Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: bloggers (Page 2 of 3)

NaComPoMo

November 9, 2006 / / 56 Comments

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First of all, thank you for voting me in as President at Heather Anne’s Hoagies.   The best thing about the election was that I learned about some really cool new blogs, including Heather Anne’s.

Currently, I have two items on my presidential agenda:

1)  Pushing for the legalization of gay marriage.

2)  But — after attending the Pet Shop Boys concert last night, I have also decided to ask for a ban on gay men wearing tight tank tops in public concert halls.

For last nine days, I have been participating in NaBloPoMo (National Post Blogging Month), conceived by the popular blogger, Fussy.  The idea of NaBloPoMo is that a blogger should post every day for the month of November.  While the idea is brilliant and I will continue doing it, I’m beginning to think it is the worst blogging concept ever created.

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I had an email exchange with Stacy at Jurgen Nation yesterday about how our readership has done a nosedive because so many bloggers are struggling with writing every day.   I have hardly read or commented on anyone’s blog because I feel overextended with writing every day.  This is embarrassing to admit, but I actually started crying yesterday as I was making my way down my blogroll, my body going into sensory overload from caring about the lives and dreams of so many people, and feeling as if I were “falling behind.”

Has anyone ever had a nervous breakdown from blogging?

On Saturday, I attended a writing group at the home at the inspiring Leah Peah.  There were a number of bloggers there, including one of my favorites, Deezee of Confessional Highway, who I carpooled with to Leah’s home.  I found it interesting to hear about the different motivations for starting a blog.  Some approached blogging as a purely promotional tool for themselves or their business.  Others use blogging to nurture their writing or creativity.   I blog for both those reasons, but if I were really honest, my main motivation is that I like to talk with hot babes living in faraway places like Belgium, considering I would probably never have to nerve to talk to these accomplished women in real life.   So, sue me for telling the truth!  I love the social part of blogging.  If I really wanted to “focus on my writing,” I’d write a book, rather than exploiting my relationship with Sophia for your enjoyment (and for free!). 

Last February, Fashion Week Daily interviewed six of the blogging success stories while all dressed in sexy pajamas (so don’t blame me for sexing up the blogging world).  One of the questions was,  “How often do you blog?”

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Jessica Cutler (www.jessicacutleronline.com): Whenever I feel like it, but never more than an hour per day.

Heather Hunter (www.thisfish.ivillage.com/love): Five hours a week.

Mimi Foe (www.miminewyork.blogspot.com): Usually about five or ten hours total [each week].

Melissa Lafsky (www.opinionistas.com):  About 20 or 30 minutes a day, if you count answering comments and e-mails.

Tweny mintutes a day!  It takes me that long just to wait for WordPress to publish a post and ping it to Technorati!

It’s clear to me that these women have moved beyond the blogging community, because there is no way to be part of it and blog 20 minutes a day (including writing posts!)  I see nothing wrong with this if you make this decision.  I might one day decide to just focus on writing rather than caring whether Charming but Single gets a date for Saturday night.

NaBloPoMo is great for your writing, but terrible for blogging.  If everyone really wrote EVERY SINGLE DAY, including weekends, no one would read anyone else.  We would be a bunch of highly creative writers writing for ourselves and our mothers.   I was much happier writing FOUR times a week.

Can I suggest a NaComPoMo for the month of December, where every blogger promises to COMMENT on at least one new blog a day to keep the interaction of the blogosphere going strong.   Hey, commenting is writing, too.

I truly believe that most of the best writing on my blog is done in the comment section.  I had this little exchange with Sophia while driving to the Pet Shop Boys last night:

Sophia:  Have you thought about putting advertisements on your blog? 

Neil:  I have.

Sophia:  So, do it already.  No one cares if you make a few dollars.

Neil:  You’re right.  But it seems a bit unfair.   Part of the fun of each post are the comments.  It’s like part of the post.  Make believe I make sixty dollars a month on the blog.  Shouldn’t I give each commenter 2% of the profits for their contribution?

The idea didn’t go over very well.

A Year Ago in Citizen of the Month:  Truth in Advertising
 

I Don’t Understand Women

October 15, 2006 / / 84 Comments

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(Three Women by Fernand Leger)

Thank you for all the nice things you said about my dancing debut on Citizen of the Month. I was frankly surprised by the positive reaction, especially from female bloggers. In fact, I’d like to talk about this response by the women… just with the men.

Privately.

Women — would you be kind enough to shut off you monitors for a few minutes so I can talk to the men alone. Thanks.

Men — did you see that response to me dancing? The babes were practically throwing themselves at my feet! Who knew that putting on an old suit has that effect? But isn’t it a little ironic that women are doing this at the EXACT moment when I’m making a romantic gesture to my wife? Where were they a month and a half ago? Why didn’t they do this when I was so horny I was writing pornographic children’s stories? Do you remember when Sophia first left town, I actually asked female bloggers to ease my pain by sending me photos of themselves topless.

Do you know how many tits I got to see? NONE!

Here I was back then — alone, and no one even swung their bra in the air for my amusement. But I do a little dance step FOR SOPHIA, and all of a sudden they’re throwing me their panties? Are they crazy? Or do women just like to torture us?

I don’t understand women. Do you?

Female bloggers — you can turn on your monitors now!

Back to the post —

Thank you again, ladies. Here’s a story I think you’ll enjoy. There’s food in the story, and I know you women LOOOOVE to eat.

One of my favorite local bloggers is Sarah from The Delicious Life and Slashfood. She’s one of the best food bloggers out there. I’ve been bugging her for weeks to let me come along and see her in action. On Thursday, she relented. She invited me to join her in checking out Mao’s Kitchen in Venice. We decided that I would pick her up and we’d drive together to the restaurant.

Although this wasn’t a date in a romantic sense, I was still having some pre-“date” jitters. After all, I was picking up a cute woman at her apartment and going to dinner with her, and I haven’t gone on ANY type of date since…. well, since… Sophia.

You know that cliched romantic comedy movie scene where a woman puts on five different outfits before she goes on her date?

On Thursday, that woman was me.

I changed shirts three times, then stared in the mirror at the awfulness of my hair. As much as I tried to brush it, it seemed as if the ghost of Donald Trump’s hair had decided to move in. I used some of Sophia’s mousse, and since I never use this gooey junk, it just made my hair look like a helmet. I ended up taking a second shower just to shampoo it out.

I decided to take Sophia’s SUV, thinking it was the most comfortable ride. I jumped in and was about to drive off, when I noticed that the windows were filthy. This was not acceptable for me to pick up some glamorous food blogger in a muddy car.

I stepped out of the car and decided to do a quick washing with the garden hose. I’m sure my face registered pleasure as the grime and dirt slid off the car, that is until I noticed that the passenger window was half open and I was spraying water from the hose INTO the car!

(DO NOT TELL SOPHIA ABOUT THIS)

Four towels and a quick drying later, I was off to my “date.”

Once Sarah and I met, we clicked instantly. We fought our way through traffic to make it to Mao’s Kitchen, buying a bottle of incredibly cheap wine on the way (it was BYOB). While Sarah liked the atmosphere of the restaurant, I thought it was pretentious. There was a “Mao’s Communist China” theme to the menu and all the dishes were creatively named after something from the period. For instance, the egg rolls were called “peasant rolls.” There was a “Gang of Four” fried rice. Call me overly-sensitive, but should you make Disneyland kitsch out of a regime where so many people were murdered?

But what do I know? The place was packed with trendy people. Maybe I should open up a trendy shish-kabob stand and sell young Hollywood types the Saddam Hussein Pita Sandwich.

As Sarah and I got drunk (actually, it was mostly me), the mood changed between the two of us. We stopped our joking and our gossiping about blogging. Our conversation became intimate, as it frequently does when a man and woman sit across from each other in a dimly-lit restaurant. Yes, you guessed it. I blabbed on and on about Sophia and she talked about her ex-boyfriend.

When I told Sarah that my wedding anniversary was the next day, she couldn’t understand why I didn’t go to New York to spend it together with Sophia. I explained that I asked Sophia SEVERAL TIMES if she wanted me to come to New York, and each time she said, “No.” Sophia told me that she was working long hours and didn’t want to get distracted by me, so I listened to her.

Sarah didn’t buy the story. She insisted that I SHOULD have gone anyway, despite what Sophia said.

“That makes no sense.” I said.

“To a woman it does,” she answered.

The next morning, I told Sophia about my conversation with Sarah.

“Sarah was right,” said Sophia. “You should have come to New York. We could have gone out for our anniversary.”

“But you told me explicitly NOT to come!” I cried. “I would think you would be pissed off at me if I just showed up.”

“I would be pissed off. Very pissed,” she answered. “But if I opened my door and you were there, holding flowers, I would be very impressed that you were there, despite what I said.”

“That makes no sense.” I said.

“To a woman it does,” Sophia answered.

Women — would you be kind enough to shut off you monitors for a second time so I can speak freely with the men? Thanks so much for you patience.

Men — WTF?! Do you hear that craziness?

I don’t understand women. Do you?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: My Class Action Suit

I Used to Be Lonely, Now I’m Not

September 20, 2006 / / 85 Comments

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(from bedjump.com)

I was down.  I was depressed.  I was lonely.  At night I would sit alone, listening to the wind.  Or watch an informercial for a product I didn’t need — with the TV sound off. 

We’ve all been there.  Some of us are there right now. 

Thank you kind bloggers who “shared their bed” with me to ease my loneliness. 

My father never spoke to me about marriage or sex, but he would always say “it is good to have someone to hold around in bed.”  (he really said that — ask Sophia!)

This week is Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year.  My New Year’s wish is that during this year, everyone I’ve met online who doesn’t have somebody should meet someone worthwhile to “hold around in bed.”

THEY SHARED THEIR BED WITH ME:

CAITLIN’S BED

Caitlin’s bed is in New York.

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Caitlin (of Caitlinator) has gone back to school, does not eat at McDonald’s, and loves her pet chicken.

 

LAURIE’S BED

Laurie’s bed is in Los Angeles. 

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Laurie (of Crazy Aunt Purl) is a popular knitting blogger who has inspired me to start making my own socks.  She does not need an alarm clock to wake up in morning because her bright orange bedspread does that for her.

 

DAGNY’S BED

Dagny’s bed is in Berkeley, California.

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Dagny (of Dagny’s Empire) is out dancing the night away so often that her cat spends more time on the bed than she does.

 

DAISEY MAE’S BED

Daisy Mae’s bed is in Indianapolis, Indiana. 

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Daisy Mae (of Daisy Mae was here…) is well-known for making beautiful blog templates.  She is such a talented graphic artist, that she has made a cut-out of herself to fool her children while she blogs at Starbucks.

 

FELICITY’S BED

Felicity’s bed is in New York.  

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Felicity, of Zelos, is not a shy woman.  In fact, she’s thinking of taking up pole dancing.  For some reason, her bed intimidates me.

 

HEATHER’S BED

Heather’s bed is in Orange County, CA.

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Heather works and takes care of her kids, and doesn’t have time to blog.   Her bed reflects her “do it all” lifestyle — a little messy, but very homey.

 

LAURA’S BED

Laura’s bed is in Los Angeles. 

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Laura is in the process of starting up her first blog.   I’m guessing there were many sleepless nights in this bedroom with the crib right next to the bed!

 

LIZARDEK’S BED

Lizardek’s bed is in Sweden.

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Lizardek (of Lizardek’s Obiter Dictum) works, has a family, and sings in a choir.   Look at the exquisite European craftsmanship of her bed!  (and no, she didn’t get it at IKEA).

 

ROBERTA’S BED

Roberta’s bed is in New Jersey. 

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Roberta (of Roberta’s Voice) is the only blogger I know who is both Jewish and Wiccan.   She’s also pretty funny.  I’m still trying to decide if her bedspread looks more Jewish or Wiccan.

 

SWEET’S BED

Sweet’s bed is in Washington D.C. 

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Sweet (of Sour N Sweet) co-blogs with Sour, but her bed is all hers.    I love the relaxed, lived-in look, and the retro wood-grain wall, which reminds me of the time I slept in the basement of Rachel Kinder’s parent’s home in Merrick, Long Island.

 

TARA’S BED

Tara’s bed is in Iowa City, Iowa.

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Tara (of Scruffylooking) is a mother and a lover of literature, and she lives in a city with a rich literary life.  Her bed has an Asian, Zen-like feel to it, a perfect place to meditate or read Dicken’s Great Expectations.

 

MR. FABULOUS’S BED

Mr. Fabulous’s bed is in Gainesville, Florida.

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Mr. Fabulous (of Pointless Drivel) is a brave man.  Not only was he recently fired because of his blog, he is the only man MAN enough to send me a photo of his bed.  Why do I have the feeling that Mr. Fabulous — and not Mrs. Fabulous — bought that dark blue comforter?

 

VISCOUNTESS OF FUNK’S BED

The Viscountess of Funk’s bed is in Seattle.

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The Viscountess (of Postcards From Somewhere) is a mother, a lawyer, and a writer of great imagination.  I also think her bed is large enough to fit my entire blogroll.

 

DEEZEE’S BED

Deezee’s bed is in Venice, California.

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Deezee (of Confessional Highway) is the coolest Mom ever.  She just took her son to see his first rock concert — the Red Hot Chili Peppers!  As you can see, Deezee is not afraid of showing herself in her bed, although she is clearly upstaged by her sleeping dog.

 

LATER ADDITIONS:

TWO ROADS’S BED

Two Roads’s bed is in Atlanta, Georgia.

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Two Roads (of Lindbergh’s Crossing) is from Atlanta and has some “Scarlett O’hara” in her, which means she frankly gives a damn about having a very nice bed  (I know it’s Rhett’s line, but I liked the way it sounded).

 

MARI’S BED

Mari’s bed is in the United Kingdom.

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Maria (of Argentine Babe)  is Argentine-born artist in the UK, who gets her best artistic ideas in bed while working with her assistant (shown).

 

CHARMING’S BED

Charming’s bed is in a Southern city.

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Charming (of Charming but Single) is a Southerner who likes both her drinks and her boys tall, but her bed nice and soft.

 

Two Neurotic Bloggers

August 3, 2006 / / 40 Comments

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One of my father’s biggest faults was his inability to accept gifts.  He was uncomfortable when people did favors for him because he felt pressure to return the gesture.  He didn’t even like getting birthday gifts, which was odd since he was generous with others.  He was always picking up the bill in restaurants, even when others wanted to split the bill.   Rather than finding this quality endearing, I found it somewhat petty and insecure.   But he was the oldest of three brothers, and never grew out of the role of the “big brother,” so I understand where he was coming from.

I’ve inherited some of these tendencies.  Oh, I’m not as bad as he was, but at times, this insecurity just pops out. 

Like this morning.

In the blogging world, there are some special bloggers who go out of their way to make the blogging experience as personal as possible.  These bloggers don’t only write comments on your blog, but send you an email after you comment on THEIR site.  I really find this an endearing gesture.  Of course, I rarely do this myself.

One of these special bloggers is named Abby. (I’m using Abby as an alias to protect the identity of Alison of Ali Thinks).

After writing a typically dumb comment on her blog, I received a humorous email from her.  At first, it made me laugh, but then, immediately, guilt set in, both for writing such a shitty comment to begin with, and for never sending HER an email when she writes a comment on my blog.  Like my father, I didn’t feel comfortable with our uneven relationship. Why should she send me an email when I rarely send her one?

Out of total anxiety, I wrote her the stupidest email I’ve written in a long time.

Dear Abby,

As much as I adore getting emails from you in response to one of my dumb comments, you don’t have to always write back to me.  I won’t be upset.  I know you love me either way!  I just hate that I’m giving you all this extra work.

Neil

A few minutes later, Abby wrote back:

Dear Neil,

 It’s habit, Neil. And the truth is, sometimes I don’t write back. The funny thing is that as I was hitting send on that last e-mail to you, I thought “He doesn’t want to answer that stupid question you’re writing him, Abby!  Don’t respond to comments with questions!”

If it bugs you, I won’t answer your comments. But trust me, I like to do it. 🙂

Abby

At this point, I was totally embarrassed.  Does she really think it bugs me that she is such a kind-hearted person?  Did I just insult her by saying I hated her emails?  I quickly wrote back:

Dear Abby,

Shit, I should have never wrote you that last email.  I DO LIKE you writing to me.  In fact, I love it!  I was just trying to make it easier for you by telling you that I wouldn’t feel bad if you didn’t.  Jeez, this is so neurotic.  I was worried about you, not thinking myself worthy of your time to write those emails.

Neil

Abby wrote back:

Dear Neil,

And I was thinking that I wasn’t worthy or your time and attention!  Gah!  Neurotic! Insecure!

Abby

After laughing a bit, I wrote to Abby again:

Dear Abby,

Two people pleasers trying to please the others.  Just like I wrote about in my blog post a few days ago.  But since I’m trying not to be a people pleaser anymore, I’m going to start asking for what I want.  And yes, I do want you to email after a comment.  In fact, I demand that you do it every time!  Or else.

Neil

After I sent off the email, I thought about how this ridiculous exchange would make a great blog post, so I sent her my fourth email of the morning:

Dear Abby,

I might just write a post tonight based on our email conversation.  Wouldn’t that be interesting?  Of course, I won’t mention your name, unless you want me to.  Is it OK?  Again, if you don’t want me to do it all, I’ll understand.  Is this being neurotic?  Email me!

Neil
 

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  A Tribute To Teachers

NY Bloggers

June 23, 2006 / / 40 Comments

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When you meet another blogger on his home turf, it is a good idea to meet him in a establishment that mirrors the blogger’s unique personality.

Sophia and I met the sophisticated Tatyana at the Cafe Sabarsky.   Housed within Museum Mile’s Neue Galerie, the restaurant is patterned after the old-style Viennese kaffeehaus. We talked about architecture, politics, and why Austrian cafes serve coffee with a glass of water and metal spoon on top of the glass. 

(The answer:  Viennese tradition bids to serve a glass of water together with the coffee, although this is coming out of use in our hectic days. Originally the water was served as an excuse for the customer to keep his seat even when he had finished his coffee, to be able to read the newspapers provided in the café, or to have lengthy discussions. The latter was important because the “Kaffeehaus” in Vienna was used as a meeting point for writers, artists, etc.)

The next night, we met the mysterious Retropolitan at the Cabana Cafe, a restaurant designed to look like a cafe in pre-Castro Havana.  We talked about 1940’s radio shows, Retropolitan’s perfect radio voice, and the hardships of breaking up with a significant other.

The next day, I met the very professional and talented Amanda at a hip business-lunch cafe near Union Square.   We talked about our blogging “styles,” writing, and relationships.  

One caveat:

1)  Tatyana gave her cellphone number to Sophia, but not to me.

2)  Retropolitan, on leaving us, said, “It was a nice to meet you, Neil.  It was ESPECIALLY wonderful to meet you, Sophia.”

3)  Amanda, on hearing that I alone was coming to see her, “What a disappointment!  I was hoping to meet Sophia.”

Do you see a trend here?   Next time, maybe I’ll just send Sophia with a cardboard cut-out of myself.

 

Reader’s Digest

June 22, 2006 / / 83 Comments

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I love all my blogger-friends.  I really do.  But there’s no way I’m going to sit here all day and read your dopey blogs on my mother’s dial-up here in Flushing — while I fall asleep during the page loads.   Did we once all used dial-up?  It’s like still using morse code.

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But I hate not keeping up with the lives of other people.  What if someone gets engaged or finds a new job or has sex with a midget — and I miss the post?  It just won’t be the same reading the post a week from now, when everyone else has moved on and I’m the only one at the party.

So, I have a favor to ask.   Could you write a one sentence synopsis of what’s going on in your current life so I can feel like I’m still “plugged in” to the blogosphere — sort of a “Reader’s Digest” of my usual blog reading. 

Please ONE SENTENCE only.  After all, I’m on vacation.  And seriously, how interesting is your life anyway that it deserves more than one sentence?

We’ll be in the Berskshires next week if anyone wants to come visit.

A Year Ago in Citizen of the Month:  Judging a Man by His Shoes

I Vow to Move My Ass

May 21, 2006 / / 67 Comments

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Hear Ye, Hear Ye:

This royal decree binds all who sign below.

I, your name here, am one of those “creative types” who would rather sit all day in a hip cafe than workout in a smelly gym. As a wordsmith, I woo others with the brilliance of my words, but have neglected the importance of my calf muscles, forgetting that they are essential for reaching up to the top bookshelf at Barnes and Noble.

As outlined in the previous post, I agree to exercise twice a week for one hour each visit, for one month, starting Monday, May 22nd. If I am not a member of a gym, I agree to do a full exercise routine in or near my home. For each week where my responsibilities are neglected, I will donate twenty dollars to a health-related charity and will humiliate myself on my own blog or in the comment section of this post.

This contract is binding through the power of Google.

As is it written, as it is said.

Bloggers With Biceps (as of 5/22)

Neil
Michele
Femme
Mari
Alison
Bill
Jules
Fitena
Stephanie
Denise
Caitlin
Dating Dummy
Edgy Mama
Kevin
Amanda
Communicatrix
Dan
The Yearning Heart
Mariemm
Anonymous City Girl
Mags
Kelly
Peggy
Ashbloem
Bethany
Plain Jane

Never Trust a Female Blogger

April 14, 2006 / / 20 Comments

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The recent discovery of the Gospel of Judas after 1700 years shows "Judas Iscariot not as a betrayer of Jesus, but as his most favored disciple and willing collaborator."

So, it probably time to stop using the word "Judas" as synonymous with "betrayer." 

May I suggest a new term — "Megan."

Yes, cute and lovable Megan, the blogger who befriended my wife despite my concerns that this friendship will only means trouble. 

Men, do not let this happen to you.  Keep your girlfriends and wives locked away when meeting fellow female bloggers.  Women will always betray you.  It’s like they have a secret sisterhood.

What happened?  Why am I so up in arms today?  

Well, yesterday, I was in a very happy mood.  I got all my passive-aggressiveness out in my blog post and I was pure positive energy.  I even thought I’d surprise Sophia when she came home by opening the door wearing nothing but my boxer-briefs.  But as I opened the door, all I noticed was a scowl on Sophia’s face.

"I hear you wrote about me on the blog today." she said.   "And you portrayed me in a unflattering light."

"Uh… no, I portrayed you as nice.  How did you know what I wrote about today?"

"Because Megan called me.  She didn’t like how you wrote about me.  She said I need to bop you on the head when I get home.  And if she could, she’d beat you up, too."

"Megan… called you up… about my blog post?"

This was utterly shocking to me.  My Megan… the blogger I used to flirt with in emails.. can she be turning into a fink rat informer?    If she did this, she just broke one of the major rules in the blogger’s handbook.  "Do Not Rat Out Blogger to Wife."

"You are so TAKING that post down now.  You promised that you would ask me first before writing about me."

"I can’t take the post down.  I’m getting tons of comments on it.  And you’re the good one in the post.  Really.  It’s all about how I’m the passive-aggressive one."

"Did you tell them how you bought the exact cake that I told you NOT to buy."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, sure… I made you look good and me bad."

"And I’ll say it again.  I’m not like my mother."

"Of course not." (add appropriate emoticon for sarcastic effect)

(Editor’s note:  The last two lines were never really exchanged, but were added for "humorous effect.")

Sophia is really wonderful.  Eventually, she said it was OK to keep the post (after making a few minor adjustments to the story).  I see it as a victory for male bloggers everywhere.  Like Woodward and Bernstein, I stood true to my story.   I didn’t let the woman call the shots.  

For once, I roared like a Belgian tiger!

Later that afternoon, we got ready to attend our second Passover Seder.  No cake debacles here.  Our second seder was one of the nicest I’ve ever been to.  Sophia and I were invited to the home of blogger Danny Miller, who not only writes his own terrific blog, but contributes to the Huffington Post.  So going to his big-wig seder is the blogger’s equivalent of going to the celebrity seder of Leonard Nimoy.  Danny and his wife, Kendall, have an amazing historic home, the brisket was perfect, the guests were interesting, Sophia sang wonderfully, and Danny’s daughter, Leah, impressed us all with a puppet reenactment of the Ten Plagues.

But perhaps the highlight of the evening was when Kendall served me the matzoh ball soup with two giant matzohs balls.

"I hear you like big boobs."

Obviously, Danny told this bit of information to his wife.  But that’s OK. I don’t mind Danny imparting that type of information to the world.  I know Danny would NEVER rat me out to my OWN Wife. 

Eh tu, Megan?

Double Entendres and Croissants

April 2, 2006 / / 42 Comments

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I had the cold first.  Then, I went over to Sophia to get some TLC, and got her sick.  So, by the end of the week, we were both miserable.

Friday, I took some pills and ventured out, mostly because I was excited to meet two bloggers coming to town from San Francisco — Kristy of She Just Walks Around With It and Ish of The Original Pawns of Comedy.  I really enjoyed meeting them and talking about blogging, writing, comedy, and all sorts of things.  We had lunch in Hermosa Beach and then took a walk on the beach right up to the waves. 

Being with people new to the area helped me look at LA in a new way.  I complain about living in Los Angeles a lot, but there is something to be said for living right by the beach, even if I sometimes feel like a fish-out-of-water in the beach culture — with the surfer dudes, the professional volleyball girls, and the ubiquitous fish tacos.

On Saturday, Sophia and I, still under the weather, spent most of the day inside, watching TV.  We especially enjoyed watching old game shows on the Game Show Network.  The highlight of the day was "The Newlywed Game," especially when Bob Eubanks asked the "wives" this question:

"Which of the following game show titles best describes your husband’s behavior lately in the whoopie department?"

A)  Concentration
B)  Make Me Laugh
C)  Beat the Clock

I thought I would have some fun with Sophia and ask her to play along.

"So, what’s your answer?"

"Whoopie meaning sex, right?"

"Yes.  So, which game show title best describes your husband’s behavior?  Concentration?  Make Me Laugh? Or Beat the Clock?"

"I never heard of any of those shows."

"They’re old shows.  Just pick one."

"I don’t know them.  Can I pick one I do know?"

"Sure."

"Wheel of Fortune."

"Wheel of Fortune doesn’t make sense."

"Who Wants to be a Millionaire?"

"Millionaire doesn’t really work either.  It only works if it’s a double entendre."

"Millionaire could be a double entendre.  Like "My husband is worth a million bucks in the sack, or should I phone a friend?.""

"But it’s supposed to be funny.  It should be something making fun of the man’s inadequacy."

"Ok, if you insist.  How about, "My husband’s lovemaking is so blah, that every time we make whoopie, there’s a "Family Feud.""  That’s not bad.  Or my husband is so boring in the bedroom, he’s the ultimate "Hollywood Square."  Or "Let’s just say that when I make whoopie with my husband, the words "Weakest Link" always come to mind."   Better now?"

"OK, OK, I get it.  Let’s watch something else."

On Sunday, Sophia and I spent most of the day like Saturday — watching TV.

At some point, I got lustful feelings and tried to get flirty with the sniffling Sophia, who responded by hitting me in the head with a tissue box.  Sophia promptly fell asleep and I started watching one of those poker shows on TV. 

It was a high-stakes tournament going on at the Aviation Club in Paris.  There was a lot of excitement in the air.  As the players battled each other with their cards and chips, some ordered drinks from an attractive waitress.   Not that this was unusual for a casino.  But I was very surprised when one player asked to be brought a croissant.

A croissant!

How French I thought!  He’s playing for a million dollars, but still has time for a croissant!  I’ve always been fascinated by the French.  Their culture.  Their art.  Their wine.  Their beautiful woman.  My all-time favorite movie director is Frenchman Eric Rohmer.   One of my greatest joys with this blog is that I actually have readers in France.  I’m not sure how they found me, but I’m glad they did.  Like a lot of Americans, I was pissed at the French government’s siding with the Iraqis a couple of years ago, but I never went so far as to change the name of my French toast to Freedom toast. 

And what is more French than a croissant? 

Suddenly, my lustful feelings became focused on French baked goods.  I had a deep yearning for a croissant that just had to be satisfied.  I threw on my clothes and headed for the supermarket. 

But Vons Supermarket proved to be a big disappointment.   Their store brand of croissants looked awful.   A true croissant is much like a perfect bagel — there must be a perfectly modulated juxtaposition between the toughness of the exterior and the softness of the interior.   Vons Supermarket’s croissants looked like cut pieces of cardboard.

But now I had a problem?  Where the hell am I going to find a good croissant in Redondo Beach — where Tito’s Taco Shack is considered fine cuisine?  Luckily, I was able to find a foodie friend at home, who directed me to a bakery in Hermosa Beach.

An hour later, I returned home, holding a bag with two croissants, one for me and one for Sophia.   I thought about the intense pleasure that eating this croissant would give me — like a night of passion in Paris with the most beautiful French woman.

"Why do you go out for croissants?" asked Sophia.

"It was like inspiration.  I heard player in a poker tournament in Paris ask to be brought a croissant."

"No one asks for a croissant in the middle of a poker tournament."

"In France, they do.  You just don’t understand the French.  They have a lust for life.  When they want a croissant, they get a croissant."

"Let me see."

The game was still on Sophia’s Tivo.  She zoomed back to the exact moment I was talking about.   She started laughing.

"He didn’t say "croissant!"" said Sophia, who happens to speak French.   "He said "troi cents!"  He was asking another player if he had "troi cents" — three hundred [thousand] in chips."

"Oh," I said, feeling like an idiot.

We ate the croissants anyway.  Sophia loved hers, but it just wasn’t the same for me.

Friends and Bloggers

February 1, 2006 / / 56 Comments

3kids.jpg
(not a photo of anyone I know!)

The relationships you begin to develop with fellow bloggers reminds me a lot of those you have with "real" friends.  With some people, you grow closer.  With others, you lose touch completely or simply grow apart.

I’ve always considered my friendships important.  When I got married, I lost a few friends.  This was very upsetting to me, although I understand that it is a normal occurence when a couple falls in love.   Suddenly, there’s a new person mixing it up with your buddies.  And this person is not just a "another buddy."  This person gets a lot more of your time than a usual friend.   Think of Yoko Ono and the Beatles. 

Is there an equivalent to this in blogging relationships?  Recently, my blogging-friend Modigli moved from Cleveland to San Diego to be with her new boyfriend, another blogger named Dating Dummy.  This posed a problem for me.   Do I need to become the blog-friend of her boyfriend?  Should I say hello in his comments so he knows I exist — or does that make me look like I’m butting in?  What if her boyfriend hates my blog?  Will Modigli abandon me as well?  What is the proper online etiquette, Emily Blogpost?

(Look, I know this sounds a bit neurotic.  But give me some slack.  I’m an emotional Pisces).

I consider myself "sort of" friends with some of you.   But lately, I’ve been wondering if becoming too friendly is bad for your blogging. 

One of my first blog crushes was with Brooke.  Every day, I would write a flirtatious, sexy comment on her blog.  Then, a month ago, she invited me to IM with her.  You can imagine how excited I was to do this.  But you know what? … something terrible happened — we became friends, which completely de-fanged me as a sexy stud.  We talked about family and work and blogging.   After all that, talking about her boobs just seemed sleazy, even for me.   She’s a really nice woman — and a dedicated teacher.  Getting to know her turned me from guy in heat to the "gay friend" who she feels comfortable with to gossip and talk about her new shoes. 

So much for friendship! 

Now when I write a comment on her blog, I’m as dull as dishwater.  Since I now respect her as an individual, my comments are pretty much, "Great, Brooke!   Keep at it, my new friend… and I mean, a friend in a non-sexual way, of course."  Boring.  I wouldn’t be surprised if I soon find myself erased from her blogroll.

While I love my online acquaintances, I sometimes have to remind myself that you’re NOT my friends, despite all the time we spend together.  

A couple of weeks ago, I learned that two of my real-life friends from New York, Rob and Barry, read my blog every day.  That’s exciting to know, and a little scary.  I hope they don’t think I turned too crazy out here in California.  I haven’t  become a Scientologist… yet.

I know both Rob and Barry pretty much since birth.  We all grew up in the same Flushing neighborhood, and attended the same schools until college.

I’ve written about Rob a couple of times (here, here, and here).  Of the three of us in school, he was the least studious in his classes — which means, naturally, that he is now the one who makes the most money and works for a prestigious company in Manhattan.   Which only goes to show that school isn’t everything.  I’m sure Rob learned more about ambition and work skills from being a paper boy and a hot dog vendor at Shea Stadium than I did studying algebra night after night.  Rob has a beautiful wife, a son, and another child on the way.

Barry is married with two children, and just got a new sales job that is going to take him around the country.  He lives on Long Island.  His two sons are turning into little athletes, taking karate, soccer, and every sport in the book.  This amuses us to no end, since Barry and I were awful athletes.  We used to sneak out of gym just to avoid "climbing the rope."  I think the myth of the non-athletic Jewish man is ending with his kids.  Barry is also the funniest person I know.   Seriously.  I can sit in a diner for hours with him and listen to his bullshit.  There is a bit of Barry’s personality in my "penis" character, something I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear.

You know how you get nervous when you introduce different groups of friends?  Will they like each other?

Regular readers, may I introduce you to Rob and Barry, who I know are lurking.  Whatever I learned about friendship, I learned through them.

Rob and Barry, may I introduce you to this weird assortment of people, most who I don’t know, who come to visit here.  They are the reason I haven’t called you as often lately.   I’ve been too busy "blogging."  I know you understand why I’m doing this  (Yes, I do think some of the women are really hot in real life). 

See you soon on my next trip to New York! 

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