Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Life in General (Page 18 of 46)

I Want to Be a Samba Dancer

May 11, 2009 / / 26 Comments

Lately, I have read some posts where bloggers write about their longing to be “truthful and honest” on their blogs. I think about this issue, too, but I have a difficult time choosing my reality. What is truer — the facts of my daily life, my emotions connected with specific events, or the chaotic mess that goes on inside the head?

Yesterday, we took Sophia’s mother out for mother’s day. We went to a Brazilian restaurant. Sophia wanted me to dress up for her mother, but I brought very little with me from New York, so I hobbled together a look that was a fashion emergency. I wore blue dress slacks, a green shirt, black shoes, a brown belt, and different color socks. Just like the typical guy. In most ways, I am the typical guy. I don’t care what I wear. I would have preferred to wear jeans and sneakers.

In the restaurant, Samba dancers entertained the guests by dancing in the aisles. They were a lot of fun to watch. Did I fantasize about dancing with one of them? No. I fantasized about BEING one of them! For that moment in time, I was enchanted by their costumes. I wanted to be flamboyant like that, wearing feathers on my head, and shaking my goods for adoring fans. Imagine how good a samba dancer feels, knowing that all eyes are on HER!

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So what is the real me? The schlumpy guy wearing two different socks or the one wishing he was dancing the Samba as a seductive woman? Can a man ever get the same amount of attention as a female Samba dancer? I doubt it.

If I were a beautiful woman, I would wear the hottest clothes, and strut down the street with my ass shaking. I would be like one of those women in those shampoo commercials where, after I washed my hair to near orgasm, everyone in the street would turn to look at me — the ultimate expression of glamour. I believe those commercials where the product is for a woman. I do NOT believe those Axe commercials where women jump the guy because he is wearing some crappy cologne.

So, what is my reality? Boring guy or closet cross-dresser?

Is this entire post bullshit? By tomorrow, I might think so. But for this moment, while I am typing this, this is my reality — because I am thinking about it. I want to be a female Samba dancer. I also think about threesomes and being an astronaut. So, what is reality?

After returning home from the restaurant, I told Sophia about my fantasy of being a sexy female Samba dancer. I was surprised that she WASN’T surprised.

“You would not be happy as a woman,” she said.

“Why not?” I replied. “I think it would be cool to have both men and women admire me for my beauty, mystery, and sensuality — something you just can’t get as a man.”

Just by chance, Sophia had just downloaded a new photo app to her iPhone, which helped her prove her point.

I would not be a good woman.

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Bathroom Humor

May 5, 2009 / / 35 Comments

Sophia went to her new therapist tonight.   I waiting for her at a Coffee Bean near the office.

After he session, she came and said, “I talked about YOU to the therapist.  He thinks you may have OCD.”

I have self-diagnosed myself many times, but OCD was never on the list.  I’m sure my father, who flossed twice a day, had OCD, but not me.  I consider myself more “generalized neurotic anxiety.”

“I do not have OCD,” I told Sophia.  “Your therapist is wrong.  I have no idea how he can make this statement without ever meeting me.  What is he basing this on  — What YOU tell him?”

“It makes sense to me.”

“No, it doesn’t.  I don’t wash my hands all the time.  That’s OCD.  In fact, I haven’t washed my hands at ALL today!  So, there!”

“That washing the hands thing is sixty year old Freudian analysis.  That is so out of date.  OCD is much more complex nowadays.”

“I’m not OCD.  He’s wrong.”

“Didn’t you tell me that your first girlfriend dumped you because she nicknamed you “Repetitive Motion” in the bedroom.”

“I was new to the sport.  I thought that’s how it was done.”

“And frankly, I always your “Five Second Rule” a very annoying method of oral sex.”

“It’s a scientific fact.  Just like quickly picking up the cookie off the floor.  If you take the tongue off the clitoris within five seconds, you avoid the germs.”

Is Sophia’s therapist correct?    Out of pure coincidence, I wrote the following post two days ago.   The theme was “bathrooms.”    I never published, thinking it dumb and not worthy of your attention.  Now, I’m wondering if it wasn’t a cry for help —
———————————–
Part of the creative process is seeing connections between random events. Sometimes the artist is not even aware of how he is connecting the dots of his daily life.   It takes a wise friend or a therapist to expose the patterns.   Why don’t YOU try to be my therapist for the day and see if you can FIND THE PATTERN of my existence?   Who am I?   Why am I constantly focusing on this one mysterious subject?   What does this say about me?

It all started at the walk n New York for the March of Dimes.   I was walking next to two lovely bloggers — Isabel Kallman and Mihow — and discussing the question of the day — “What happens if one of us has to use the bathroom as we are walking?”  I admitted that I would rather pee in the subway than be stuck inside one of those claustrophobic Port-o-Potties.   Isabel, being a true New Yorker, was a connoisseur of finding the classiest bathrooms in the city, and told us how in high school, she used to sneak into the Plaza Hotel.

“I tend to avoid five-star hotel restrooms,” I replied, “because they have attendants, and then I feel obligated to give the guy a dollar for handing me a towel, and I feel the same away about peeing that I do about using Twitter — it shouldn’t cost me anything.”

Always an entrepreneur, I immediately came up with a proposal for a best-selling travel book, “The Best Rest-Rooms to Sneak Into When You Have to Pee in America.”  My hopes were dashed when Mihow said that someone already had written that book.

The next day, I went with my mother to Target, where we bought a new toilet seat.  I told her that I was an experienced toilet-seat switcher, having done this task for Sophia, but when I attempted to remove the seat, it wouldn’t budge.   One of the screws in the toilet seat was so rusty, I could not remove it.   I sat on the bathroom floor for an hour, struggling with the toilet seat, not one of my favorite activities.   Eventually, my mother had to call the super to help me change the toilet seat.  I felt like a failure in my mother’s eyes.   My mother gave the super a five dollar tip.    I sulked.

Are you noticing a theme developing?  Let’s recap.  At the March of Dimes march, I spoke to fellow bloggers about peeing in hotels.  The next day, I spent an hour in the bathroom trying to switch the toilet seat.  I also disappointed my mother, something a therapist would probably write down in his notebook.

On Friday, I had a flight to Los Angeles.  My mother woke me up five hours before the flight!  She gets nervous about flying and is obsessed with “getting there early.”  She was making me so anxious in the apartment, as she paced back and forth, that I took her advice, and went to the airport two and half hours before my flight.   At the airport, I drank two cups of overpriced coffee, and then decided to use the bathroom in the JFK terminal.   I knew I had a window seat on the flight, and I am always reluctant to ask the passengers to let me out in the middle of the flight if I had to go to the bathroom.  Besides, I hate those tiny restrooms on the plane!

The men’s bathroom at the Virgin America terminal at JFK was nice and clean, newly remodeled.  I went to the urinal, and unzipped, when — OH SHIT, there was a giant cockroach or spider or some winged insect right inside the urinal, ready to jump out and bite me!

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I flushed the toilet to down the monster, but it didn’t budge.  I was relieved to learn that it was only an emblem engraved into the porcelain of the urinal.  I sneaked a look at the other urinals, and each one had the same weird insect emblem.  It was the logo of the urinal manufacturer!  What freakin’ weirdo company uses an insect as their company logo and puts it on the inside of public urinals for men to look as they pee, their dicks in their hand?

It was my first time on Virgin America to LA, as I usually go with American Airlines.  My father, who was a bit anal and hated change, only flew ONE airline.   Virgin was fairly pleasant.  The flight attendants were young and pretty, and the atmosphere was a lot “hipper” than staid American Airlines.  It seemed as if every passenger had a blackberry or iphone or their own personal DVD player.  At first, I thought this was cool, but this trendy, geeky, technology-obsessed crowd grew tiresome within the first half hour of the flight.  Everyone was lost in their own worlds.  The girl sitting next to me was writing a screenplay on her Mac.  Before take-off, she spoke LOUDLY on her phone to her lesbian lover in Los Angeles, who was apparently very upset about her taking a job in New York, and worried about her seeing some other woman working on a Woody Allen movie.  Within five minutes, I knew this entire woman’s life.  I actually missed having one of those old-fashioned annoying passengers, who sit next to you who TALKED TO YOU for the entire trip!

Virgin America had online internet for $12.95.  I splurged, intrigued by sending emails from thirty thousand feet.  .  Unfortunately, the passenger in front of me leaned his seat back, making it virtually impossible for me to open my laptop fully.  I had to rotate my laptop at a 45 degree angle just to be able to see the monitor. With not much to do, I spent a good amount of my trip writing nonsensical message on Twitter, mocking the woman sitting next to me.  On the back of the chair there was a animated map showing the plane’s route.  My other idea of fun was to messenger bloggers from around the country as I flew over their state.

@Gorillabuns — Hey, Shana, I am flying over Oklahoma.  Waving at you!

I must have seemed very lonely.  I was.

At some point, I started kvetching to my online friends about how uncomfortable it was to be crammed in like a a sardine.

“Soon, the airlines are going to start charging extra if you have a rib cage and arms.”

I then asked a question on Twitter that has puzzled me for years.

“I have always heard of joining the Mile High Club?  But how does anyone find any room to have sex in an airplane?!”

Others explained to me that this activity usually takes place in the restroom.

“Yuch!”  I replied.  “It’s so disgusting… and tiny in there!”

I would think the airplane cockpit would be the best spot.

Editor’s note:  Have you noticed another mention of bathrooms?

Sophia picked me up at LAX.  It was nice to see her.

“I just want to stop at Target on the way home,” she said.  “The toilet seat cracked downstairs and I want to get another one.”

I couldn’t believe me ears.  I had just been to Target a week earlier, buying a toilet seat in New York with my mother?  Why were there so many toilet seats in my life?

“The toilet seat with the dolphins?”  I asked Sophia.   Didn’t we just buy that?!”

“No, we didn’t.  We’ve had that for four or five years.”

“That’s not true.  We bought it last year.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No, I’m right.  And I’ll prove it to you.”

I took out my iPhone, went on the internet, and found the blog post from April 2008, where I discuss us buying this new toilet seat for the bathroom.”

I had won!

“You have OCD,” she said.

Power Struggles

April 30, 2009 / / 33 Comments

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I’m flying to Los Angeles on Friday for a couple of weeks, partly to take care of work-related matters.   I’m already feeling the anxiety.   Writing in Hollywood does not exactly fit my personality.   Networking is essential and there is a good amount of backstabbing.    In the entertainment industry, the aura of power is very important.   While I do have a competitive side, I would probably make a better junior high school English teacher.   That is more “me.”

One of the reasons I love blogging so much  is that I can avoid this competitive nature of writing.   Where else can I write a silly story and have pretty girls show up and applaud?   I don’t have to deal with agents or schmooze with people I don’t like — and best of all, the hero in the story gets to be ME, not Matthew McConaughey.

As blogging matures and becomes more business-like, it becomes just like Hollywood, which is people struggling for attention and power.   This used to trouble me, but now I just accept it.   It is human nature.   Sadly, life is less like a John Lennon song, and more like a game of music chairs or singing on American Idol.

I enjoy reading posts about the mom bloggers, because they are the most “successful” of the personal bloggers.  They have the most at stake, so there is always some internal drama going on that rivals “All My Children.”   “Important” moms argue over who is the most “influential,” as if motherhood was now a spectator sport.   Some writers now spend more time fighting over the direction of mommyblogging — what to say, what to do, what to call “mommyblogging” — than discussing their daily life.

I learn from these strong-willed individuals, much as I did with Sophia.   I have no problem with women being power brokers.  I wish I could be as strong and as sure of my opinions and wants.

You can catch up on the latest drama as my friend, Erin, Queen of Spain, who once rallied mom bloggers to “become a business,” now outs new bloggers as “carpetbaggers,” because they skip the “content” part of the writing completely, and just do giveaways.

I don’t disagree with Erin.   The bigger question is “who calls the shots?”   Who decides what a mommyblogger, or any blogger, should or shouldn’t do?   Who gives community leaders the power to speak for other individuals?

A commenter on Resourceful Mommy said it better —

What I find funny about this conversation (and several other conversations similar in topic and tone) is that the original Big bloggers were some of the first to push boundaries–the first pursued for reviews, the first to be paid bloggers and blog community leaders, the first to set up businesses connecting companies with bloggers.

It’s okay for one generation to redefine and raise eyebrows, but now everyone else must be controlled by their limits?

When there are limited resources, there will always be power struggles.  It doesn’t surprise me that as the economy has faltered, there has been more nastiness online.  People have agendas, sometimes personal, sometimes political.  This is the same for men and women.  Just watch an episode of “Survivor.”

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On Saturday, I saw a production of Mary Stuart on Broadway, with Janet McTeer and Harriet Walter as Mary Queen of the Scots and Queen Elizabeth 1.   As with many dramas that were first produced in London, the acting was phenomenal.   I don’t know if I would recommend it to everyone.   It is talky, and I found myself dozing off a bit during the first act.    Luckily, during the intermission, I went into the lobby, turned on my iphone, and read about history on Wikipedia, filling me in on the backstory of this great power struggle of the 16th Century.

After the death of Mary Tudor, Henry II caused his eldest son and his daughter-in-law to be proclaimed king and queen of England.    From now on, Mary always insisted on bearing the royal arms of England, and her claim to the English throne was a perennial sticking point between Elizabeth I and her, as would become obvious in Mary’s continuous refusal to ratify the Treaty of Edinburgh. Under the ordinary laws of succession, Mary was next in line to the English throne after her father’s cousin, Elizabeth I, who was childless.   Yet, in the eyes of many Catholics, Elizabeth was illegitimate, thus making Mary the true heir as Mary II of England.   However the Third Succession Act of 1543 provided that Elizabeth would succeed Mary I of England on the throne.

This was an epic battle between two powerful women, between family members, between two religions, that changed Europe and the world forever.

Clearly, Erin of the Queen of Spain (funny how everyone wants to be a Queen!)  is not going to chop my head off for writing this.   She is a very nice women.   As I mentioned earlier, I learn from these dramas.  I shy away from conflict (at least in real life), although I admire those who take a stand and fight for it.   We all have to push ourselves if we want something worthwhile.   Even something as beautiful as all the money collected for the March of Dimes last week for Maddie required volunteers organizing and pushing for money, and focusing our energy on the importance of this charity, opposed to the many other good charities in the world, like prostate cancer or muscular dystrophy.  Even Good Deeds requires leadership and someone (or some organization) getting slighted.  Everyone wants the attention focused on them.

I perfectly understand the feeling.   One of the problems in my marriage was this feeling of a power struggle, over “who was in charge.”

Today, my mother and I were walking in Times Square when we encountered men dressed as cartoon characters. Kids would run up to, say SpongeBob, and the parent would take a photo. At first, I thought these were sanctioned characters presented by the Disney Store, but then I noticed that Sponge Bob was pushing for tips, and that the “Elmo” character was in direct competition with SpongeBob. He seemed to be pissed that the kids considered him “2008” and only wanted a photo with SpongeBob instead.   Two blocks away was the production of Mary Stuart, but I didn’t have to pay a hundred dollars a ticket to see great drama.  It was right in front of me.   Two hard-working guys (or gals), stuck in hot, uncomfortable costumes in the heat, battling for tips from tourists from Germany.

Another example of limited resources, and a power struggle for dominance.

Now, honestly.   Where ELSE can you ever read a blog post comparing mommybloggers, 16th Century English royalty, and SpongeBob?

By the way, the exchange I had with my mother over these cartoon characters was amusing.

My mother and I encountered Sponge Bob in the center “island” in the middle of 42nd Street.

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Mom:   “Who’s that?”

Neil:  “Sponge Bob.”

Mom:   “Is he supposed to be a piece of swiss cheese?”

Neil:   “No, I think he is supposed to be a sponge.”

Mom:  “Kids play with sponges?”

Neil:  “I’m not exactly sure he is a sponge. Let me ask my readers.”

I took a photo of SpongeBob with my iPhone.

Mom:  “You should take a photo of Oscar too.”

Neil:  “That’s Elmo.”

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Mom:  “Everyone is taking a photo of the sponge, but no one is taking a photo of Elmo. Look at him. He looks so sad. He must be shvitzing in that costume.”

Neil:  “I don’t want to take a picture of him.”

Mom:  (Jewish motherish)   “Go on. Take a picture of him. You know you want to.”

We crossed the street and immediately ran into Mickey Mouse and Shrek.  While SpongeBob and Elmo were doing their shtick for tips on “the island,” these guys seemed to be professionals hired by Disney.

Mom:   “Hey, it’s Mickey Mouse!  You want a photo of him?”

Neil:   “I don’t like Mickey Mouse.”

Mickey waved at me.

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Mickey Mouse:   “Hello. Do you want to take a photo of me?”

Mom:   “Go ahead, Neil.”

Neil:  “No, thanks.”

Mickey looked disappointed.

Mom:  “What about a photo of Shrek?

My mother looked Shrek over.

Mom:  “I thought Shrek would be bigger.”

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Neil:   “It’s not really Shrek.”

Mom:   “I know that.   He’s in the Disney musical.”

Neil:  (to Shrek)   “Are you and Mickey working with Disney?”

Shrek:  “Yes.”

I pointed over to SpongeBob and Elmo.

Neil:  “And what about those guys?”

Shrek:   “I don’t know WHO they are.   They’re just doing it for the money.   They don’t care about the children.”

Mickey overheard our conversation and came over.

Mickey:  “Those assholes are stealing our customers.”

Mom:   “No wonder they call Bob a sponge.”

Neil:   “Don’t they need a license?”

Shrek:   “Who knows?  (to Mickey)  We should tell the cops on them.”

Mickey:  “Good idea.”

Mom:  “C’mon, Neil. NOW you have to take photos of your new friends!”

I caved in and took photos of Mickey Mouse and Shrek.   I lost the power struggle with my mother.

The Disappearing Video

March 25, 2009 / / 18 Comments

I’m a cross between my mother and father.   My mother is optimistic, friendly, and efficient.   My late father was sarcastic, contemplative, overly-emotional, and somewhat negative.    I bounce back between my mother’s pollyannish attitude and my father’s cynicism, and for most of my life, this counterbalance in my brain has worked OK.

I think a positive attitude keep you happy and healthy, so I try to lean towards my mother’s direction, although I am stuck with my father’s chromosome.   I am not an advocate of those self-help books like “The Secret” that say positive thoughts are EVERYTHING.    I’ve seen too many happy people run over by a bus.     I do believe that your thoughts can help temper how you view the world.   We all have a soundtrack playing in our head that colors the action in front of us.   We’ve seen those YouTube videos where someone adds a new soundtrack to “The Shining” and makes it seem like a kid’s movie.   When I was in film school, I was blown away by the power of post-production.   So much of the emotional content is developed afterwards — in the sound, the cutting, the music.   This is where the director manipulates you into seeing things the way he wants you to see them.  POV is everything.

Point of view works the same in positive and negative thinking.   A butterfly comes into the house through the patio door.  Positive woman: “Oh look, a beautiful butterfly has visited us.   That must mean good luck!”   Negative guy: “Get that freakin’ insect out of here! Is there a hole in the screen AGAIN?!”

In my last post, I wrote about being discovered by old friends on Facebook during an inopportune moment in my life.

“Why couldn’t they find me on a day when I just got a promotion or a book deal?! ” I thought.

Of course, this is my father talking — the negative side.   I assume — wrongly — that everyone is doing wonderful, except me, and that all my old classmates, now smiling cheerfully on Facebook, are wondering what happened to me — (he’s living in the same apartment?!  he’s not with his wife?!)  — the guy who once gave the inspirational VALEDVICTORIAN SPEECH at our elementary school graduation, comparing our future to the NASA space program, with all of us reaching higher and higher in our goals and aspirations, until one day, we would meet again, all of us successful and happy, hand in hand with our spouses, watching OUR children graduate from their elementary school in 2009, at P.S. 1, the first elementary school on the outpost of Mars!

I was a nerdy kid.

My mother, the positive one, would say, “Perfect. What a wonderful time to reconnect with old friends!”

Negative is bad because it screws up the neurons in your brain and you start to see signs all around you that the world is against you, or laughing at you.   The black cat was MEANT for you.   It crossed the street, right in front of you, for a reason.   A positive person might not even notice the cat, or if it was black.   They would be too busy smiling at everyone passing by and enjoying the nice weather, even if the weather was crappy.  That’s what my mother would do.

I try hard to emulate my mother.

Today, I receive an email about the first ever blog proposal online!  Some male blogger was going to propose to a female blogger ONLINE!   I was invited to leave a link to one of my blog posts that related to love or marriage.  I thought it was a great idea and wanted to participate.  I love people falling in love.   I wanted to tell them that I love LOVE too.

I added a link from 2006.

At the time, I was in Los Angeles and Sophia was working on a movie in New York.   It was our anniversary.  I made my first (and only) video for the blog, where I recreated our first dance from our wedding while dancing with a mop.

Today, I started getting links from the proposal blog, and comments that read, “Where’s the video?” “No video” and “Where is it?”

“That’s weird,” I said to myself as I went to the post and clicked on the YouTube video that I had posted two years ago.

I received this message:

“This video is no longer available due to a copyright claim by a third party.”

Now the only logical explanation is that the Andrew Sisters’ “Bei Mir Bist Du Schon,” the song we used for our first dance at the wedding, was playing in the background as I did my dancing with the mop, and someone from (the record company?) found this was a violation, which is odd, considering all the illegal crap that gets put on YouTube.

A negative person might see this as symbolic, like that black cat, or the broken mirror, as if YouTube was trying to send me a message that was more personal, less about the Andrew Sisters, and more about my marriage and my life.   Why else would this personal expression of love for my wife just go POOF, and disappear from the blogosphere?

“This video is no longer available due to a copyright claim by a third party.”

Where is it?  What did YouTube do with it?   Is YouTube trying to tell me something?

I choose to go my mother’s route, the positive way, and just laugh at the irony.   I also have a copy of this video on my computer in Los Angeles, so try all you want, YouTube, but you cannot erase memories (or backups).

Bad Time For New Facebook Friends

March 23, 2009 / / 43 Comments

Nothing can lift the spirits of a man better than a long-time friend. My friend Barry called yesterday.

“I’m free tonight. You want to grab some sushi and then come coffee at the diner?”

“Perfect.”

I’ve mentioned Barry several times before. We have known each other since kindergarten. Although he has moved to the Island, his parents still live in my mother’s building, so he frequently drops by.

We have a ritual on our nights out. We eat somewhere. We drive past Shea Stadium/CitiField and talk about the Mets (well, in honesty, he talks about the Mets and I listen). We drive to the Palace Diner near Queens College. I order a coffee and linzer tart. He orders a decaf coffee and apple crumb cake. We look at the songs on the jukebox and make fun of them. We watch videos on YouTube on the iphone. We sit there for four hours.

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Barry knows very little about blogging and Twitter, but he has recently become obsessed with Facebook, mostly in reconnecting with people we knew in elementary school. He seems to have an amazing ability to find long-lost people.

“I found Josh. He sells real estate in Seattle. And I talked with Juan. He is a minister in Idaho.”

“Juan is a minister in Idaho?”

“He told me to give you his blessings.”

“How did he become a minister? All he ever did in school was smoke pot.”

“Maybe that’s how he found God.”

Now, if you recall, I closed the comments on my previous post. I titled it a “Trainwreck Post” and described how my life was falling apart. Some scholars say that God does not have a sense of humor. I should ask Juan about this issue. But I believe God IS a funny guy. Why else would Barry proceed to tell me this — ?

“Oh, I told him to friend you on Facebook. I told EVERYONE to friend you on Facebook. And I gave everyone the address to your BLOG.”

“My BLOG?! Why the hell would you do that?”

“Yeah, I thought it would be cool for them to see it. You were writing stuff even back then. They can see that you kept with it!”

“I don’t want THEM to see my BLOG!  Especially right now!”

It was too late. All weekend, I had classmates I haven’t seen in decades, happily married individuals who are now successful attorneys, professors, clothing designers, and ministers, coming to my blog and reading the post where I revealed that I am “rock bottom,” in need of medication, and STILL LIVING in the same apartment I was in elementary school.

“Interesting writing! I’ll read more.” wrote Sharon in a message to me on Facebook.  She was some girl I once dreamed about in sixth grade, now an assistant dean of a prestigious woman’s college.

For some reason, I don’t believe her.

When Barry told me this news in the diner, I knew it was going to be trouble.

“We all want to look good with old friends!  Having all these people reading my blog right now is like ME going to my college reunion with my fly open!”

“At least they’ll remember you as different,”  he said.

Barry handed me my iPhone.   As I was fretting, he had clicked onto Facebook and was showing me the current profile photo of Jane, who, back in the day, was considered the prettiest girl in fifth grade.

“Jeez, she’s still gorgeous!” I said. “Is she married?”

“To a neurosurgeon.”

I finished my linzer tart.

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Today, on Facebook, Jane posted this photo of Barry and me in the fifth grade during the yearly P.S. 154 “Dance Festival” in the schoolyard.

Birthday

March 7, 2009 / / 95 Comments

Today is my birthday. If you asked me a year ago where I would be on my birthday, I certainly would never guess that I would be sitting in Boca Raton with my mother AND Sophia, who flew in all the way from Los Angeles just for my birthday. I’m not in a talkative mood lately, so I’ll tell you more about Century Village later in the week. Sometimes I feel pressured to write something here, thinking that if I don’t blog at least three times a week, you will abandon me, which is probably true, but it is also important to remind myself that I exist outside of this blog.

Today, Sophia, my mother, and I took a drive into West Palm Beach, once the home to the rich and famous, now a city taken in by Ponzi Schemes, and checked out two museums, The Flagler and the Norton. We also found an ice cream parlor where the chocolate ice cream was deemed by People Magazine as the “best in the country.”

March 7th is also the birthday of my blog. I started Citizen of the Month on my birthday in 2005. My template is exactly the same today as it was on that day four years ago, having spent the day before my birthday in 2005 “designing” my header in Illustrator. It amuses me that so little has changed with my blog in those four years. There is still no advertising, and the blog remains consistently uneven, ranging from the stupid to the emotionally distraught.

I’m not particularly proud of my last year as a blogger. I spent too much time on Twitter and ignored my blogging friends. Twitter is so focused on “followers,” that I began to perceive some bloggers as more worthy of my attention than others, as if networking and cliquishness was the ‘real’ point of being online, not the writing, or the community spirit. I believe the online world has given me the opportunity to become a better person, not a worse one, and I failed considerably. I might seriously dump Twitter when I return to New York, because I don’t like myself when I am Twittering.

I am inspired by those of you who blog honestly, comment freely, and show a sense of community. I look up to you. As I enter my fifth year of blogging, I want to thank you for another year as my blogging friends.

Lisa

February 28, 2009 / / 22 Comments

In my general circle of blogging friends, Lisa is the first one to face a serious illness and not win her battle. Lisa of Clusterfook passed away last night. I was not as close a friend with her as many of you – I never met her in person – but we read each other’s blogs and IM-ed several times.

Lisa was brave enough to share her experiences with us on her blog, particularly her fears and anger. At times, her strong opinions even caused some infighting amongst her friends. No one knew exactly what to do, or the best way to deal with a blogging friend in need. It was all a new chapter in our blogging lives, and for many of us, the online world is better equipped for promoting consumer products than healing.

Lisa’s illness was messy, which made it uniquely honest — the anger, the frustration, the confusion, all mixed into the stew with the concern and love. And we all know the truth — the longer we stay online and blog, the more personal tragedies we will have to face in the lives of our friends. I’m proud of Lisa for not showing us illness in a Hollywood movie manner, with glowing lights surrounding her and the John Tesh music playing. Illness is difficult, and there is always the unanswerable question, “Why me?”

My prayers go to Lisa’s family. And a special thanks to all of Lisa’s special blogging friends, like Karl, who kept her comforted and entertained.

Rest in peace, Lisa. Thank you for being a part of my blogging experience. I am currently reading every single comment you ever wrote on my blog, thinking of you smiling as you typed them on your keyboard.

Strong Wind Blows Over Truck

February 23, 2009 / / 21 Comments

After deleting my last three posts for various reasons, I needed a way to win my readership back.    While eating my eggs and toast at the Dominican Coffee Shop this morning, I saw this news item on the TV about a truck being blown over on the highway by the wind.   Perfect!  Why write about something that interests people, like the Oscars, when you can write a bad Dr. Seuss-type poem about a truck blowing over on the highway?!

Strong Wind Blows Over Truck

A man, a woman, or even a truck
They all have days that really suck

Cause heavy winds blow all the same
Without a care for height or name

The wind’s a bully, his toy the road
He loves to torment the weighty load

He loves the fiery and noisy crash
The glass a-shattering, the tire slash

The ticking and tocking of the bomb
The tension of the sudden calm

And then the clicking of the timer
The wind’s a movie by Jerry Bruckheimer

Poor, poor truck lying on his side
Middle of highway, nowhere to hide

Like a sleeping baby taking a rest
But maybe, just maybe, it’s for the best

Who drives so fast in the pouring rain?
Only the crazy and those in pain

Kingman, Barstow, San Bernadino
Take a break and drink some vino

Visit the waitress in Albuquerque
The one with the smile that’s slightly quirky

Stay the night, don’t walk the line
The wind will fade, the sun with shine

And then you’ll be back on the road
To tell the others of this ode.

Dreaming About Right Field

February 15, 2009 / / 11 Comments

Valentine’s Day was now over. I went to sleep late. In the middle of the night, I had a dream. At first, it seemed inspirational — maybe about love? taking chances? — and then it turned into a nightmare.

I just got a job with the LA Dodgers farm team in Florida (I think they are in Arizona now, right?), which is pretty good in this bad economy. It was our first game of the season. Tommy Lasorda (!) gave us a rousing speech, saying there was no room for defeat. It was difficult for me not to laugh during his over-the-top statements about the importance of our mission. I was sitting next to a Christine F. from elementary school, who was now an attractive attorney. In fact the whole team consisted of friends from my past, some still twelve years old, and others now grown up.

“Kramer, get in there!’ said Lasorda. “You’re right field.”

I went out onto the baseball field. I was the last one out. Players were throwing baseballs back and forth. The grass was bright green, and the sunshine was bothering my eyes. I had no idea where to go. I was not sure WHICH side was right field. Was it like stage left? Was it the side I was facing, or from the POV of the field facing home plate? I started to panic. Steve W., someone I have not seen since sleepaway camp years ago, was playing first base. He was always a good athlete.

“Neil, take off your winter coat and winter hat. Are you nuts? You can’t play wearing that!”

I woke up with a headache.

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