  Maybe next week when I have a chance.
(jeez, just listened to the recording. I talk WAYYYY too much for an “interviewer.” As usual, she sounds like an calm inspirational angel and I sound like an overbearing New York cab driver from 1940. Try to skip me and just listen to her. Also, the nonsense in the beginning was because I was confused over Kate’s last name. Even though it is spelled Inglis, it is pronounced “Ingels.”)
Here is the unedited version of the conversation —
If you want to learn more about “The Dread Crew: Pirates of the Backwoods” — or how to order it online, you can go to the book’s website.  Check it out.  It is gorgeous.
This was the strangest week. I was depressed lately, rarely leaving the house. I spent a lot of time in my office, introducing my mother to new technology. I showed her how to use Firefox on her laptop and how to quick dial on her new phone. My mother is officially the only one I know in real life who has a Barbra Streisand song as her ringtone.
On Tuesday, I was invited to this party at a hotel in Midtown. Yes, me — Neil Kramer, who never gets invited anywhere. A group of mommybloggers had started a group website and were having a launch party at the Hilton. They were arriving from all over the country. Toshiba sponsored the the party. The event would be a way for bloggers to socialize, as well as for Toshiba to showcase some of their latest products.
When I first received the invitation, I didn’t want to attend the party. Would I be accepted by the others? I had made enemies in the mommyblogging community lately because of some comments I had made on Twitter, accusing them of ruining blogging with all their giveaways and monetization.
My mother convinced me that I should go to the party. She was worried that I was turning into a hermit and shut-in. There was another reason I wanted to attend. I was curious to meet Eleanor. Eleanor, one of the writers for this new blog, was a single mother from Arkansas. We had flirted a bit on IM. She had never been to New York before and was bringing along her daughter, Sarah, for the event.
Despite the rain and the first game of the World Series, the party was a huge success. I spent most of my time chatting with Eleanor and drinking “dirty martinis.” I related to Eleanor. Unlike some of the other mothers, who were unnaturally upbeat, there was a darkness to Eleanor. It felt as if she had “experienced life,” good and bad, and I found her sexy.
Eleanor brought Sarah to the party for an hour, just so she could meet everyone. I had read so much about Sarah’s on Eleanor’s blog, it was as if I knew her. She was five years old, with raven hair — the most adorable young girl you’d ever seen. Sarah and I had a discussion about “My Little Pony,” which apparently was her favorite toy. Luckily, “My Little Pony” was the giveaway in the latest Happy Meal, and I had just read about it while standing in line at McDonald’s, so I was able to fake my knowledge. It worked, because I clearly won over this sweet girl!
After Eleanor put Sarah to bed, Eleanor and I continued our conversation in the hotel bar. She talked about her last relationship. I talked about Sophia. When it was time for the bar to close, she invited me upstairs to her hotel room.
“You mean… stay here?” I asked, surprised.
“Will your mother mind?” she asked, laughing.
“Mind?! She’ll be grateful! But what about Sarah?”
“I have a two room suite.” she said. “And she’s fast asleep.”
As anyone who has read my blog, you know I don’t hold back from telling you about my life. I am an open book. I would love to report back, in complete detail, about what happened in that New York City hotel room during the next few hours, with the lights of Fifth Avenue sparkling below, but I can hardly remember what occurred, and if I could, it would hardly make logical sense. I remember her long, thin body, her hard nipples, and her long hair falling on my chest. I can hear the bed ramming loudly against the wall. But were those moans of pleasure or pain?
In the morning, I opened my eyes and groaned. The light was burning my retinas. I had the worst hangover in my entire life. The mattress was half off the bed. I was in bed naked and alone. There were deep scratches and bruises all over my chest, stomach, and thighs, as if I were attacked by a jaguar.
What happened last night? And were was Eleanor? I turned towards the window and saw that I was not alone. But it wasn’t Eleanor. It was Sarah, sitting comfortably in the arm chair, her feet crossed, innocently playing with her My Little Pony. I quickly covered my bruised body with the sheet.
“Uh, hello there, Sarah. Where’s your mother?”
Sarah rose up, but didn’t speak. She handed me a letter, written on the hotel stationery. It was from Eleanor.
Dear Neil,
For the last six years, I have been a mommyblogger, and have succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. I have given seminars at BlogHer, had lunch with both Amalah and Bossy, and I am ALWAYS included in those books which compile blog posts on motherhood.
Lately, I have been disappointed with the direction of the momosphere. New mothers want to move up the ranks without doing the hard work. That is why I have decided to quit being a mommyblogger, and re-brand my blog as a fashion blog. My brief stay in New York has opened my eyes to the world of fashion. I am bored with Arkansas. Women are so glamorous in the big city, and I want to be part of this world. Last night, as we made love, my mind drifted to my career goals. Wouldn’t it be cool to have a fashion blog in Paris? I could name it “Arkansas Gal Goes to Paris” and it could be about my exploits in the French fashion world. I definitely could monetize that!
As you can imagine, my daughter will not be an asset to my online business as I re-brand. As a mommyblogger, she was essential, of course. I will always appreciate everything she did for me during my early years of blogging. Most of my readership came from stories about her, starting when I live blogged her birth. My blog would not have been a success without my weekly photos of Sarah, especially the ones where I dressed her up in funny clothes during Halloween, but I think now is the time for BOTH of us to search for new opportunities.
As Sarah’s mother, I want the best for her. And that is why I thought about YOU. Who do I know who could use a child to enhance his reputation with the online community? You! Now with a child, you can be a parent blogger like the rest of us. You can be ONE OF US!
I was shocked and intrigued by the content of this letter. And perhaps Eleanor was right. Having a daughter would change my online life.  I heard Eleanor’s voice ringing in my head.
“You can be ONE OF US! ONE OF US! ONE OF US! ONE OF US!”
I glanced over at Sarah and she smiled at me, but when I stared into her eyes, I had to avert from her gaze. I saw something inside her dark eyes that I found troubling, but what?!
The next few days were a whirlwind of activity. I brought Sarah back to Queens, and my mother was ecstatic. She had always wanted to be a “grandmother.” My mother introduced Sarah to the neighbors in the apartment building, bragging about how smart she was, and how she was going to attend Harvard Medical School and make something of herself, unlike her son.
“Success always skips a generation,” she told Muriel, my next door neighbor.
Despite my fears, nothing bad came to pass. In fact, Sarah had only brought me good luck. The news of my new “daughter” spread throughout the blogosphere. Within a day, my readership had tripled, and PR companies were inviting me to free trips to Disney World.
My nights were filled with new and fun parental activities. I was either baking Tollhouse cookies, playing Candyland, or enjoying the latest show on the Disney channel. I was happy.
But something changed when I was alone with Sarah. Twice a week, my mother went to play mah jongg at a neighbor’s apartment. The minute my mother closed the door behind her, Sarah became more obstinate.
“I don’t want to put away my f**king toys!” she would say to me.
I tried to remain calm, knowing that changing families can be hard on a young child.
“Now, Sarah, in this house, when we finish playing with our toys, like My Little Pony, we put them into our nice toy box.”
“Eat sh*t, you motherf**ker!”
“Now, Sarah. I know the type of language they have on TV nowadays. I sometimes watch Entourage, too, but it is inappropriate to speak this way to someone older than you.”
“I bet you have a tiny d*ck,” she replied.
I found this entire exchange troubling. When my mother returned from mah jongg, I told my mother about Sarah’s misbehavior, but when we walked into her bedroom (which used to be MY bedroom), the young girl was sleeping soundly, looking like an angel.
“You must be imagining all of that,” said my mother. “Sarah is the most perfect child I have ever seen. Are you jealous because she is getting so much attention from me?”
My mother assured me that I would always be her son, even if she doted on Sarah and treated her like the daughter she always wanted instead of a boy.
“By the way. Please clean out your closet to make room for all the new clothes that I want to buy Sarah at TJ Maxx,” said my mother.
I went to sleep on the uncomfortable living room couch, the plastic cover sticking to my body. I felt confused. Maybe Sarah was just tired from all the excitement. That would explain her temper tantrums. She needed time to adjust to her new environment.
The next morning, I woke up. The head of Sarah’s My Little Pony, cracked off the rest of the body, was sitting on my pillow, in a pool of ketchup. I could hear Sarah laughing in my her bedroom — in MY old bedroom. It was not the gentle laugh of an adorable child, but the crazed guffaw of Satan’s offspring.
+++
“You need to bond with her,” said my mother as she made French Toast for breakfast the next morning. “Then she’ll be your friend.”
“You make the best French Toast in all the world, ma’am,” said Sarah to my mother. Sarah was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands folded like the teacher’s pet.
“Thank you, sweetie. You are so nice and polite. And please… call me Grandmama.”
“OK, Grandmama. I love you, Grandmama! One day I will go to Harvard Medical School and make you proud of me! I will never waste my life on Twitter like Neilochka does!”
My mother suggested that I decorate the house for Halloween with Sarah.
While my mother attended her mah jongg game, I bought a large pumpkin.
“How about we make a Jack O’Lantern together!” I announced cheerfully.
“Yayyyyyy!” Sarah yelled, with youthful enthusiasm.
We went into the kitchen to start the project. I cut off the top of the pumpkin, and threw out the guck inside. I gave Sarah a Sharpie so she could draw a “spooky face” on the exterior of the pumpkin.
“This is fun!” she said.
I was glad that we were finally bonding.
I found the sharpest kitchen knife, one that my mother recently bought at Bed, Bath, and Beyond with a 20% off coupon, in the utensil drawer, and used it to start carving out the face. As I worked on our creation, I entertained Sarah by teaching her the words of “The Monster Mash.”
It was at this point that Sarah’s demeanor changed for the worse.
“You cannot sing for sh*t,” she said.
“That is not very nice thing for you to say, Sarah. It is not polite to criticize someone’s singing. If you don’t have anything nice to say…”
“Loser! Dummy! Fart-face! Moron! P*ssy!”
I could tell that words alone were not enough to discipline her. I was forced to say the most hated statement that any parent could ever speak.
“Sarah, stop that, or I will spank you!”
“You don’t have the guts to spank me, you weenie! I piss on you.”
Sarah started to pee all over the kitchen floor, laughing like a hyena.
“This is unacceptable!” I said. I kneeled down with a roll of paper towels to wipe the pee. Being a parent to a child was more work than I ever realized!
As I scrubbed the floor, I decided to have a serious conversation with Sarah about her behavior, but when I turned to my side, she was not there. I immediately noticed that the knife that I was using to carve the pumpkin was also gone. Whaaaa…?
I angled my body backwards and there was Sarah, behind me, holding the knife over her head, the florescent light reflecting the sharpness of the metal blade.
Sarah’s face was blood red as she uttered her mantra —
“I must kill you for your mocking comments about mommybloggers. I must kill you. I must kill you because I was brought to this earth to do evil and EVIL I must do!”
This Daughter of Lucifer was about to stab this kitchen knife into me, when the front door opened. It was my mother, having just finished her game of Mah Jonng at Mildred’s.
“No!” screamed my mother. “And not with that brand new knife!”
I had heard stories of how human beings can develop super-strength when their adrenaline is pumping. I read about a father who lifted up a Chevy truck with his bare hands in order to rescue his son trapped underneath. The parental bond is that strong, and so it was with my mother. When she saw that I was in danger, she leaped into the sky and knocked the knife out of Sarah’s hand. Sarah went flying across the linoleum floor.
“F*ck you, Grandmama,” said the angry girl.
“That’s it, young lady. You’re punished.”
My mother dragged Sarah into the bathroom, where she proceeded to wash her mouth out with a bar of Ivory Soap. I remember my mother once did this to me because of my “potty mouth,” and it was an experience I would never forget. However, Sarah was unrepentant. She continued to curse at both of us, and her head did a 360 degree turn, which was a clear sign that she was up to no good.
“This child is inhabited by the evil power of Lucifer,” said my mother. “We need to find an exorcist!”
“Where are we going to find an exorcist in Queens?” I asked.
We both agree that we needed to find a religious figure, a person of education and faith, one equipped to fight this monstrous Beelzebub that was inside this young girl.
The next day, on Halloween, we dragged Sarah over to Beth Israel and requested a meeting with Rabbi Gold. It seemed natural to first seek counsel from “one of your own.” Rabbi Gold was new to the temple, a handsome young rabbi, still single, fresh from the rabbinical seminary. After we told him about our problem, he was honest with us, and said that he had never dealt with the spawn of the devil before.
“Maybe we should call up Father O’Herily at Saint Francis. He’s probably more experienced. When Jews get possessed by Satan, they usually don’t come to their rabbi. They usually go into therapy.”
“Hey there Jew-boy,” teased Sarah. “You wearing that yarmulke to cover that bald spot?!”
“Sarah, that is so rude!” yelled my mother.
The red-faced rabbi rifled through the Talmud looking for instructions on how to do a exorcism.
“I don’t know if this will work,” said the rabbi when he found the appropriate passage, “But we can try this fifteen century pray written to combat evil.”
Rabbi Gold started reciting the powerful Hebrew text, but Sarah just laughed.
“Going up?” she asked, as if she was an elevator operator, and she lifted the rabbi into the air with her powers, pinning him to the ceiling of the temple.
“Bring him down right now,” scolded my mother.
“Sorry, Grandmama, but maybe Neilochka can keep him company.”
Sarah extended her hand and I zoomed up against the ceiling, landing next to the Rabbi.
With the rabbi and I helpless, this left my mother alone with Sarah, female vs. female.
“What is wrong with you?” asked my mother. “Why are you so evil? Who’s ever going to want to date you when you get older? You’re a total bitch!”
Sarah lifted up the top of her shirt.
“Girls Gone Wild!”
“Ugh,” we all said in unison, disgusted and uncomfortable.
Sarah then told us about how her mother, Eleanor, worked in a funeral parlor after graduate school, and how on one lonely, rainy night, Eleanor made love to a handsome, but decapitated man who was lying dead on a slab, but still with a hard-on, and how, because of this terrible and unnatural lust, she became pregnant and gave birth to a child from Hell. Sarah then revealed the secret details of that recent elite Mommyblogging summit in Scottsdale, Arizona, where top mommybloggers gathered to come up with a plan to kill me, as punishment for some unflattering comments I made on Twitter. It was Eleanor who suggested using her evil daughter to take care of things.
“And that is why I am who I am! I was BORN EVIL!”
I was shocked by this story, at the horror of it all, and how easily demons can take hold of even the most innocent of creatures and turn them into cruel and inhumane monsters.
“And now to take care of ALL OF YOU.” the devil girl cried, her eyes glowing with hatred.
Sarah raised her thin hands again and the synagogue shook. The stained glassed windows cracked, and the floor started to break apart, as if Hell itself was gobbling us up into the fire. Blood spilled from the walls, and we could hear screams of agony from those imprisoned in the underworld.
“Good-bye, Mom. Good-bye Rabbi Gold. Goodbye World.” I said, sobbing.
And then there was a faint sound. A voice of goodness. Of joy. A voice that cut through the violence. It was my mother’s cellphone. It was Mildred calling, wondering if they were still playing mah jongg on Halloween. But it was not Mildred that we heard. It was my mother’s new ringtone, Barbra Streisand singing “Papa, Can You Hear Me?” from the movie Yentl.
Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you see me?
Papa can you find me in the night?
Papa are you near me?
Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you help me not be frightened?
As Barbra sang, Sarah released her raised hands and crumbled to the floor in tears, vulnerable and child-like for the very first time.
“Daddy! Where are you? Who are you?” she asked, as tears ran down her face.
Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you see me?
Papa can you find me in the night?
Papa are you near me?
Papa, can you hear me?
Papa, can you help me not be frightened?
The Rabbi and I slowly drifted down to safety and the shaking of the building ceased. The blood on the walls disappeared.
“So, this is it,” said the rabbi. “She never knew her father, and this longing has created the anger within! And only Barbra Streisand’s voice and the lyrics to this song have healed her!”
“Oh, poor baby,” said my mother, her maternal instinct returning, as she went to hug Sarah.
“I’m a freak!” said Sarah. “A freak because of my father!”
“No, you’re not,” said my mother. “You’re just different. And different can be interesting. Look at Neil. He’s a weirdo, and people still like him.”
“That’s true,” replied Sarah.
Just then, a ghost appeared. It was a handsome man, his head decapitated and hanging to the side, still with a raging hard-on.
“Who’s your daddy?” he asked, a smile forming on the decapitated head.
“Papa?!” yelled Sarah.
“Yes, I am your father. And even though I was dead when I impregnated your mother, I have always been proud of you. I always will watch over you, even with my decapitated head. There’s no reason for you to be the spawn of Satan anymore. It’s been done already anyway. Be original!”
“Thank you, Papa. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Whenever you hear Barbra singing, think of me!”
And with those wise words, the ghost of Sarah’s decapitated father with the hard-on faded into the air.
Sarah was a new girl. A girl of innocence and joy,
“Can we go get some ice cream now?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “We will ALL go for ice cream!”
And off we went to Baskin Robbins to celebrate the rebirth of Sarah, now non-Satanic. The rabbi thought it would be good idea to contact her mother and tell her the good news. He sent an email to his cousin in Paris, who was doing a junior year abroad. The rabbi’s cousin was able to track down Eleanor, who was floundering as a fashion blogger. Eleanor returned to the states to reconnect with her daughter.
Rabbi Gold went with Sarah to pick up Eleanor at the Air France terminal at JFK. The minute the Rabbi and Eleanor locked eyes, there was an immediate chemistry between the two, and they were married the next day, standing under the chuppah at the rabbi’s temple. My mother and I also attended and were happy to dance at the wedding. Sarah moved in with Eleanor and the Rabbi, and they became a happy family unit. Sarah accepted the Rabbi as her step-father, knowing that the ghost of her decapitated biological father was always with her in spirit. Eleanor became a successful blogger, writing about Jewish crafts.
As for us, it was sad to lose Sarah, even if my mother and I were happy that she found a good home. My mother looked at the bright side.
“You are such a neurotic mess. Let’s first try to get you straightened out before we take in another Devil child.”
I would be lying if I didn’t admit enjoying my short-lived experience as a parent. But, more importantly, I gained a new respect for YOU — my online friends who are parents. You do deserve all the freebies and trips to Disney World. Because — holy crap, being a parent is HELL.
Long time readers of this blog know that I am too lazy to ever do a meme.  They are hard work!   Recently, Kate Inglis, who blogs at “Sweet / Salty” put up a meme on her blog as a promotion for her new book, “The Dread Crew.”  The fact that I am doing this meme should tell you a lot about what I think about her.   She is a special person, soon-to-be big-shot writer or not. I met her at BlogHer and she glows with positive creative energy.
I should also admit that doing this meme has been useful for me, so I am glad to did it.  I’m realizing now, as I scan over my book list, that I need to get back into reading more books. My book reading has thinned since I started blogging. I can’t live on a diet of blog posts forever.
From the blog of Kate Inglis —
Here we have it—a baker’s dozen meme all about storytelling and the stories of any genre that have impacted you. Post your answers in the comments on [Kate’s site] or on your own blog (link to the Dread Crew site and this post, and then share the link to your answers in the comments on [Kate’s site].
On Halloween Night, a random selection of five meme participants will win a copy of The Dread Crew: Pirates of the Backwoods signed by the author, and a spot in the reviewer’s circle on the author’s blog at kateinglis.com.  Now—go!
My answers —
1) You are facing an epic journey. You may choose one companion, one tool and one vehicle from any book or film to accompany you. Or just one of the three. It’s up to you. What do you choose?
This was a tough question. There are so many literary tools and vehicles to choose from that would be incredibly useful on a journey — from magical swords to flying carpets. But, as any real reader knows, these material objects are useless without the essential tool — a sidekick. Would Frodo had made it a block out of the Shire without Sam at his side? While our hero is pushing the journey forward, he needs someone who is supportive and loving nearby, someone will fight WITH him, and AGAINST him, if necessary. I would be lost on an amazing adventure if I had to undertake it on by myself.   Soon, my brain would play tricks on me, stuck in my own head’s maze, fighting windmills rather than than true villains opposing me. Like Don Quixote, I would need a Sancho Panza. Sancho Panza is THE sidekick. He would be witty, faithful, and would put up with me as I slowly go crazy. That is more powerful than any magic sword.
2)Â You can escape to the insides of any book. Where do you go, and why?
I think I might get a kick inhabiting the world of Henry James’ “The Portrait of a Lady.” I can see myself as the uncultured American trying to fit into sophisticated European society, hoping to win the hand of the very hot and very wealthy Isabel Archer. There would be a lot of gossip, mean-spirited cliques, class-consciousness, and back-stabbing in this nineteenth century world, and the whole culture would remind me of the blogosphere of today, so I would fit right in!
3)Â You can bring one literary character into your current life. Who do you choose, and why?
Moses, and not because he spoke to God. He seems like a cool guy, not pretentious, even with his famous contacts in Heaven. This is a dude who went from zero to hero.  He didn’t start off as super-confident, but gradually he learned to kiss some ass. I think he could help me get my life in gear because of his unique leadership ability. Now that would be a corporate “bootcamp” that I would want to attend. Also, imagine how impressive my Passover seder would be if I had Moses there in attendance!
4) _________________ is my go-to book. I could read that book fifty-seven times in a row without a break for food or a pee and not be remotely bored. In fact I’ve already done that but it wasn’t fifty-seven times. It was sixty-four.
Everyone’s read Kafka’s Metamorphosis in school, right?  That shit is WEIRD!  I love this story. I remember reading this book in high school and feeling my brain on fire. WTF kind of story is THIS?! I’m not sure I even liked it at first, but WOW. And each time I read it, is a different story. The first time it is creepy, and the next time it is funny. I’ve even found it romantic. Gregor Samsa rocks!
5)Â Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most enviable?
I’m going to have to cheat here a bit in order for my answer to be honest. Of all “literary” characters, Bugs Bunny made the greatest impact on my life. When I was a child, I dreamed of being like Bugs Bunny. He could talk his way out of any situation, and always came out the winner. My prized stuffed animal was a giant Bugs Bunny. He is still my model of the ultimate hipster.
6)Â Of all the literary or film characters that made an impression on you as a kid, who was the most frightening?
One day, I will need to discuss this book with a therapist, but I never liked Pinocchio. He is the grandfather to characters like “Chucky,” and other puppets and dolls that come to life. I don’t want my freakin’ puppets to come to life! That’s scary! Carlo Collodi’s Pinnochio (not the sanitized Disney version) was filled with images that creeped me out, especially when our puppet-boy hero is led astray and ends up on this sinful Pleasure Island where the “bad” boys are turned into donkeys. What deranged mother reads this sicko book to her child? This book traumatized me for life. I’ve never admitted this to anyone before, online or off, but when I became a teenager, there were times that I would get certain thoughts in my head, and a part of my body, not my nose — but another part — would grow large like Pinocchio’s nose, and I would have to rush into the shower and take a freezing shower, or throw ice cubes down my shirt. This malady has ruined my life. I don’t know why this physical reaction happens to me (it still does!), but I’m figuring that I am still having severe traumatic side effects from reading Pinocchio. I HATE Pinocchio.
7) Every time I read _________________, I see something in it that I haven’t seen before.
I’m a big fan of stories told with a framing device, like “The Arabian Nights” and “The Canterbury Tales.” My favorite is Boccaccio’s The Decameron. In this book, a group of travelers escaping the Bubonic Plague sit around and tell stories. The reason I always see something new here is that the stories are fused with esoteric Medieval, Christian, and Greek symbolism, so you are never quite sure what the story is about!  Is there a moral lesson? What is it?  This book has been a great influence on my writing.  The Decameron contains some wonderful pornographic tales, where nuns are f**king, etc., but it is supposed to be religious in metaphor. My guess is that Boccaccio was just a horny guy, and pulling the wool over the Pope’s eyes. This is one of those books were you can read porn and still carry the book around freely on a college campus, impressing the brainy chicks.
8) It is imperative that _________________ be made into a movie. Now. I am already picketing Hollywood for this—but if they cast _________________ as _________________, I will not be happy. I will, however, be appeased if they cast _________________.
“Boy: Tales of Childhood,” the autobiography of Roald Dahl would make a fantastic film. I LOVE the stories of Roald Dahl.  The book recounts his school days, and you can definitely see the writer in the making as Dahl explores life in Britain in the 1930s. Cast an unknown.
9)Â _________________ is a book that should never be made (or should have never been made) into a film.
Some day they WILL make “Catcher in the Rye” into a movie, and yes, it will suck.
10)Â After all these years, the _________________ scene in the book/movie _________________ still manages to give me the queebs.
I cannot watch “Silence of the Lambs” anymore, or read books about horrific serial killers. Too much for me.
11)Â After all these years, the _________________ scene in the book/movie _________________ still manages to give me a thrill.
I still cry at the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life,” even thought I am making sarcastic comments in my head. What an effective manipulative piece of crap/artwork! I have seen this movie a hundred times. I love all of Frank Capra’s movies.  Another favorite is “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.”  I’m a sap.
12) If I could corner the author _________________, here’s what I’d say to them one minute or less about their book, _________________:
If i were to corner newly published author Kate Inglis of The Dread Crew, I would say to her, “You look a little less glamorous in real life than you do on your book cover, where that wind machine is blowing your hair, but you are still a pretty hot babe.”
13) The coolest non-fiction book I’ve ever read is _________________. Every time I flip through it, it makes me want to _________________.
The Structure of Scientific Revolutions by Thomas Kuhn blew me away. The book is primarily about how changes of paradigms occur in science. For example, how scientists slowly moved to a Copernican way of looking at the world, seeing the sun as center.  The book sounds dull, but it is so much more.  It is a classic.  It is about how our minds work and how we restructure our perspectives and thoughts.  Whenever I flip through the book, I want to get a PhD in experimental psychology.
I was nursing another heartbreak, walking the street and going nowhere, thinking of love and how it kills you, slowly and painful like a Chinese torture. And then I went and kicked a dog. A dog that was cute and cuddly. I kicked a dog that was on a sparkly leash. I kicked a dog of a very old woman. And man, that made me feel good.
Well, I know this may very well shock you. I know my rep as a peaceful loving fellow. But even Jesus had a bad day. Took it out on someone smaller. Even Jesus went and kicked a dog. A dog that was cute and cuddly. He kicked a dog that was on a sparkly leash. He kicked a dog of a very old woman. And man, that made Him feel good.
There is no moral to this story. Frankly I’m even ashamed to write it. But when love knocks you down, you need to get off the ground, and dust off the crap. And then you go outside and kick a dog. A dog that is cute and cuddly. You kick a dog that is on a sparkly leash. You kick a dog of a very old woman. And man, that makes you feel good.
They were beautiful. They were talented. They were some of the finest writers and photographers on the internet — strong, independent women, business-women, mothers — mommybloggers.
This weekend, twenty-five of these top mommybloggers met for a weekend summit in one of the most famous spas in Scottsdale, Arizona. The schedule called for pampering and catered meals, but also a serious discussion on important matters that deeply concerned the women of the blogosphere.
On Sunday morning, after a delightful breakfast buffet on the patio, Janet, the summit organizer, tapped her mimosa glass with her grapefruit spoon, calling for the attention of the others. It was time to bring up the main issue, the reason everyone was brought together, flown in from all points of North America.
“Something is tearing our community apart, like a plague,” said the organizer. “Or rather — someone. And we all know who it is.”
The others nodded.
“It is Neilochka. He mocks our mommyblogging networks, he chuckles at our fights over breast-feeding, he tells his friends that our kids are a bunch of spoiled brats, and then he has the chutzpah to want to f*ck us — happily-married women! This has got to stop!”
“But what can we do?” asked Rhonda, an extremely popular humor writer from Florida, who was as comfortable writing about sex as she was writing about the latest PTA meeting. “I’ve unfollowed him three times on Twitter, and he won’t shut up!”
“We need to ignore him.” said Brenda, a writer and mother of three, who recently got a gig as a guest lifestyle commenter on an Oxygen TV show about Moms. “We must never comment on his blog. EVER.”
“There’s only one way out of this,” spoke Eleanor, a brooding brunette with a booming voice. She was from a dark corner of Canada, and hardly spoke the entire weekend. Some wondered why she was even invited to this mommyblogging summit, because none considered her a close friend.
“Unfollowing him or ignoring him will never be enough. We need to do MORE.”
Eleanor reached next to her half-eaten vegetable egg-white omelet, grabbing her bread knife, and with a violent force, stabbed the knife into the oak patio table. Â Â The knife remained, embedded in the wood, still vibrating, as if shaking in fear.
“We need to do a lot more,” she added.
The summit organizer, stunningly dressed in an attractive red sundress from Anthropologie, could hardly speak.
“Are you saying… uh… uh…”
“I’m saying we need to murder Neilochka.” said Eleanor. It won’t be easy. It won’t be clean. But we’re all mothers. We know how to clean up after a mess.”
“But how?” asked Rhonda, the Florida humor writer, not finding any of this funny at all. “And which of us would do it?”
“None of US will do it,” said Eleanor. “The cops will suspect one of us.”
“Then who?” demanded Brenda, intrigued by the suggestion, but also concerned about the possibility of losing her gig with Oxygen.
Eleanor threw her wallet onto the table. The billfold opened, revealing a photo of her Sarah, her lovely five year old daughter, dressed in a cute pink dress from American Girl, with a bow in her reddish hair.
The others looked at each other confused. Sarah? Her five year old daughter?
Eleanor grabbed her neighbor’s mimosa and chugged it down. She wiped her brow with the linen napkin, then stood up, ready to tell her story.
“If you all remember, I started blogging when I was pregnant with Sarah. Blogging was a way to connect with other women, other mothers. Blogging helped me get through some difficult times. Even though I wasn’t married at the time, you accepted me into your community. Today I am happy, but back then, I was lonely. My job was not fulfilling. I was working the night shift at the funeral parlor’s embalming office. While it gave me a good amount of time to blog and write my poetry, it added to my isolation. One night, a young man was brought in, a rugged, handsome man, who was killed in a motorcycle accident. As happens sometimes, the impact of the accident jolted his body, and since men react to anything — even death — the same way, he died with a hard-on. As he sat on the slab, naked, ready for the next day’s embalming, my lust took over. And yes… I made love to this dead man. Soon, I was pregnant, impregnated by this gorgeous man who just happened to be partly decapitated. Nine months later, Sarah was born. All of you congratulated me and created a virtual party for me on your blogs. You were such good friends. But I never told you the full story. I never told you that when I brought Sarah into church to be baptised, Father Brian gasped at the sight of my beautiful daughter, calling her a baby from hell, a half demon baby who would one day create havoc on the world, and just as Father Brian tried to exorcise the baby with holy water, a Toyota Corolla smashed in through the stained glass window, escaping from the Feds during a drug bust gone bad and a police chase through downtown Los Angeles, and pinned the priest against the wall, instantly killing him, his red blood staining the newly washed floor. I only tell you this because now that Sarah is five years old, it is time to unleash this demon child onto the world, and since we have no choice or way to stop her, we might as well use her for our own purposes. To use her as a tool of the mommybloggers. I know what you are thinking. What kind of mother am I to allow my daughter to kill Neilochka? Well, I would hope that you would not be critical of me because I raise my daughter in a way differently than you do. We’re all one community of mothers, even if one mother sometimes disagrees with some aspect of another mothers’ child-rearing methods. We can only mold our children so much. Some are just born with a certain disposition. Some are shy. Some are criers. Some are just plain demonic. And despite Sarah being the spawn of the Devil and a evil child from hell, I am still her mother, and I love her. I read her ethnically-diverse children’s stories, dress her in organic clothes, and teach her to be respectful when she plays with other children, sharing her toys. I love to take photos of her at the beach and upload them on Flickr, especially when we go on trips together, like that wonderful cruise that was sponsored by Disney. We had a great time, didn’t we Brenda?”
“Yes, it was a lot of fun,” replied Brenda. “But… but… what exactly will Sarah DO to Neilochka?”
“You will see.” said Eleanor, rather ominously. “You will see. Very soon.”
THE MOMMYBLOGGER’S DEMON CHILD, a Halloween Tale, coming to this blog on October 31st.
Is there any worse feeling online than being dropped from someone’s blogroll, unfriended on Facebook, or unfollowed on Twitter, and you have no idea why this has occurred and you are not sure if you said something wrong, or if you are now officially “dead to this person,” and you don’t know if it is proper etiquette to ask the person why or just leave it alone?
I sometimes get unfollowed on Twitter for saying something stupid about mommybloggers or the “hotness” of a woman’s avatar. I know this information now because I downloaded this iphone app called “Birdbrain,” which alerts me when I am unfollowed. It is a mean-spirited and relentlessly annoying iphone app. Opening this app each day is akin to dragging yourself through the city square in 18th Century Paris for a beheading.
Since I am a humorous type of guy, I wrote this comment on Twitter today, “The next person who unfollows me, will get a stern phone call… from my mother!”
I received this witty response from another blogger, “I’m almost tempted to unfollow you today just so I can chat with your mother. Your mother is so sassy!”
This reply gave me pause. This woman on Twitter was being nice and complimenting me on my mother but how does she know — or even assume — that my mother is SASSY?
Of course, the answer is that I have portrayed my mother as sassy in my blog and tweets. This made me angry at myself, and my own failure as a writer. After so many posts about my mother, is this what my artistry has produced? — that she is sassy? Have I used my mother to create a character from “The Golden Girls?”  The insides of my stomach tightened and I had to turn off my laptop.  I was upset not because I might have characterized her incorrectly, but because I can do better.
It is so easy to forget the power of our words. My writing may not have the ability to bring the Maytag Company to her knees, like Dooce’s, but I have the ability to create images in your mind about others Is my mother sassy? Well, maybe to YOU she might be, particularly if you have a prim and proper matriarch as a Mom, but that is not the first word that would come out of my mouth in describing her. I see “sassy” as closer to Esther Rolle in Good Times.
Is there anything more difficult than capturing the personality of someone close to you — in words? When it is a fictional characters, cliches can often be enough. But your own mother?  She is sassy. She is shy. She is efficient. She is an unorganized mess. She is too complicated to make into a clear-cut fictional character. I can only give you a “taste” of her.
I have done an equally poor job in conveying the personality of Sophia.  Probably my least developed online character is “myself.”  The job of the writer is to focus on the narrative and delete unessential elements in order to tell a story. I am envious of all those who are writing memoirs about their lives, and are able to focus on a specific chapter of their life — overcoming a divorce, raising a child, or a road trip across the country.  I get so lost in my own head, that I am not even sure how to describe my true character. I can be funny, and serious. I am neurotic, and confident. How am I supposed to tell you who I am, when I am full of contradictions to myself?
My biggest frustration with online life is the way it is both so extremely intimate, and at the same time, superficial in how we present ourselves, and interact with each other.
I met quite a few bloggers at BlogHer. Most bloggers were exactly as I pictured them from reading their blog. Others were different, as if the blog persona was in the deep recesses of the brain and only came out during the writing, like a Devil taking over the body. Some never said a word to me, and I didn’t speak to them. Most clearly emphasized only one element of their persona online — their parenting or their business side — and it was difficult to understand the real person behind the monitor.
However you view me, or my mother, or anyone I write about, you would be completely right. And wrong. And that is a frustrating thought.   In the future, I am going to try harder to capture my real world and my own character on paper.  Or is it ultimately impossible to bring the reality — in all its three-dimensional glory — into words?
Neil Kramer has been writing about his life online since 2005. He has worked for Disney and HBO. Neil lives in NYC. You can contact him at neilochka on yahoo.
