Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Category: Life in General (Page 5 of 46)

The Golden Era of Advertising

August 28, 2013 / / 26 Comments

cigarette

I didn’t read many blogs when I started Citizen of the Month in March, 2005.  My initial model for my blog was the late Andy Rooney of “60 Minutes.”  Every day I would write a short post based on some personal off-kilter observation such as, “Why do we still lick envelopes in the 20th Century?”  It’s a tried and true comedic technique.

Seven years ago this week, my father died.   I was blogging for a little over a year.  Sophia, my wife at the time, sent a message to my blog readers that I was called back to New York.  There was no Twitter or Facebook at the time, so I used my blog as my diary, writing about my emotional state at the time, detailing all the chaos, the sadness, and even the frequent bittersweet humor of dealing with a parent’s death.

My father’s passing completely transformed my view of blogging.  Writing a personal blog was not the same as writing a short story or a magazine article.  It certainly was not like Andy Rooney doing his shtick on “60 Minutes.”  For one thing, blogs had comments, and the feedback from others were frequently more interesting than the original post.  Readers also CARED about me in a way that I never cared about Andy Rooney.   And I CARED about my readers.  Blogging was something revolutionary — a hybrid of writing, community forum, therapy, and friendship.

Life continued on, as did my blog.  My writing changed in tone to reflect my experiences.    Sophia dealt with breast cancer.  Sophia’s mother passed away.  Sophia’s step-father passed away.  Sophia and I divorced.  I moved back and forth between Los Angeles and New York.  I flew to New Zealand to meet a new woman.  Life.

Last night, I put an advertisement onto the sidebar of my blog, or more accurately,  I installed a Javascript “advertising-tag” into the code which sends you creepy Big Brother-like advertisements tailored JUST for you, based on the cookies in your browser.    At first, I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong with the code, because the advertisements didn’t show up in my browser.  I realized that I was using the Chrome Extension, Ad Blocker, to hide YOUR advertisements, so I was blocking my own ads!  I turned off Ad Blocker, and BOOM, it appeared — a 160×600 banner ad for Buick.

I glanced over at my last few posts.  One was a mediation on happiness.   Another was a photo essay.  The third was a conversation with my cock.   I turned to the Flashy Buick ad and… I started to cry.  It wasn’t an unhappy cry.   It wasn’t a happy cry.   It was just an emotional release, of what I can’t tell you.

Placing this advertisement on my blog is a very big deal to me.  It scares me, but it also gives me a slight thrill, like I’m losing my virginity to a prostitute or going bungee jumping.  Will I keep the advertisement on my sidebar?   It depends on how much money I can earn by keeping it there.  If we are talking less than ten bucks a month, it’s not worth it.

I know my eight year obsession over putting advertising on my blog is crazy, and has annoyed the shit out of some of you.   I realize that most of you couldn’t care less what I do.  But I’m pretentious.   It’s one little secret that I try to keep to myself.  My blog is powerful… to me.  It is a reflection of my life, my manhood, my attitudes towards money and ambition, and an expression of sex and desire.   My blog is also about my father, the kind man who died seven years ago this week.   And my father would never put advertising on his blog.   So, it’s a big change.

Happiness and Gumballs

August 22, 2013 / / 25 Comments

happy6

It was the day before the annual BlogHer conference in Chicago.   JC and I made plans to stroll down Michigan Avenue and explore the city.  If you don’t know JC Little (The Animated Woman), take a look at her delightful and somewhat repulsive presentation about pinworms at the Voices of the Year ceremony.  She’s my kind of person.

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During our walk, we found ourselves in the architecturally-interesting Chicago Cultural Center, and noticed that there was an art show on the fourth floor gallery.  It was titled “The Happy Show” and the installation was by Stefan Sagmeister, a prominent designer from New York.

The Happy Show offers visitors the experience of walking into the designer’s mind as he attempts to increase his happiness via meditation, cognitive therapy and mood-altering pharmaceuticals. “I am usually rather bored with definitions,” Sagmeister says. “Happiness, however, is just such a big subject that it might be worth a try to pin it down.” Centered around the designer’s ten-year exploration of happiness, this exhibition presents typographic investigations of a series of maxims, or rules to live by, originally culled from Sagmeister’s diary, manifested in a variety of imaginative and interactive forms.  — from the city of Chicago website.

The exhibit was fantastic, and we spent over an hour enjoying the unique infographics and interactive displays, all relating the concept of happiness.

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The most provocative art piece was Sagmeister’s attempt to show a graphical representation  of the happiness of the visitors to the show.  He did this based on the amount of gumballs that were taken from a row of ten old-fashioned gumball machines standing against the wall, numbered from 1-10, each machine signifying one higher level of individual happiness.

I thought about my level of personal happiness before I approached the gumball machines. I decided that I was relatively happy.  Even with some bumps in the proverbial road, I had my health, good friends, my hair, and I wasn’t bored yet with my existence.  I took a gumball from machine #7.  That put me in the top 25% of happiness.

As I put the gumball into my mouth, JC said, “That’s bad for your teeth.”

I laughed.  It’s the little joys of life that enable a person to be happy.

“It’s your turn,” I said, almost a dare.

JC walked to the row of gumball machines and turned the handle of machine #10.  A bright yellow gumball dropped out.

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“#10?” I shouted, rather stunned.

Maybe she was confused by the instructions.  She was Canadian, after all.

“You realize that #10 means #10 in happiness.” I mansplained.

“I know,” she said.

I left it at that, but by the time we were back on the street, at “the Bean” in Grant Park, I couldn’t hold it in any longer.  Her choice had annoyed me.

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“How can you put yourself as #10 in happy?” I pushed again.

“Because I’m happy.”

“That’s great.  I’m glad you’re happy.  But #10 happy?  What about #9 happy?  Then you would have something to look forward to!”

“I think you can be #10 happy all the time, if you are happy at the moment.”

“Are you saying that nothing bad has ever happened to you?  No one you cared about ever got sick or went bankrupt?”

“Of course bad things happen.  I can be upset, but still happy and content.”

“This makes no LOGICAL SENSE.  #10 means the IDEAL.  The Platonic ideal.  Heaven is #10.  No one ever gets to be #10 in this world.  If I thought I was #10 in happiness, I would just kill myself because it’s all downhill.”

“That’s because we have different views of happiness.”

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Two days later, I met JC during one of the keynotes.  It was the day after her presentation at the Voices of the Year.

“You were great last night,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“Anyway, enough about that.  Have you changed your mind about what number happy you are?”

“Are you still obsessing over this?”

“Are you feeling #10 right now?”

“Yes.”

“Ok, let’s make up a hypothetical situation.  Imagine, last night your presentation was a total disaster.  Everything went wrong.”

“Nice.  OK.”

“The microphone didn’t work.  The crowd was booing.  Today, you’re being ostracized by everyone you know.”

“Are they throwing things at me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“So, what number happiness are you now?”

“#10.”

“Bullshit!”

“Like I told you ten times before.  I can be upset.  But still happy.  Because I know who I am.”

“OK, what if your pants fell down during your presentation last night, and you weren’t wearing any underwear and everyone saw your privates?  What then?  How would you feel today?”

“That would be quite memorable.  It would probably make me more happy.”

“Aha, GOTCHA!  You are already #10!  You can’t become MORE HAPPY!”

It’s been a month since BlogHer.  Last night, I had a dream.  I was standing in front of the row of gumballs in Chicago, ready to make another choice.  I gazed at the yellow balls of sugary gum enclosed in reflective glass tubes, and then I went for it.  But this time, rather than taking a gumball from machine #7, I turned the lever of machine #6.

Speech Therapy

August 19, 2013 / / 8 Comments

Thank you to everyone on Facebook who recommended a good therapist in New York. You’re nice people  (and apparently rather troubled).   I promise to look into it this week.

Today I went to my family doctor for a check-up.   After the nurse took my blood, Doctor R enter the examining room and sat across from me.

“I hear you wanted to ask me something, Neil.”

“Yes, I wanted some recommendations on seeing two other professionals.”

“OK.”

“First, I’ve been feeling congested lately and I want to see an Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor.”

“Fine.  Let me send you to Doctor Grossman at NYU.  He’s very good.”

“And then, I was wondering if you know… because I was thinking of going to…. well, like a therapist.”

“Is that rotator cuff still bothering you.  I can send you to that physical therapist in Flushing.”

“No, not a physical therapist.”

I noticed Doctor R checking out my shoulder.  I pointed my finger upwards towards my face to help him understand what type of therapy I was discussing.

“Oh, I know someone very good at Queens College,” said Doctor R.   “She’s the chairman of the speech therapy department.”

“Speech therapy?”

“She’s a speech therapist.”

“Why would you send me to a speech therapist?” I blurted out.

“I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“Is there something wrong with the way I speak?  Jesus, now I’m really paranoid.  No, I’m talking about…”

I pointed my finger upwards again, this time directly at my head, as if I was about to shoot myself with my index finger.   The doctor’s “speech therapy” comment made me so anxious, I couldn’t think straight or come up with the right word.

“…I’m talking about… what do you call it.  I can’t think today.  A head therapist.   A brain therapist.”

“A psychiatrist?” he asked.

“Yes!  Well, no.  A psychiatrist sounds too serious.  I just probably need a regular therapist.  Not anyone with a fancy medical degree.  To talk to about things.  Someone’s who relatively cheap.  But still good.”

“I see.  An inexpensive therapist who’s still good.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I know of one person.   But would you mind seeing a therapist who shares his office with an auto body shop on Queens Boulevard?”

Note:  The previous was mostly true, except for the last line, which was thrown in at the last moment for humorous effect.

Therapy

August 14, 2013 / / 26 Comments

photo

Woman: “You really enjoy a woman’s body?”

Neil: “Is there anything better in God’s world?”

Woman: “How do my breasts taste to you?”

Neil: “Like milk and honey. Like the Holy Land described in the Bible. I still remember that from Hebrew School. A land of milk and honey.”

Woman: “Put your fingers inside me again. It felt so good before.”

Neil: “You know, I wonder if all of my problems in life are because my mother never breast-fed me. Maybe all those annoying lactivists online are right. Doctor Spock and Gerber fucked up an entire generation. Every issue with Sophia and Juli all come down to my using baby formula.”

Woman: “I love when you touch my pussy like that.”

Neil: “If you think about, it’s truly amazing that a baby can come out of a woman’s vagina. I never had a child so I’ve never seen a woman give birth. And I usually hide my eyes when they have those scenes in documentaries on PBS.”

Woman: “Oh my god. Harder.”

Neil: “But clearly, the vagina is one the eight wonders of the world! You think my mother still remembers giving birth to me? I owe her a lot, don’t I? She gave birth to me, for godsake! I’m glad I’m going to Paris with her for her birthday.”

Woman: “I want your cock in me now.”

Neil: “Have you ever been to Paris? Maybe you will know the answer. Should we bring Euros with us from the States, or get them over there?”

A VOICE comes from BELOW!

Penis: “Jesus Christ. This dialogue sucks.”

Neil: “Huh? Who said that?”

Penis: “Ha Ha, it’s me, Neil. Sorry to interrupt your little fantasy here, but your dialogue was putting me to sleep faster than when you were taking those 40mg of Prozac.”

Neil: “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

Penis: “Stop talking to her so much and fuck her already. It’s a fantasy. You don’t have to talk to her so much in your own fantasy.”

Neil: “This is my fantasy, Penis. Not yours.”

Penis: “Who is this fantasy chick in your bed anyway?”

Neil: “It’s none of your business. And we’re not in my bed. We’re on her couch.”

Penis: “Won’t Juli be upset that you’re shagging some other woman in your fantasy?”

Neil: “Can we change the subject, Penis?”

Penis: “OK. So, are you still excited about your trip to Paris… with your mom?”

Neil: “Yes.”

Penis: “Any plans to go to New Zealand?”

Neil: “Not yet. It’s complicated.”

Penis: “I see. Still watching the Sopranos every night… with your mom?”

Neil: “Yes. We’re almost at Season Three. How do you know all this about my life?”

Penis: “I follow you on Facebook.”

Neil: “You’re on Facebook?”

Penis: “Who isn’t on Facebook nowadays? You should “like” my Facebook page.”

Neil: “You have a Facebook page?”

Penis: “Don’t you?”

Neil: “No. And I’m not “liking” the Facebook page of my Penis.”

Penis: “By the way, I saw your last status update. Boo-hoo. Your usual weepy stuff to get the mombloggers to care about you. “I’m thinking of looking for a therapist in NYC…””

Neil: “Stop it. Don’t read it — out loud.”

Penis: ““I’m thinking of looking for a therapist in NYC. Why? Because – well why did I feel the need to tell Facebook that I was thinking of looking for a therapist in NYC? How can I be an open and good friend to you, and listen to your stories, if I’m always so obsessed with my own stuff. I need to find someone who takes my insurance. At the same time, I wonder if therapy is just a waste of time, and I can just work out everything on my own by crowdsourcing my life with you. Veronica, please call me in two weeks and make sure I really put some effort into this. Action over talk.””

Neil: “Jesus.”

Penis: “You start looking for a therapist yet?”

Neil: “Not yet.”

Penis: “Why the need for a therapist — all of a sudden?”

Neil: “You know. Issues.”

Penis: “WAIT A MINUTE. Isn’t there a female therapist in the Sopranos that Tony Soprano goes to? The one with the nice legs and great ass?”

Neil: “Yeah. So what?

Penis: “You start watching this show with your mother… and suddenly you’re thinking about going to a therapist? OH, MAN. Why didn’t I see this at once — that fantasy women you’re fucking on the couch — is your imaginary new therapist?! You haven’t even found one yet, and you’re already doing her in your head — one who looks like Lorraine Bracco!”

Neil: “No, I’m not.”

Penis: “And then while you’re talking about your so-called “issues”, she’ll be sucking me off with her wet therapist’s lips.”

Neil: “That’s disgusting. You’re a male pig! I don’t WANT to know you!”

Penis: You don’t want to know me?

Neil: I read a quote on Pinterest that said “You are only as good as your friends. Embrace positive-oriented friends.” And YOU are never positive-oriented.”

Penis: “I’m a fucking COCK! I’m true to who I am. YOU’RE never positive-oriented. You’re the phony one.”

Neil: “I’m not a phony.”

Penis: “Oh no? And why did you go to BlogHer again this year? How many women did you imagine sucking your cock there?”

Neil: “I went to BlogHer to learn from my peers! To grow as a blogger!”

Penis: “That wasn’t the only thing growing during the fashion show.”

Neil: “Listen. I respect you that you have a point of view. I’m learning to listen to all voices, no matter how diverse. But let’s face it. You’re a Penis. I’m a man. I’m the one with the brain. Do you know what I got on my verbal and math SAT scores? I was in the top 4% of all seniors in the United States of America! I don’t need to listen to you.”

Penis: “You’r afraid. I get it. You’re afraid of real relationships, afraid of intimacy, afraid of everything. So you play it safe. You flirt with married women. You have a relationship with a woman a million miles away. You start fantasizing about shagging some female therapist on her couch rather than going for some real help!”

Neil: “You’re crazy. You’re insane! I won’t stand for this. I’m leaving!”

Penis: “Where are you going to go? Where are you going to hide? I’m always going to be with you?”

Neil: “No, you’re not! Not if I use this new steak knife my mother got at Bed Bath and Beyond with that 20% off coupon!”

Penis: “You want to cut me off? Go for it. Do it! I dare you!”

Neil: “I will! I will! Don’t tempt me!”

Penis: “Listen, you miserable piece of shit. I’m the only one who really knows you. Cares for you. Sympathizes with you. This is real therapy here. Tough love therapy. We’re a team, Neil. If I’m happy, you’re happy. If your happy, I’m happy. I’m tired of getting blowjobs in your imagination. You need to face reality, Neil. That’s your first step in recovery. Admit to me that you were fantasizing about some imaginary female therapist.”

Neil: “I’m not one of those guys.”

Penis: “Yeah, yeah, a progressive liberal white dude who would respect his female therapist, and never think about her naked.”

Neil: “I don’t even have a female therapist. This is all hypothetical.”

Penis: You’re missing HER. Aren’t you?

Neil: Of course I do. I miss our conversations. Our dinners together.

Penis: And what else? Why are you fantasizing about this therapist?

Neil: Shut up.

Penis: “You need to do this, Neil. You are weak, Neil. You are weak. You need to do this for HER. For you mother. For everyone on the internet. Tell me the truth. Tell yourself the truth. Tell me about this imaginary therapist. Tell me you wanted to fuck her. Say it. Say it!

Neil: “Yes, Yes, Yes. I was imagining fucking this imaginary female therapist. She was just so nice and compassionate and listened to me and so smart and she kept one button open on her soft blouse, and I could imagine her breasts in my mouth, and… I’m sick. I’m a sick and terrible person. I am immoral. I am self-absorbed. I am sexist and racist and homophobic and I don’t even like Indian food, even though I always say I love it when I go out to dinner with my college friends from Columbia, just so they can’t accuse me of being overtly Eurocentric. I’m the worst. I’m a shell of a man. God should strike me down with a thunder bolt right now and I will deserve it.”

Penis: “Time’s up. That will be $150.”

Neil: “Do you accept United Healthcare as insurance.”

Penis: “No.”

Truth Quotient: 100% True

The Key

February 3, 2013 / / 43 Comments

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If you follow me on Instagram, you’ll notice that I haven’t uploaded a single photos in the last two weeks. It’s as if I’ve lost interest in photography. After shooting 3,000 photos over the last two years, I’ve discovered the most beautiful image in the face of one woman, and there’s no reason to look at anything else.

Juli and I speak late at night, when our time zones align, and after her son is asleep. We have conversations like whether or not we should change our Facebook relationship status. We decided against it; it serves us no purpose other than adding pressure. Last night, we searched the internet for the most current definition of “boyfriend” and “girlfriend,” to see if we would quality, but sadly, we did not. Labels always fail me, just like the do in blogging. I never quite fit in.

Readers of this blog are a sappy bunch, and I know you enjoy a good love story, especially before Valentine’s Day, but I’m going to disappoint you. I’m not jumping on a plane and moving to New Zealand just yet. I realize that this is what happens in the movies, but let’s be real– the filmmakers never show you what happens after the plane takes off and the credits roll. I have a mother and friends in the United States. I know very few people in New Zealand.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” she asked me.

We both were unsure. We both were married, in love with other people. This can only mean one thing — there is no such thing as one “soulmate.” A person can have many soulmates in life. The idea of a soulmate is another myth perpetuated by sappy movies.

There is also the delicate issue of her son. I’m more understanding now about the issues surrounding a single mom. To “date” a single mom means — in many ways — dating her child. It is a package deal. I enjoyed playing with Juli’s son. We played Battleship, flew kites, went camping. Juli was very careful that her son knew that I was just a visiting friend, and that HE always came first.

I will return to New Zealand, at least for another visit. This year. But when? It is painful to talk to her on Skype and be separated by wireless data. But a flight to New Zealand is expensive. I need to search for a few more freelance gigs.

Thousands of miles away, in New Zealand, there is a house with a beautiful wooden door. It is a strong and colorful door, lit by the sun, emboldened by the salty sea air. I have the key that opens this door.

“Take it,” she told me at the airport terminal before I left, gently placing it into my right hand.

I keep this key with me all the time now — in my front pocket, in my back pocket, in my shirt pocket — only taking it out before sleep, where I place it on my night stand, next to her photo, and then I dream.

Water

January 23, 2013 / / 12 Comments

water

My trip to New Zealand was all about water.   Without water, we would all die of thirst.   But don’t try to grab it with the tense hand; it will laugh at you with disdain. It is a chameleon that takes many forms and shapes, always moving. Only a fool tries to control it.  Water runs fast.  Water can calm — the gentle brook, and then belittle you with a ocean’s tsunami, swallowing you whole.  Water is sex and religion.   Sweet wetness and holy baptism.  Water is risk.   Water is mysterious and powerful, like a woman.

The Blurry Photo of J

January 22, 2013 / / 44 Comments

Call me old-fashioned, but I was convinced that she would be the first to crack. Blokes like myself believe women are the sentimental creatures, so I was surprised that, on my arrival at LAX, the first text I received from her read simply, “Going camping with my son for two days.”

Camping in NZ also means “non internet access,” so this also meant that our communication channels were down. So, on this historic day when President Obama was sworn in as President, barriers fell throughout the land. We now have our first two-term African-American President. Gay rights were mentioned in an inaugural speech. And — for the first time ever, smashing centuries of gender roles — a man cracked first, turning to his blog, sentimentality in his heart, while the woman went camping in the wild, a pocketknife in her purse. Who’s the weaker sex? My heart sinks faster than that US Navy landing craft that was swamped by a wave near Paekakariki, NZ ’s during that infamous tragedy in June 1943.

J and I first went camping after Christmas. Her son stayed with his father. I had not gone camping since I was twelve years old. As an adult, I found it fun, but exhausting. One of my Facebook friends touted camping as “sexy.” Uh, no. But if you get your kicks sleeping in cramped tents without bathrooms, who am I to question your alternative lifestyle?

I’m surprised that I enjoyed it as much as I did. The scenery certainly helped. It was amazing to wake up in the morning and look at greenery so lush you felt like you just rented a room in the Hobbit’s Shire.

Still, after a week sleeping on an air mattress, I suggested (well, insisted) that we spend two nights in a motel in Napier, a Hawkes’ Bay town famous for its art deco architecture.

Our room in Napier — at the appropriately named Art Deco Motel — was nothing fancy; it was a motel room that looked out into a parking lot. But after a week camping, it felt like the Four Seasons. We each took a long hot shower. It was the best shower of my life. J prepared lunch in the motel kitchenette, using leftovers in the cooler or the “chilly bin” as called by the Kiwis. J was wearing a towel from the bathroom, but as she fried up some eggs, the white cotton towel slipped off, sliding to the carpeted floor.

I took a photo of her with my iPhone.

In the photo, J was in the shadows, the light in the background flowing in from the large window leading to the patio. I fiddled around with some apps on my iphone until the subject was anonymous. I created a blurry photo of a naked, curvy, beautiful woman standing in front of a burst of light.

“Can I put this on Instagram?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “It’s your artwork.”

Wow. My artwork?! How can you not fall for a woman who considers your dopey and salacious photo of her losing her towel while frying some eggs as “artwork?”

The next day, she changed my mind.

“I forgot about my mother.” she said. She’s looking at your instagram feed.”

It’s a fine line between sharing and keeping things private.

“Can you take it down before she sees it?” she asked.

I deleted it from Instagram. And Flickr. And Facebook.

I’m in Los Angeles now. For now. It’s too bad that I can’t reach J. I want to tell her about my night in Melbourne, Australia. I met two Aussie bloggers and we went to a famous local restaurant.

Melbourne is a world-class city with culture and excitement. There are hipsters drinking coffee in converted warehouse districts. The Kapiti Coast of New Zealand — where J lives — is sleepyville. Bars close early. Local excitement is a sheep shearing and bringing home some fish and chips. But never have I seen so much greenery. And as a Pisces, I am drawn to the oceans and rivers and lakes. And then, there is J herself. She is in New Zealand.

I slide my finger along the screen of my iphone, touching the blurred photo of J. The one from the motel. The one that I deleted. It is a tame photo. J is shadowy and heavily filtered. But I understand why she asked me to delete it from public view. I know and adore every curve of her body, even in the dark. And that is very obvious to anyone looking at this blurry photo, despite my attempts to hide it.

Summer Love

January 19, 2013 / / 70 Comments
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xgCt-F22Ex0

Back when I attended my Jewish sleep-away camp, the summer ended with a big dance. It was on the last weekend of August, right before we all went back to our predictable middle-class lives in Queens, Brooklyn, Westchester, New Jersey, and Long Island, where we would focus on our schoolwork and prepare ourselves for a scholarship to a fancy college.  Fall, Winter, and Spring were times of seriousness.  It was only during the summer that we allowed ourselves to paddle a canoe or initiate”panty raids” on the girls’ bunks.

Having a dance as a camp season finale made no sense to a ten year old boy who had no interest in dancing, or the opposite sex.   The girls danced by themselves while the boys got sugar drunk on Dixie cups of purple punch.

One year,  on my seventh year as a camper, I asked Tammy to the dance, but just my luck — she ended up in the infirmity with the flu, so I spent most of the evening standing outside her window chatting with her about science fiction movies, until one of the nurses shooed me away.  I took off to the social hall, relieved to not have missed the final dance.  After so many years at this camp, the “last song” of the summer had grown in meaning to me.  It was always the same — “See You in September,” originally sung by the Tempos in 1959, but this was the latter version, covered by The Happenings in 1966.  The sappy song must have been a tradition for an earlier generation, because all of the counselors and older staff members would grab a partner and do a “slow dance.”

It never occurred to me as a camper that this “last dance” was not for the campers at all, but for the staff — many who were returning back to school or work, and had experienced summer love for the first time.

Summer love creates all sorts of complications.   Some counselors already had boyfriends and girlfriends back at home.  Some of the staff members were international visitors from faraway places like Ireland.   And not even Jewish.

So how did these summer romances turn out?   Most of them fizzled out.  Some tried to reproduce the lake-side romance in the Catskills back in Brooklyn, but it didn’t have the same vibe on Ocean Parkway.   The city can be romantic and mysterious, but it has a different soundtrack, more funky than mellow.

Tammy, the girl who was supposed to be my date for the final dance, ended up dating one of the counselors — a college boy — much to the dismay of her parents.   They are a summer romance success story, married for decades with children who now go to sleep-away camp.

Over the last month, while most of you have been freezing during the winter months, I have been on Summer Vacation in New Zealand.  It is Summer here.   The kids are off from school.  The beaches are full.  Everyone is eating ice cream.

But Fall is close.   Today there was a “back to school” commercial on the “telly.”  School clothes at 40% at The Warehouse, New Zealand’s equivalent of Target.

With summer ending, there is a call to seriousness.   It’s time for me to return to the States.   The vacation is over.    I’ve found a summer love here in New Zealand.   I’ve had a life-changing experience.

Where does it go from here? I don’t know.  It is hard to carry a summer love into the Fall, especially when you live on different continents.   For now, I have a plane to catch tomorrow, and I want my last dance with Juli.

The Railway Station at Paekakariki

January 13, 2013 / / 18 Comments

New Zealand

After lunch at her Mexican restaurant, Marianne dropped me off at the train station at Paekakariki.  I had an hour to kill before the train for Paraparaumu arrived, so I wandered around the tiny town’s Main Street, which took me all of ten minutes.

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I walked over to the railway station, which while unassuming, consisting of a few wooden shacks on a 1/3 of a city block, is important to the city’s history.

In 1886 the Wellington and Manawatu Railway Company’s line from Wellington to Longburn was completed, and Paekakariki became an important stop on the journey. In 1908, the line was incorporated into the national network of the New Zealand Railways Department and became part of the North Island Main Trunk linking Wellington and Auckland, the North Island’s most important line.

During World War 2, Paekakariki also served as a major base for US Marines fighting in the Pacific, with over 20,000 Americans stationed here.

Paekakariki’s steep surrounding hills proved suitable terrain for marching and mortar practice, whilst its beaches were used to stage amphibian invasions. They were the scene of an unfortunate tragedy in June 1943 when a landing craft was swamped by a wave during a nighttime training exercise. Nine men drowned in the heavy surf according to official figures; local rumor put the toll higher. The incident was never reported at the time due to wartime censorship provisions.

I was reading about Paekakariki’s history on my iPhone, biding my time, when I noticed an open door in one of the side buildings.  I shyly walked over and looked into what seemed to be a dusty old used bookstore jam-filled with literature.  The location seemed so bizarre and incongruous.  While I can understand a Barnes and Noble at Grand Central Station, how could this used bookstore do any sort of business in the middle of nowhere, hidden in Paekakariki, population 1600, a town name which in Māori means “perching place of the kakariki (green parrot).”

Inside the bookstore, a man in his sixties, a Bohemian with long white hair, was standing on a ladder, struggling to hang a framed photo on the wall.

“Good.  You’re tall,” he said.  “You can help me.”

“Sure,” I said, and entered the shop. I climbed onto the ladder and tried to match up the wired back of the frame with the nail on the wall.

“A little to the right,” he directed me.   “To the left. Perfect.”

I climbed off the ladder and he pointed at the sepia-toned photo.  It was of some waterfall.  He told me it was an original photo taken by some famous New Zealand naturalist, the Ansel Adams of the country.

“Are you looking for a specific book today?” he asked, changing the subject.

“To tell you the truth, I’m just stumbling by. I was waiting for the train when I saw you were open. I was surprised to find such a cool bookstore in the middle of the train station.”

“Grand, isn’t it? Where are you from?”

“From the States. I was born in New York.”

“That’s one place I want to visit one day. You liking New Zealand?”

There was a spark in his voice. Many Kiwis seemed quite reserved, but the bookstore owner seemed impish and playful.

“It’s beautiful in New Zealand,” I answered.

“Listen, as a thank-you for hanging up my photo, I’m going to give you one of my books. What do you prefer? Fiction or poetry?”

Before I could answer, he had analyzed me.

“You seem like a fiction person. I’ll give you one of my novels.”

He grabbed one of his own books from a shelf. It was titled Unlevel Crossings. I learned more about my new acquaintance. His name was Michael O’Leary.

Michael O’Leary is a New Zealand publisher, poet, novelist, performer, and bookshop proprietor. He publishes under the imprint Earl of Seacliff Art Workshop, which he founded in 1984. He runs a bookshop, Kakariki Books, from the Paekakariki Railway Station.

Born in Auckland, he was educated at the Universities of Auckland and Otago. He wrote his master’s thesis on the history of small presses in New Zealand. He is the author of Alternative Small Press Publishing in New Zealand. He completed a PhD in women’s studies at Victoria University of Wellington on the ‘Social and Literary Constraints on Women Writers in New Zealand 1945 to 1970’.

O’Leary’s novels and poetry explore his Māori (Te Arawa)– Irish Catholic heritage. Under the Earl of Seacliff Art Workshop imprint he has published work by a range of writers, both alternative and mainstream, including: Raewyn Alexander, Colin Lloyd Amery, Sandra Bell, John Pule, Greg O’Brien, David Eggleton, and others.

O’Leary is a trustee for the Poetry Archive of New Zealand Aotearoa, a charitable trust dedicated to archiving, collecting and promoting New Zealand poetry.

“Thank you for the book,” I told the writer/publisher/bookstore owner. “I’ll read it on the plane home.”

The warning bell of the approaching train rang at the train crossing.

“What’s your name?” he asked, the clang of the metal wheels of the train from Wellington growing louder.

“Neil.”

“Nice meeting you Neil. And what brings you to New Zealand in the first place? A woman?”

“How did you know?”

“It’s always a woman.”

I said goodbye. I rode the train back to Paraparaumu.  Juli picked me up and I took this photo of her for Instagram.

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