Don’t make your spouse your best friend. Who do you talk to when you want to talk about your spouse or your best friend?
Category: Men and Women (Page 5 of 11)
I recently wrote a recent post titled, “How to Get Hot Chicks to Read Your Blog.”  It was a response to an email from a male blogger who was in awe of all my female readers.
But there’s a negative side to having a blog that women like to read.  I’m not a woman. And they are. And flirting can only go so far. The big question is, “Can I actually be friends with any of these women?”Â
Believe it or not, it can be lonely hanging around blogs that are so heavily geared for women. Sometimes I wonder if I belong. I’m even beginning to question my decision to go to BlogHer. In what way does BlogHer represent anything about me?Â
I think the only solution for me is to finally get my cojones — and interact with more men. What am I afraid of? I know I’ve mentioned this before in the past, but each time I took the journey into male blogging, I promptly ran back to the soft and ample bosoms of the female bloggers. Believe me, I’m dragging myself kicking and screaming. Most men are pretty dull. I certainly don’t look at THEIR photos on Flickr, in amazement that such gorgeous individuals could actually care about me! But it is time to expand my horizons.Â
I get jealous of the comaraderie of female bloggers. You act like sisters.  You write blogs for each other. Mommybloggers, in particular, seem to consider themselves to be born in the image of Good Housekeeping magazine, and even address their readers as “fellow mothers.” More power to you. This is about me…. and my identity. For better or worse, I’m not a parent, so it makes sense that I’m not on the same page as the mommybloggers, or even the daddybloggers, of the world, who clearly have specific interests that are important to them, like celebrity strollers.
I know several female bloggers here in California. It would be cool to be their “friends.” These female bloggers fall into two groups — those in a steady relationship or married and those who are not. Both types have built-in obstacles for any real friendship.
Let’s take the married mommyblogger, for example. How the hell am I ever going to be friends with her?  Let’s use the imaginary BloggerMama, for example.
Imagine I email BloggerMama right now and say, “Hey, BloggerMama, leave the husband and child at home, and let’s go check out the new Keanu Reeves flick together?”Â
It’s just not going to work.Â
First of all, she would probably want to bring the baby, and I just don’t deal well with babies at the movie theater. And despite me being the perfect gentleman, sooner or later, if I email her every week, asking her to go to the movies, Mr. BloggerMama is gonna hate my guts. The only way we could make this work is if we went out as married couples. And that means, we have two non-bloggers in the group — Mr. BloggerMama and Ms. Neilochka, which means we have to talk about real life, and BloggerMama and I only know and care about blogging crap.
The situation is even more dangerous with the unattached female blogger. Right from the beginning, she is going to wonder about my intentions:
“Hmmm… I know things are rocky with Sophia.  Is he really asking me to see that Keanu Reeves film or does he… Hmmm… he’s always writing about his penis. I wonder if he is a sex-crazed nutcase who just wants to… Hmmm… I actually like sex-crazed nutcases, but what if we do something, and he blogs about it? He’s the type of jerk who blogs about anything on his stupid blog. Hmmm… he does write about his mother a lot. He must be a real mama’s boy. Hmmm… I wonder if he just wants to sleep with a shiksa and then say he can only marry someone Jewish. Hmmm… I bet you he is! What an asshole! What type of slut does he think I am. F**k him! I think it is safer that we never meet…”
Ok, make believe we DO go to see this Keanu Reeves movie together. Just as friends. We split the bill. We each buy our own popcorn.  We have a great time.  But trouble is looming. We’ve all seen “When Harry Meets Sally.” How long is it going to be before one of us is checking out the other’s ass?Â
Let me rephrase that. How long before I’m checking out her ass?Â
Let me rephrase AND answer that. At what point during our first meeting will I be thinking about her naked? Answer: Probably during the first ten minutes.
What can I do? I’m a man. I’m sorry. It’s horrible, I know.Â
Can you see how it actually sucks to have so many female readers and so few male readers? It’s like some bizarre Twilight Zone episode where I am surrounded by hundreds of desirable and intelligent women, but when I reach out to them, they fade into nothingness, and the only place to go for companionship is into the smoky room in the back with the men, along with their smelly cigars, Beer Nuts, and poker chips.
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Every day, I receive an email from a different male blogger, always with the same complaint, “No women ever read my blog. How do you get so many hot chicks to read Citizen of the Month?”
Men, take note. This is the most important post that you will ever read. My female readership is no accident. It took years of experimentation and market research. Most men make one major mistake when wooing a woman online: they act as if they are wooing themselves.Â
Here are three common ways that men act online, thinking they are impressing women. Contrast these loser techniques with the NEILOCKA METHOD of successfully wooing a female blogger.
BAD TECHNIQUE 1
Write a post about how many “followers” you have on Twitter.
C’mon. Seriously. Who gives a sh*t? Think about what women REALLY want —
NEILOCHKA’S SUCCESSFUL TECHNIQUE 1
Write a post about exotic sandwiches at an imaginary deli where no one gains any weight.
BAD TECHNIQUE 2
Message a cute mommyblogger, telling her that despite having three children, she still has amazing tits.
Women today do not like to be thought of as “a pair of tits.”  They are educated individuals who work hard on their careers and raising their children.
NEILOCHKA’S SUCCESSFUL TECHNIQUE 2
Message a cute mommyblogger, asking about her work and her three children, remembering each child’s name, and then telling her that despite having three adorable children — Aaron Jr., Millie, and Martha — she still has amazing tits.
BAD TECHNIQUE 3
E-mail a photo of your penis, making sure it is shot from a low angle to make it seem the size of one of the Transformers.
Believe it or not, women hate this. It sends the message that in any relationship, you will always be more in love with your penis than her.
NEILOCHKA’S SUCCESSFUL TECHNIQUE 2
Show her what you can do for HER with your fingers based on your nerdy skill of Japanese Pen Twirling. Geeks rule!
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Today, I received an email from Eddie in Ohio, who was crazy about some two year old post of mine titled Neil’s Penis’s Dating Rules for Men.   He liked it so much that he actually tried to follow these rules… in real life.  What an honor.  Sure it f**ked up his relationship with his girlfriend, and now he’s sitting home playing online poker and eating Papa John’s Pizza rather than getting laid, but at least I feel like a true inspirational role model, like a cooler and less informed Dr. Phil.
“You should write for a man’s magazine.” wrote Eddie.,
Eddie, I absolutely agree.   I’m wasting my time here on this blog writing for zilch.   You hear that — Details magazine!   If you pay me, I’m ready to start writing articles such as, “Is Being Well Hung the Key to Happiness?”
The only problem with my new career writing for the guys is that I’m not well-versed in typical male hobbies like March Madness, NASCAR, beer-drinking, or video games where you shoot the heads off of zombies.  Luckily, Google makes it easy to do all sorts of research, so I can fake it as much as anyone else.
Eddie, as a thank you for you nice email — I’ve written a men’s magazine article just for you.  Think of this blog as an online version of Maxim magazine, except without the photos of the girls in the thongs.Â
How a Woman is Like a 1985 Ford Mustang
A woman is beautiful.Â
The 1985 Ford Mustang is beautiful.Â
In many ways, a woman is stronger than a man.Â
The 1985 Ford Mustang is equipped with low-friction roller tappets and a new high-performance camshaft that lifted the carbureted H.O. V-8 to 210 horsepower, an impressive 35-horsepower increase from the year before.
A woman is shapely, and you can play with her for hours.Â
The 1985 Ford Mustang comes with beefier P225/60VR15 “Gatorback” tires on seven-inch-wide cast-aluminum wheels, both lifted from the SVO, plus variable-rate springs, gas-pressurized front shock absorbers, higher-rate rear shocks, and a thicker rear antiroll bar. A three-spoke SVO-style steering wheel freshened the interior (a running change from mid-’84), as did revised dashboard and door-panel trim and comfortable new multi-adjustable bucket seats by Lear Siegler.
Before making love to a woman for the first time, a man should remember these six important steps.
Before driving a 1985 Ford Mustang from Los Angeles to Las Vegas in the middle of the summer, a man should remember these six important steps.
I’m finally back in Redondo Beach after four days at the home of Ron, my writing partner. We’re currently trying to woo a producer with a brilliant, never-seen-before story idea, and we wanted to email him an outline before Easter.Â
Ron is an obsessed sports fan.  For the last two days, all he watched was NCAA basketball.  I need to talk to my therapist about being more assertive with the TV remote control. I use to blame Sophia for hogging the TV because we always end up watching HER shows (how do you think I got hooked on All My Children?) Now, I’m realized that it is MY fault, not Sophia’s. I’m always letting the other person make the TV decisions. When I’m with Sophia, I watch “The Bachelor.”  When I’m with Ron, it’s the NCAA.  It is the exact same pattern.  Mark my words — one day soon, I’m going to grab the remote control first. If I ever get married again, god help that woman. She’s going to be watching BBC America and “The Simpsons” all night long.
Last night, Ron brought me to his friend’s home for… guess what?! — to watch a college basketball game. The house was jammed with male alumni of Cal State Fullerton. The “Titans” were playing in their first championship game in 30 years. Everyone was wearing an orange Titan cap or a Cal State Fullerton t-shirt with the team mascot, which looked, at least to my eyes, like a weird caricature of Ganesha, the Hindu God of Success (or maybe it was just a really ugly elephant).
The living room was cramped. I ended up sitting next to an athletic-looking guy whose name I don’t remember. Let’s call him GUY.Â
It was awkward sitting next to Guy. He was yelling and screaming “Pass the ball,  F**ker!” a lot, and didn’t seem interested in much of what I had to say. I definitely have been spoiled by my female readers. I relate to you. I feel that you care about every word I write. I may be wrong, but I’m pretty confident that I wow you with every post – even a dumb post about eating a Pop Tart for breakfast — and a good 72% of you will still be imagining what it would be like to take me on your kitchen table like a tigress in heat while your kids are at school.  We click that way.Â
Women are easy for me. It is talking with men that requires the work.
First Quarter of Cal State Fullerton Game
Neil:Â “How many of these players make it to the pros?”
Guy: “Very few. Maybe 1%.”
Neil: “It seems as if these schools are using these players. The schools make a lot of money with these games and the kids make nothing. And since so few are going to make it in the pros, shouldn’t the schools be pushing them to spend more time trying to get into law school?”
Guy: “What do you care? Are you their mother?”
Second Quarter of Cal State Fullerton Game
Neil: “Recently, I read that female professional cheerleaders make fifty bucks a game. Did you know that?”
Guy:Â “Yeah.”
Neil: “I couldn’t believe it when I read that. The players make six million dollars and the cheerleads make fifty bucks. Even the Dallas Cheerleaders. I wish I was a union organizer for the cheerleaders of the world. The guy selling beer in the stands makes more money.”
Guy:Â “Maybe they like cheerleading for the team.”
Neil:Â “Nah, would YOU want to wear a skimpy outfit and bounce around for NOTHING?”
Guy: “Huh? That’s weird. What are you talking about?”
Third Quarter of Cal State Fullerton Game
Neil:Â “You want any of these “Sun Chips?”
Guy:Â “Ha Ha, Sun Chips are gay.”
Neil:Â “I’m not crazy about them either, but gay?”
Guy:Â “You know.”
Neil: “Yeah, I’m not being politically correct or anything. I sometimes say something is “gay” too, even though I try not to, but I usually say it for something that is considered feminine, like the ballet. I can understand someone saying, “Going to the ballet is gay,” but really — “Sun Chips are gay” just doesn’t make any sense.
Guy: “OK, forget it. Sun Chips are not gay.”
Neil: “And frankly, some of those gay ballet dancers are pretty strong. They could probably kick our asses.”
Guy: “I doubt it.”Â
Neil: “Do you want any potato chips? They’re straight.”
Fourth Quarter of Cal State Fullerton Game
Ron pulls a chair next to the couch.
Ron: “Hey, Guy, have you met Neil? He’s my writing partner.”
Guy: “Oh yeah? I heard about you. You’re the one who writes the blog, right?”
Neil:Â “Well, yeah…sometimes…”
Ron: “You should see how many women come to read his blog. There’s hundreds!”
Guy: “Cool. Have any of them ever shown you photos… of their tits?”
Neil:Â “Well… uh, actually, uh… yes.”
Guy:Â “Really?”
For the first time of the evening, he actually looks my way, as if I now exist.Â
Guy: “I’m gonna get a beer. You want a beer, Neil?”
Neil:Â “Sure.”
The perfect icebreaker! My new friend, Guy. Thank you, Blogosphere! I can’t wait for BlogHer.
Unfortunately, Cal State Fullerton and their Ganesha mascot lost the game. (so much for the Hindu God of Success)
Her hair was red. It burned of poetry and stubbornness. I was a afraid of her. Her eyes flashed. She was not like any other girl I had ever met. She had the spirit of a prize fighter. She would use language like the writer she was, then knock you out in the ring with her tight fist. Was it her red hair that made her like fire? Dublin was hot that summer. She had no air-conditioning in her flat. I loved the multitude of freckles on her chest, like stars in the sky. You could spend forever counting them with your finger. But she was too impatient for that. After a few freckles counted, she’d be saying, “Let’s get on with it!” The Irish are like that.
A couple of months ago, there was a meme going around titled “What I Believe.” It was cool to read about your strongly-held beliefs. I wanted to participate, but I didn’t, and I remember that it bothered me that I couldn’t come up with a list of beliefs. I’m pretty wishy-washy. Sophia always makes fun of me, saying that whenever someone opposes something I say on my blog, I immediately run to apologize in my comments.
I’m working on this in therapy.  So, be prepared for me to be more stubborn and obnoxious as I get healthier.Â
Today, I’ve come one step closer. I surprised myself. I am close to coming up with a strong Belief #1. I’m not sure how to phrase this belief yet, but I think it has something to do with wanting opportunities open to as many people as possible — even if it goes against the norm of the day.  That Pete Seeger documentary on PBS reminded me of all the hard struggles of the civil rights movement, as well as those of women and gays fighting to be accepted as equals. (see yesterday’s post)
Isn’t that a belief?
Anyway, let’s change the subject completely for a sec —
Tonight I was feeling a little frisky, so I went on YouTube to find something that might catch my eye. I’m not a connoisseur of plain ol’ pornography, which I’ve always found boring. Who wants to watch another couple have sex? It’s like watching another person enjoying an ice cream cone.  What do you get out of it? No, my stimulation is something more like watching a woman shaking her stuff while belly dancing! Now, as I was exploring, I accidentally stumbled across the videos of Tito Seif, Egypt’s most famous male belly dancer. I became totally distracted from my original salacious goal.  I was totally intrigued.  I had no idea that men belly danced!  In Wikipedia, I discovered that male belly dancing is controversial in many traditional circles, where it is considered a female art, but some men are pushing the boundaries.
Are you seeing how these two extraneous topics are going to tie together — What I Believe In and male belly dancing?  I believe in opening up opportunities.  If men want to belly dance, I say GO FOR IT!  Why should women have all the fun! Why shouldn’t a man be able to woo a bunch of women with the shaking of his hips? I hope you will join me in supporting male belly dancers around the world.
Check out the video that I embedded on top. I think belly dancing looks fun, and it is probably very good exercise.  It looked pretty sexy, too. (Men, there is also a hot babe in the video, so stop complaining)
I spoke about Eliot Spitzer in therapy yesterday. It was a weird conversation with Brenda. Usually, I walk into the office and we fiddle about until we fall into some sort of topic. Yesterday, I sat down and immediately said, “I think we should talk about sex today. Isn’t that what we are SUPPOSED to do in therapy?”
The conversation turned to the news about the governor of New York because, well, frankly, I’ve never been with a high class hooker. Or a moderately-price prostitute. Or cheated on my wife. Or even been to a Hooters. And THAT was on my mind.
Now before my female readers go, “Wow, what a wonderful fella,” DON’T. Who knows what would happen if I actually became governor of New York and had the opportunity to afford some high priced hookers. I’m sure Mr. Spitzer was a nice Jewish boy at one time also. Hell, now that I see what high priced hookers make, I might want to BECOME a call, uh… boy. Writing is slave labor compared to what they make! And they get free dinner, too!
Note: The following is a bit rambling and I may disagree what I say tomorrow, but I’m just spitting it out anyway.
Yesterday, on Twitter, I noticed some discussion about Eliot Spitzer. A woman was describing him in negative terms. She was saying that he was arrogant. She also made mentioned that a lot of high powered men feel the need to have sex on the side. After all, he wouldn’t be governor if he didn’t have big cojones. She was mocking him, but I have to admit, that to a guy like me, her negative portrayal almost made him sound cool, as if this super-powerful guy just has so much sperm building up in him that it had to go somewhere. Like he was a nerdy Superfly. Remember when I once wrote a post about some spam I got about some pill that could increase the amount of your semen so you could flood the entire neighborhood with your “seed” and impress your neighbors, as well as fertilize their lawn? Men are into that sort of stuff. I could even hear some guys talking about Spitzer in the locker room. “I bet you his wife wasn’t giving him enough p***y!” Even Spitzer himself only apologized to his wife for embarrassing her. He is more ashamed of getting caught than breaking his marriage vow. He probably thought it was a healthy release. Hey, he is a powerful man with powerful needs.
I’m no saint. And I don’t moralize. I enjoyed seeing your bras on my birthday. But, all in all, my sexual adventures are pretty tame. I pretty much went from hopeless nerd to being married. Why she married me is still a mystery. I never really had wild and crazy days, so that’s dangerous. Take that as a warning. Maybe I should go to a prostitute someday, just to see if I can do it. Almost like sex therapy. The idea of sleeping with some complete stranger that I’m paying for freaks me out and seems totally unappealing. But maybe it is good for a man to be able to just take some woman and be selfish about it. I bet you never get performance anxiety. You can come fast. You can come slow. She doesn’t have to have an orgasm. You can have sex standing on your head. You are paying for it! It’s sort of like going to therapy… but more interactive!
I am totally FOR legal prostitution. I feel that hookers are here to stay — who can refute thousands of years of history — so why not make it safe and get some tax dollars. Maybe we can let the Native-Americans run the prostitution rings? They do a pretty good job with the casinos. But don’t expect to see me with a prostitute soon. Not for any moral reasons. I just don’t think my personality fits the bill. And, in a way, that bothers me. Shouldn’t a man’s c**k go up just because a naked woman is in the room with him? I know… I know, it doesn’t work that way. But maybe I would be the governor of New York if I was more that type of personality.
I’m sure some of you have cheated on your spouses. In fact, I have spoken to a blogger who has cheated on her husband with a married man. Again, I don’t moralize. The woman was having some problems at home, and this was an outlet.
“How do you feel about the other wife?” I asked.
“Well, not too bad. She wasn’t satisfying him,” she answered.
It was another case of a man who just needed a lot of f**king — so what could he do?! He had no choice! It almost seemed to be part of his appeal!
Over the course of my life, whenever I wasn’t getting enough, I usually turned… well, myself.
My Penis: “Do we really have to talk about this…”
I’m just saying, as a dramatist, those exploits aren’t very dramatic. They are almost uncomfortable to talk about. I don’t go to my friends in the bar and say, “Hey Brad, John — you won’t believe how good my masturbation went this morning!”
But, they sure would be all ears if I told them that I just “did” a beautiful $3500 high-class hooker. Or I had an affair with the buxom brunette from the office.
OK, I’m going to stop this post now. Maybe I’ll finish it later. I’m losing my train of thought. Eliot Spitzer is probably resigning as I’m writing this. I’m sure there are thousands of blogs talking about him right now. I bet you that this is the only blog on Technorati that uses Elliot Spitzer as a segue into talking about masturbation.
Eh, this isn’t really about masturbation. It is about being a man and what his sexuality is all about. And how I somehow associate power and money and creative talent with the need to f**k a lot. Can you think of Picasso painting without visualizing him f**king all the time?
Tags: Eliot Spitzer, male sexuality, therapy
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It’s not easy being a modern man.   You try to be a good male feminist by promoting a woman candidate to be the first female President, until all the women you know start telling you that it is the MALE candidate who is better at understanding the needs of American women.  What next? A male speaker at BlogHer?!
And then, if I ask for photos of female bloggers’ bras for my birthday, I’m a sleazy, typical male.  But if I profess my love for ABBA, I get emails like this one, a list of the “50 Gayest Songs Of All Time” —
20. Dolly Parton “9 to 5”
19. Coming Out Crew “Free, Gay And Happy”
18. Village People “In The Navy”
17. Frankie Goes To Hollywood “Relax”
16. Village People “Macho Man”
15. Judy Garland “Over The Rainbow”
14. Bronski Beat “Smalltown Boy”
13. Diana Ross “I’m Coming Out”
12. Cher “Believe”
11. Gloria Gaynor “I Am What I Am”
10. Alicia Bridges “I Love The Nightlife”
9. Madonna “Vogue”
8. Olivia Netwon-John “Xanadu”
7. Kylie Minogue “Better The Devil You Know”
6. Pet Shop Boys “Go West”
5. Kylie Minogue “Your Disco Needs You”
4. The Weathergirls “It’s Raining Men”
3. Gloria Gaynor “I Will Survive”
2. Village People “YMCA”
1. ABBA “Dancing Queen”
Now, I actually like ALL of those songs (other than #19, which doesn’t sound familiar to me), but so what!
This was not the first questioning of my sexual orientation this week.Â
On my birthday, Sophia gave me the best present she could have given me – she was super-nice to me. Although things haven’t really changed between us — I’m still moving out — at least we don’t have to glare at each other as we pass each other in the morning. I give her a lot of credit for making things better.Â
I always complain on Valentine’s Day that the woman gets flowers, while the guy nothing, so I was surprised when Sophia brought me flowers for my birthday. How thoughtful. I know it is corny for me to ask for flowers, and sort of ABBA-ish, but I appreciated the special gesture.Â
Later, I told Sophia about this old Italian restaurant nearby that a friend recommended, so we went there for dinner. Wow, was it a bad choice. It was the worst food either of us ever had. Open since 1945, the restaurant’s menu only had two items — spaghetti and lasagna, and each was awful — soggy pasta and ketchup-tasting tomato sauce. The patrons seemed to have been bused in from a convalescent home. Normally, a bad restaurant choice on my part puts Sophia in a bad mood, but this establishment was so lousy, that it was quite amusing. When our hapless waiter asked us if we would like to have bibs with our spaghetti, we both laughed out loud. It was that type of place. Sometimes bad experiences turn out memorable.
On the way home, I called my friend and asked him how in the world he could RECOMMEND this place.  I told him how much Sophia hated it.Â
“Dude,” said my friend, being one of those guys who says “Dude.” “This is totally your fault. I said this is a place where WE should go. You don’t bring a girl there.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” I asked. “And why would I want to go there even without Sophia? It’s terrible.”
“Yeah, I know it sucks. But they have cheap beer. And it isn’t fancy. You know, it is a place to go with the guys. Like having a chilburger at Tommy’s.”Â
The last time we met, we had a chiliburger at Tommy’s.
“So you think that when I’m with Sophia, I go to a nice place with good food, but when I’m on my own, I just go to Tommy’s for a chiliburger?”Â
“Sure, don’t you?” he asked.
“No, I actually don’t like eating crap either. I like good food.”
“I can’t stand those fake Beverly Hills Italian restaurants where they give you little portions and put pesto sauce on your pasta. That is so gay.”
“I like pesto sauce,” I stated.
Silence.
Why do some men still use that “gay” term to describe something they think is “unmanly?” And is pesto sauce really that unmanly?
Anyway, back to the body scrub.
Now that Sophia and I reached a detente in the house, we decided to get our lives a bit back in order before I start my apartment searching. The house was in a serious mess. Neither of us had done the dishes in days. The patio, once a haven of beauty, was in a state of disarray again. I threw some of the old pots and scrubbed some of mud away. Skanky water filled some hanging pots without the proper filtration. I emptied them out, holding my nose, hoping not to catch malaria.
While I dealt with the patio, Sophia met with the cable guy, who had come over for the third time this week, trying to fix the spotty TV connection.Â
After helping outside, all I could think about was… a shower. I felt utterly disgusting, with all this mud all over me. I went into the bathroom upstairs, undressed, and turned on the water in the shower. Now, I love showers, for a whole number of reasons. They are relaxing. I can think. I can sing. I can dance. Who doesn’t love a shower? But today, it was all utilitarian. I wanted the dirt off.  But there was no soap!
I jumped out of the shower, soaking wet, ready to grab the soap that is usually by the sink. But it was another casualty to our in-house tensions during the last few weeks. No one had put out any new soap. I was about to open the bathroom door and run to the other bathroom for soap, when I heard the cable guy working on the TV in the next room. I jumped back into the shower.Â
That is when I discovered Sophia’s “body scrub” sitting on top of the railing, next to the shampoo and conditioner.Â
I had seen it there a hundred times before, but like a workaholic who never stops to smell the flowers, I had never thought to actually try something called a body scrub.
The liquid was grainy and reminded me of the texture of some long-forgotten acne medicine. Unlike that teenage elixir, this liquid was fragrant, making me feel as if I was running naked through a grove of wild apples. I put the body scrub all over me — my back, my feet, my face — and scrubbed away. When I was all done, I had never felt cleaner or more refreshed.Â
Body scrub, I don’t care if you are in the same category as ABBA and pesto — you have won me over!  If YOU are considered gay to enjoy… well, then I am proud to march in your parade.
Beyonce Says: Call me, Neilochka!
You’re not going to believe this. Remember a few days ago, I wrote a post saying how insecure women were, and I said that since I am a male, I’m more confident than you. I gave you the example of how I was watching Beyonce on the Grammy Awards, and saying to myself that if the circumstances were right, I could totally woo her.
You’re not going to believe this, but RIGHT NOW I’m sitting in a Coffee Bean on Sunset Boulevard, and Beyonce (note: accept this as a fact at your own risk) just walked in!
She is more beautiful in person than on TV or the movies.
She is by herself, dressed in lavender velvety pants and a light leather jacket. She is sitting at the table next to me. She is carry a paperback copy of “Eat, Pray, Love.”
She just looked at me! She smiled at me. This is my chance. How many more opportunities am I going to get to woo Beyonce?
I’m playing solitare now, trying to come up with perfect opening line.
There are some completed interviews that I haven’t added to the list yet. Let me do that first, then say hello to Beyonce. I don’t want to seem rude to people online.
As you probably have figured out by now, I’m probably going to be moving out of Redondo Beach soon. Sophia and I have both been under too much stress. I think it is the best thing for both of us. If anyone has any leads on rentals here in LA, send me an email.
I probably should be looking for a place rather than sitting here at the Coffee Bean, even if I have lucked out by sitting next to Beyonce.
I wonder if I could live with Beyonce? I bet she has a nice place. I could be her friend/roommate/lover/personal blogger.
I’m on Wikipedia, looking up Beyonce. It says she is from Houston. I bet you she’s been to the Nasa Space Center in Houston on a school trip.
What if I accidentally drop my coffee on the floor and then say laughing, “Houston, we have a problem.” She’ll laugh, too, thinking me very witty and a “soul mate.” And then we’ll start talking about the Johnson Space Center, and I then I can tell her about this science report I once did about Skylab. She’ll find that interesting… coming from Houston.
Doesn’t that big Chinese guy play for Houston?
Sophia’s calling. The toilet won’t flush. Damn, I gotta go fix it!
I could have totally wooed Beyonce.
Next time.
Truth Quotient for gullible Ms. Sizzle: 32% — actually in Coffee Bean, played solitaire, spilled coffee, looked up Beyonce in Wikipedia, did report on Skylab, moving out, toilet won’t flush (actual Beyonce not included)
A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Live-Blogging the 1987 Academy Awards
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