Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: Christmas (Page 3 of 3)

The Miracle of Kew Garden Hills – The Final Chapter

November 30, 2006 / / 33 Comments

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(from The Miracle of Kew Garden Hills – Chapter Two) 

Nick took my mother’s other hand.

“Your mother and I are friends… ” he said.

“Very good friends…” added my mother.

It suddenly became real to me.   This was Santa Claus.  And Santa Claus was a horny older guy leering at my mother’s figure!

“Mom?”  I gasped.  ”Are you doing it with Santa Claus?!!”

“What kind of question is that to ask your mother?!” she answered.  “And I’m a adult.”

“But I’m shocked,” I stammered.

Nick laughed his “Ho Ho Ho.”

“How can someone who writes about his penis all the time be such a prude?” he joked.

“But, Mom?” I cried incredulously.  “What about Dad?  It’s only been 15 months since he passed away.”

“Your father would be the FIRST person to want me to date again.  Being over 65 is young today!” 

I began feeling dizzy.   My mother gave me her kindly smile.

“Think about every Christmas since you were a child.  What did your father do at Queens General Hospital?”

“He would dress as Santa and visit the children’s wing.”

“He was the funniest-looking Santa ever,” Nick added. “He was so skinny… and those Woody Allen glasses!  But he was the best!”

“So who better to take on as a lover…” said my mother, “than the REAL Santa Claus?!  Your father would be impressed!”

I turned towards Nick, still defiant.

“And what about you, Nick?  Aren’t you still married?”

“Technically, I am still married to Mrs. Claus.  But we are, uh, separated.  Although we still live near each other in the North Pole, and love each other, we can still date, but… it’s all very complicated.  I’m not sure if you can understand…”

“Oh, I can.  I can…”  I replied.

My mother took me by my arm and led me to the living room couch.  It was in perfect condition for an old couch because of the plastic that covered it for 30 years.

“Mom, are you sure you know what you are doing?” I asked.

“Is there anything wrong with Nick bringing some “joy” into my life?” she said.

I shook my head, confused.

“I don’t understand.  How did you and Santa… uh, Nick… meet?”

“At Shirley’s house.  It seems that Nick is quite a whiz at Mah-Jongg and came over for a game.”

Nick sat down across from us.

“My mother, Miriam Clausiwitz, god rest her soul, played Mah-Jongg every Tuesday when I was growing up in the Bronx.  I  can still hear the click of the tiles and the chattering of the women.  I even taught the elves how to play!  Oh, you should see some of their competitive tournaments!”

“My head is spinning” I said.

My mother gave me a hug.

“All is good, Neil.  The world is good, despite your bad experiences on the plane and the cab ride over here.  People ARE good.  We just forget to look at the positive side sometimes.  I don’t know if it will work out between Nick and I, but I’ve learned so much from him.”

“And I’ve learned so much from your mother.” said Nick.  “She’s a wonderful woman.  And so full of energy!   Be inspired by her, Neil.  It’s up to you and other wonderful bloggers to spread the joy throughout the blogosphere.” 

“You mean the Holiday Concert?  The Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Holiday Concert?”

“Yes, Neil!  The Holiday Concert on your blodge” said my mother, beaming with pride.

“It would be a mitzvah!” echoed Nick.

I could hear MUSIC coming from upstairs, but it wasn’t coming from the apartment upstairs.  The music was surrounding us.  It felt spiritual. 

“That music?” I said as I looked for the source.  “It sound so familiar.  It sounds like the soundtrack from “Gunga Din” my father’s favorite movie.”

“It is your father… !” said Nick. “From the beyond! 

My mother listened carefully, as if she understood. 

“I think Artie wants to say that he loves the Holiday concert idea.   It could be a Holiday tradition, just like when he used to dress up like Santa Claus at the hospital every year!”

Suddenly, I heard my father’s voice calling out to me.

“Go ahead, Neil.” he said.  “Make the announcement about the concert already!”

“And what about Mom and Santa Claus?  What should I do” I asked my father.  “Doesn’t it make you upset?  Doesn’t it make you jealous?”

“Nah.  If Elaine passed away first, you don’t think I would be shtupping other women by now?  Besides, what’s there to be jealous of?   Have you seen the tiny size of Santa Claus’ c**k?!”

“You are too funny, Dad.  I love you.”

“Go and put up the sign-up sheet,” he instructed me.  “The Holiday Season is upon us.  Let everyone “Be of Good Cheer!”

ANNOUNCING THE FIRST ANNUAL BLOGGER Christmahanukwanzaakah HOLIDAY CONCERT — December 20, 2006

(sign-up sheet coming later)

The Miracle of Kew Garden Hills – Chapter Two

November 29, 2006 / / 28 Comments

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(from The Miracle of Kew Garden Hills, Chapter One)

“Here’s what I want, Neil.  Have you ever thought about hosting a Holiday Concert on your blog, where other bloggers spread the joy by sending in holiday music and songs they recorded themselves?”

“Host a Holiday Concert?  Me?  But I’m Jewish!”

“So am I, Neilochka…” said Nick.  “So am I…”

“Who else do you think they could get to work on Christmas Eve?” he laughed.

“And how exactly would this Blogger Holiday concert work?” I inquired.

“Ho Ho Ho.  Easy as fruitcake.  Tomorrow on your blog, you would put up a sign-up sheet.  Bloggers could volunteer to perform a holiday song for Christmas, Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa.  They can sing or play an instrument, or both.   They could send the finished piece over the internet either in .wav or MP3 format, edited or unedited.  I’m sure you can help explain all this.  Even with all those Playstation 3s I’m hearing about, I’m not much of a techie.”

“And when would I hold this Christmahanukwanzaakah Concert?”

“December 20 sounds right.”

“And what about those bloggers who can’t sing or play an instrument?”

“You mean the talentless ones?  They could always send you a photo of their menorah or Christmas tree.  Just NO KITTENS.”

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Nick.  Although some call me Kris Kringle.  Or Santa Claus.”

“Santa Claus?!  You have to be kidding?”  I cried, my eyes rolling in disbelief.

The elevator door opened.  My mother was standing down the hall, waiting for me, much as she used to when I would come home from school.  I grabbed my suitcase and rushed towards her, trying to get as far away from this nut as possible.

“Hurry, Mom!  Let me in and then close the door behind us!”

“Hello, Neil,” my mother said in her usual cheerful, comforting voice.  “And hello, Nick.”

“Nick?!”

I twirled around like a dreidel and saw Nick following right behind me.

“My Sweet Elaine.” Nick purred, as he took my mother in his arms.  They kissed, passionately.

“MOM?!  What the…!!!”

My mother took my hand, sensing my concern.

“Neil, I was going to tell you later about Santa… uh, Nick.. but… but…”

Nick took my mother’s other hand.

“Your mother and I are friends… ” he said.

“Very good friends…” added my mother.

It suddenly became real to me.   This was Santa Claus.  And Santa Claus was a horny older guy leering at my mother’s figure!

“Mom?”  I gasped.  “Are you doing it with Santa Claus?!!”

(TO BE CONTINUED)

The Miracle of Kew Garden Hills

November 28, 2006 / / 44 Comments

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“Would you mind switching with me?” asked the well-dressed gentleman sitting directly behind me.  I had just boarded the plane at LAX.  “They mistakenly put my wife next to you.” he continued, smiling at the elegant woman to my right.  “Of course,” I said, always eager to help a married couple so clearly in love.  We switched seats, and I sat behind the gentleman.  Within five minutes of taking off, the man leaned his seat all the way back, blocking most of the space needed for my long legs.

“Some thanks” I mumbled to myself.

I bought these tickets at the last moment, so I had no choice but to switch planes at Dulles.  Once we got to Washington, there was a delay and we had to circle the airport for fifteen minutes.  I was getting nervous about missing my connection. 

As we started our descent, a flight attendant made an announcement on the loudspeaker, “There is one passenger who needs to connect to a flight to JFK.  Could you please raise your hand?”

I meekly put up my hand.  The flight attendant pointed me out and the rest of the plane looked in my direction.

“When we arrive at the gate,” she continued, “would everyone be kind enough to stay in their seats and let this passenger exit the plane first?”

“How nice.” I thought.

The plane landed.  The moment the seat belt sign went off, everyone completely ignored the previous announcement and stood to get their luggage from the overhead bins.  I was trapped in my seat.

The flight attendant spoke into her microphone again, this time with a bit more emphasis, “Could everyone please return to their seats and let the passenger who needs to make his flight to JFK deplane first?”
 
The grouchy passengers grumbled as I made my way down the center aisle.  I weaved my way past the obstacle course of opened bins, luggage in the aisle, and dirty looks, I heard a wife complain to her husband, “Why didn’t he take a STRAIGHT-THROUGH flight like everyone else rather than make us all wait?!”  It was apparent that the other passengers really didn’t give a damn whether or not I made my flight.  Not only that, they wished me DEAD for making them wait ten seconds.

Now I have several wonderful blogging friends in the Washington D.C. area, so I’m not going to make any generalizations about the residents of our nation’s capital. 

And to be honest, my arrival in New York was just as unfriendly.

Once at JFK, I wheeled my suitcase to the taxi stand.  There was a long line of cabs waiting to pick up tourists for the $45 trip to Manhattan.  Some unlucky cabbie got stuck with me — a local fare staying in Queens.

For most of my trip home, I had to endure this cabbie’s dramatic monologue, which consisted of “F***k, F***k, F***k, I waited for twenty f**king minutes for this s**t!” said over and over.

I finally made it home and overtipped the cabbie out of guilt.  He zoomed off without a thank you. 

I stood in front of my familiar old apartment building, but I didn’t feel any joy.  Instead, the trip had just made me depressed. 

I thought of that gentleman who shoved his seat in my face as a thank you for my switching rows with him.  I remembered the callous passengers on the flight to Dulles, so selfish they couldn’t wait a few seconds to let me off the plane.  I saw the face of the disgruntled New York cabbie, who ruined my welcome home with his obscenities and hateful stares.  Is this humanity?  Is this the best we can do?  People suck!  I could feel any empathy for the human race drain out of my body, like the sweat does when I’m in the San Fernando Valley in August.

I entered my apartment building.  The elevator was waiting and I got inright away.  As the elevator door was about to close, I heard a voice calling out, “Hold it!”  I quickly pushed the “Door Open” button, and a hefty man jumped inside the elevator.

“Thank you, kind sir,” he said.

This hefty man was a odd looking guy.  He was at least 65 years old.  He had thick white hair, a long white beard, retro Ben Franklin glasses, and extremely red cheeks, almost like sugar plums.  When he laughed, he did this hardy “Ho Ho Ho” that sounded a bit fake, but at the same time it was very endearing.  He said his name was Nick. I never saw him before, so I assumed he was a new resident in the apartment building.

“Did you just fly in?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“What did you fly on?”

“Jet Blue.”

“You name yours Jet Blue?”

“Huh?  It’s an airline.”

“Oh, yeah, I should try one of those some day.  Can’t be any worst than listening to Rudolph and Prancer argue all night about their “alternative lifestyle.””

This strange man was making me nervous. 

“Do you… uh… live here?”  I stammered.

“Oh, no.  I came here to see you, Neilochka.”

“Me?!  How do you know my name?!”

“Oh, that.  Don’t take this the wrong way, but I see you when you’re sleeping.  I see you when you’re awake.”

I started reaching for my cellphone to call 911. 

“You’ve been a very good boy this year, Neil.” he said, smiling.  “Well… except maybe for you, uh, “decorating your Christmas tree” a little too often in the morning when you wake up.  But hey, even I send out the Mrs. for some gingerbread cookies when I want some alone time.”

“Who the hell are you?”  I demanded.

He laughed his oddball “Ho Ho Ho.” 

“It sounds like you’ve had a terrible trip to New York, my friend.  And you’re beginning to doubt the good in humanity.”

“Is this elevator broken?”

I started pushing buttons at  random. 

“Life can be harsh.” he continued in his deep voice.  “Many lose hope at this time of the year.  They grow depressed as the days get darker and nights get colder.”

 “Well, thanks, but I have my Prozac for that.  I’m going to call the police now for help.  I think we’re stuck.”

“Neilochka, you are stuck, but not in the way you are thinking.   You are stuck because you are not seeing the joy of life.”

“What joy?”

“Ah… what if there was a way you could find this joy of life again and help others as well… help others see what is wonderful with the world…”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.  Maybe you should move to Los Angeles.  You can make millions giving New Age seminars.  What do you want from ME?”

“Here’s what I want, Neil.  Have you ever thought about hosting a Holiday Concert on your blog, where other bloggers spread the joy by sending in holiday music and songs they recorded themselves?”

“Host a Holiday Concert?  Me?  But I’m Jewish!”

“So am I, Neilochka…” said Nick.  “So am I.”

(TO BE CONTINUED)

LL Cool Jew

December 13, 2005 / / 71 Comments

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I’m so tired of other Jews.    When did being Jewish become the "in" thing?    Moronic Hollywood actors going to Kabbalah classes.  Front page articles in New York magazine about Jews being smart  (I dealt with that subject months before them and much better, I might add).    Today I was reading Michelle’s funny NY blog and learned that she is going to be one of those talking heads on a VH1 special titled "So Jewtastic!"  That’s great for her and I wish her all the best, but this show’s concept was already making me feel ill.

From the VH1 website:

From Dylan’s anthems to Spielberg’s blockbusters, it’s no secret that Jews have made huge contributions to pop culture. They’ve succeeded in spite of age-old stereotypes about Jews as brainy, neurotic, and well, anything but hip.

But that’s all changing. In an age when Madonna demands to be called "Esther," Demi celebrates Purim and seemingly everyone speaks a little Yiddish, it’s never been hipper to be a Jew. All Access Presents: So Jewtastic celebrates everything you knew – and lots of stuff you didn’t – about famous members of the Tribe.

The one-hour show will cover the trendy rise of Kabbalah, the new hip Jews in Hollywood, the marriage of Jews and hip hop, the connection between Jews and Heavy Metal and the domination of Jews in comedy. As a bonus, Jackie Mason schools the goyim on Yiddish terms that rock. OY GEVALT!

Thanks to a mensch-laden panel of pundits, yentas and a Rabbi or two, So Jewtastic will also circumcise the old ideas about Jewish mothers, ridiculous stereotypes and whether or not Jews know how to play sports (they do!) So put down that gefilte fish and pop open some Manischewitz, it’s time to get your Jew on…VH1 style.

Whoever wrote that has a lot to atone for next Yom Kippur.

As if this wasn’t enough, a few minutes later I’m reading about big-time blogger Andrew Krucoff and how he’s in Israel and he’s never had a bar mitzvah, and now he’s going to have one sponsored by the porno-loving shmata king, Dov Charney of American Apparel. Now, frankly, I didn’t know much about big-time blogger Andrew Krucoff until I wrote a post about big-time blogger Stephanie Klein.  Bloggers-in-the-know told me that Andrew Krucoff was even bigger than Stephanie Klein.  Now as much as everyone hated Stephanie Klein, at least she wrote some interesting posts.  What the hell does this Krucoff do that makes him such a big-shot?    Here’s his latest blog.   As my mother might say, "Nu?"  This guy must be some shmoozer.

I’m just sick of this whole Jews-are-trendy thing.  It used to be that I would use a Yiddish phrase and only other Jews would get it.  Now, the Korean owner of my local donut shop tells me her husband is a shmendrick.   I’ve been so frustrated with my people lately, that I even thought of converting, but then Sophia told me that Larry David already did that in the last "Curb Your Enthusiasm" episode. 

Fucking trendy Jews!

Listen, everyone knows that Chanukah sucks compared to Christmas.  Why continue with the facade of Chanukah being cool because Adam Sandler wrote one fucking song about it?  Why can’t I love Rudolph and Frosty and the Grinch — all of the traditional Christmas stuff.    When Rudolph saves the day with his shiny nose — that’s the true meaning of Christmas.

After reading all about these trendy Jews, I felt starved for some Christmas spirit.  Since I live in a fairly Jewish neighborhood, it wasn’t easy.  I decided to go to the most Christian place I could think of in Los Angeles — Walmart.   As I pulled into their enormous parking lot, images of Christmas lights and Christmas trees and Christmas fruitcakes danced in my head.

"Happy Holidays!" said the greeter, a middle-aged woman in a wheelchair. 

"Happy Holidays?" I asked.  "Don’t you mean "Merry Christmas?"

"Shhh.  We’re not allowed to say that anymore.  Only "Happy Holidays."

"That’s weird.  I came here especially because I figured Walmart would be… real goyish…"

"Goyish… ha ha.  I heard Seinfeld once say that in that episode with the puffy shirt.   By the way, did you see "Curb Your Enthusiasm" last night.  That Larry David… what a shmendrick. "

"Can I speak to a manager?  I really want someone to say "Merry Christmas" to me."

"I’m sorry.  We don’t want to insult any of our customers who may be of another faith.  Like our Jewish friends."

"I’m Jewish."

"Welcome, Jewish friend.  Welcome to Walmart.  The Tony Hawk Chanukah dreidels are in aisle five, in between the Sarah Silverman menorah set and the "Story of the Maccabees," as read by Dame Jew-dy Densch."

"I don’t want any of that crap.   I’m not here for Chanukah."

‘Well, Happy Holidays whatever your celebration."

"I’m here for Christmas."

"Shhh…"

"What’s the matter with mentioning Christmas?"

"I thought you were Jewish."

"I am Jewish!"

"Isn’t it cool to be Jewish?"

Oy!  It used to be the blacks, then the gays, now the Jews…. enough!  Enough of trendy!  I want some of that homey Christmas stuff.   Like in Norman Rockwell.  Or on that Charlie Brown special"

"I hear you, young man."

I turned and saw a giant of a man.  He had a white beard.  His voice was deep, reminiscent of Burl Ives.  He wore a Hawaiian shirt and an enormous crucifix around his neck.

"Let’s bring back Christ into Christmas," he bellowed.  "Everyone come here!  This young man has something important to say to us all!"

Shoppers — men, women, children — all gathered around me. 

"It’s all very nice that you want to include everyone in your "Happy Holidays…" I said, my voice cracking, "…but if you really want to say "Merry Christmas," I don’t really see anything wrong with that."

"You hear that?!" shouted the crucifix guy.  "He’s absolutely right.  Why should we be afraid of celebrating Christmas?   How did this happen?  I say, they’ve been holding us back from saying "Merry Christmas."  It’s the Jews.  The Jews I tell ya!  First they kill our Savior, then they spy on America for Israel, and now they want to steal away our holiday!  Well, we won’t let them — will we?!"

"Uh… I didn’t exactly mean…" I stammered.

A pregnant customer stood on the "Customer Service" desk, waving wildly.

"Let’s march on Temple Beth Am!"

The mob grew excited with shouts of "Yeah," "Let’s do it!" and "Stop Those Shmendricks!"

The middle-aged Walmart greeter in the wheelchair stood up.  It was like a miracle happening before our eyes.

"Let’s go tell the Jews what we think!" she screamed.

Everyone in Walmart started chanting. 

"We love Jesus!  We love Jesus!  We love Jesus!"

Within minutes, the store was emptied of everyone except for myself, which wasn’t so bad, because I don’t really like crowded stores.

Was I worried about Temple Beth Am?  Not really.  Los Angeles crowds are notorious for giving up early, such as leaving Dodger games in the sixth inning.  The temple was pretty far away, and with all the traffic, I’m sure they just ended up dispersing and going to Starbucks instead. 

But I was disturbed, and frankly irritated, at the mob’s total devotion to Jesus. 

Because if you think about it:  What is Jesus — but another trendy Jew?!

(UPDATE — with a bit of a wimpy retraction.)

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