Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: Los Angeles (Page 3 of 4)

We Will, We Will Treadmill

May 23, 2006 / / 67 Comments

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“Parking is upstairs,” shouted the parking attendant at the 24 Hour Fitness on Pico Blvd.

I drove up this tight, curving ramp to the second floor.

“Where ya goin’?” asked a second attendant.

“24 Hour Fitness.”

“Parking is downstairs.”

“He told me to come upstairs.”

“Did you tell him ’24 Hour Fitness?'”

“Uh, I don’t remember. Maybe.”

“Parking for 24 Hour Fitness is downstairs.”

I looked behind me. The ramp only went one-way and I was blocking traffic.

“Well, how do I get down there now?”

“You’ll need to exit and come back in.”

I drove down the a ramp marked “Exit.” I was stopped at the booth by a third attendant. I handed him the card that came out of the machine when I first entered a few minutes ago.

“I went upstairs by mistake, so I’m going to go out and come back in again.”

“That’ll be three dollars.”

“Huh? I haven’t left my car yet. I just went the wrong way. I’m going to go to 24 Hour Fitness. It’s my first time.”

“You’re supposed to validate this at 24 Hour Fitness, otherwise I have to charge you.”

“I haven’t gone to 24 Hour Fitness yet! I haven’t left my car! I just came in a minute ago.”

The attendant took another bite of his Big Mac and sighed.

“OK, I’ll let you through, but just this time. Next time, make sure you get validated first.”

I was already regretting this whole exercise idea.

I finally made it inside 24 Hour Fitness. It looked nothing like the shiny gym they show on TV. It was an older location, with no TVs and (is it possible?) no air-conditioning. The place was hot and smelly. My first stop was the locker room, where I took locker ’69’ — so I’ll remember where it was. Ok, I also thought it was funny.

Now, I know in the men’s locker room, we’re a bunch of men undressing next to each other, and the situation is a bit vulnerable, but doesn’t ANYONE ever say a word to each other in the men’s locker room? Not one guy gave another guy a nod, a hello, or even a “how ya doin?” Is it different in the women’s locker room?

By the way, I purposely wore my boxer-briefs rather than my usual white briefs, so as to not embarrass any of my readers. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, search for it in the archives, because I’m not linking to that stupid post again.

The gym was as unfriendly as the locker room. I understand that people are here to exercise and get the hell out, but no one seemed to acknowledge anyone’s existence. It felt like I was back in my apartment building elevator, with everyone glancing up at the clicking floor numbers, afraid of looking at each other. I’ve always heard rumors of the gym being a good “pick-up” spot?  Urban legend.  No one talks to anyone!  If you’ve ever been self-conscious about going to the gym, forget about it. No one gives a damn if you’re there or not!

I decided to take things slow for my first time there. I would just use the treadmill for an hour. There was also some type of Nordic Tracker-looking thing available, but I couldn’t figure out how to use it. So, I stuck with the treadmill. I took the only empty treadmill, at the end of the “treadmill row,” right next to some cute Asian woman in a red “Dell Computer 2001 Softball Team” t-shirt. She never looked my way.

Once on the treadmill, I played with the nifty buttons, and decided to go for the Manual settings. There was some contraption connected to the machine which supposedly measured your heart beat, but frankly, it looked like something used to torture Jack Bauer on “24.”

My hour began. The air was rancid (it seemed to be recycled air, like in an airplane) and there were two large fans blowing in the faces of everyone on “Treadmill Row.” I know that exercising is good for my cardiovascular system, but I was beginning to wonder if I could die from a respiratory infection from exercising in THIS gym. Next time, I’ll go to the nicer “Sport” gym in West Hollywood.

I don’t have an iPod to listen to, so I just spaced out. After what seemed like an hour of walking, I looked down and saw that I had only been on the treadmill for fifteen minutes. So, this is what they meant on Star Trek about a break in the space/time continuum. I was bored. I decided to sing something to myself. Something inspirational to keep me going, like:

We will we will
Rock you!
We will we will
Rock you!

And then, just as I got to the main lyrics of this Queen song, I couldn’t remember them. It was as if the exercise was affecting my brain. I remembered the catchy melody from countless Laker games, but what were the words? So, I spend the next few minutes coming up with alternative lyrics:

Buddy, gotta tread, gotta keep on
Movin’ in the gym cause ya promised them on your blog
This is boring as hell
I almost just fell
Smiling at the girl who once worked at Dell

We will we will
Rock you!
We will we will
Rock you!

And singing this over and over again amused me enough to make it through my first hour of exercise.

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month: Drug for Premature Ejaculation

He Wasn’t a Tiger-Cat!

May 22, 2006 / / 45 Comments

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Look, it’s one thing if, while IM-ing with a female blogger, I tell her that “if we hook up, I’ll make love to you like no man has ever made love to you before.”  She’ll understand that I’m blowing some smoke in her face, being a typical man who just wants a piece of ass.

It’s another thing when you’re Los Angeles City Attorney Rocky Delgadillo, currently running for State Attorney General, and telling voters that you won a football scholarship to Harvard University, and also received an Academic All-American award there.

But now that the local media investigated his background, it appears that he never received an athletic scholarship from Harvard.  He got financial aid. 

“The Ivy League does not permit” athletic scholarships, said Robert Mitchell, a Harvard spokesman.

As for the All-American honor, Delgadillo actually got only an honorable mention for the award.

City attorney spokesman Jonathan Diamond said the words “honorable mention” inadvertently were left off Delgadillo’s city Web site.

Delgadilllo also has claimed a brief stint as a professional football player with a Candadian team, but even this is cloudy.

Delgadillo signed with the Hamilton Tiger-Cats of the Canadian Football League and reported to training camp but was cut before he could play, Brad Blank, a sports agent who represented Delgadillo, told the Times.

“He never played for the team, never claimed to. That was the extent of his stint as a professional football player, and he has never claimed otherwise,” said Roger Salazar, Delgadillo’s campaign spokesman.

Team spokesman Rom Halverson said he could find no record of Delgadillo being signed to play for the team and added, “if he didn’t play, he wasn’t a Tiger-Cat.”

Did I already mention that this man is running for State Attorney General?

I just sent him off this angry email:

Dear Mr. Delgadillo,

What kind of message do all these “white lies” send to our youth?  What message does this send me, a tax-paying citizen rewriting my resume for the fifth time before I mail it to someone at Warner Brothers?

Sincerely,

Neil Kramer
2006 – Editor-in-Chief of Internationally-Read Online Publication

Responsibilities include — content management, web design and template development, customer service, marketing, search engine optimization, social networking, photography, research, editing, audio production, visual conception, statistical interpretation, and scheduling. 

Hey, I’m not lying, am I?

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Bikini Girl Sells Body on Ebay

Meeting Barry at Canter’s

March 20, 2006 / / 42 Comments

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Barry is one of my oldest friends from New York.  We’ve known each other since elementary school.  Recently, he took on a  job which requires him to travel a lot.  This week brought him to Los Angeles.  I decided to meet him at Canter’s Deli, one of the oldest restaurants in town.   I thought it would remind him of our days hanging out in coffee shops back in Queens.   Sophia adores Barry, too, so she braved the rain to come along.

On the way there, Sophia and I got stuck in traffic.  Barry called from the deli:

"What’s going on here?  There’s a line around the corner like at a movie opening." 

"Are you sure you’re at the right place?"  I asked.   "Canter’s Deli?"

"I’m right in front.  The line’s enormous.  And half of the people on line look like they’re homeless."

"Homeless? At Canter’s?" asked Sophia.   "He must be jet-lagged."

"You have to see this place.  Are you sure Canter’s hasn’t been turned into a soup kitchen?"

Barry made no sense.  But when we got to Canter’s, and we saw what he was talking about.  There was a indeed a huge line for take-out and the local news was filming the crowd.

What the hell was going on?

It turns out that Canter’s was celebrating their 75th Anniversary with old-school prices:  a hot corned beef sandwich, pickle, potato salad, and chocolate rugala for 75 cents!

I’m not sure why everyone was waiting for take-out, because we got the same deal sitting in the restaurant — without the wait.  What a deal!

Sophia, Barry, and I chatted for a couple of hours about all sort of topics.  It was sort of like blogging without the computer… and with better coffee.

Barry and I told Sophia stories about our school days together.  Sophia asked if we ever have been back to any of our old schools.

Barry and I laughed.  A few years ago, during a trip to New York, I met with Barry.   We were in a sentimental mood and decided to drive by all our old schools — Jamaica High School, Parsons Junior High School, and P.S. 154.    The school looked pretty much the same — except much smaller.  What seemed like a massive structure back then, just looked tiny now.   We talked about how life seemed so much easier back then, with nothing to worry about except doing your homework.  We found a hole in the fence surrounding the school playground and crawled inside.  We sat on one of the benches (with the same initials still cut in!) and remembered the exciting games of Ringolevio that we used to play during lunchtime.

How did we learn how to play Ringolevio?  Who remembers.  Does anyone play it anymore?  It was actually a very complicated game, with all sorts of teamwork and strategy required.  According to Wikipedia:

Ringolevio (also known as Ringolario) is a game which may be played anywhere but which originates in the teeming streets of Depression era New York City. It one of the many variations of tag. It requires close team work and near-military strategy. In some quarters this game is known as Manhunt which is really another game with different rules.

Two sides are drawn up, roughly of even number. One side goes out. The other counts to some number like 300 and then goes looking for them.

Anyone on the pursuing side can catch anyone on the pursued side by grabbing hold of them and chanting "Ring-O-Levio 1-2-3" three times in a row. If the person pursued breaks free at any point during this brief recitation, the person is not caught. If caught, the pursuer takes the pursued to an area called the jail (the area was called the base in some variations).

Jail is any confined area, typically between two parked cars or bushes where members of the pursued team are accumulated. Any free member of the team that is out can at any time free all team members in jail by barging into the jail without being caught and shouting "Free all!" This means that all members of the team in jail are now free and have to be recaught.

As we sat there, we wondered how many of the guys we used to play it with are now REALLY in jail?

We were also glad to see that kids never really change, because near the "monkey-bars" were two Asian girls playing "catch" with a big ball.  It was great to see the old playground still being used.  We got all sentimental and watched the girls play, big smiles on our faces.

Then, Barry turned to me and said:

"You know, I’m looking at you grinning and I’m thinking – if anyone passes by and sees us sitting here, it’s going to look like we’re two pedophiles."

"Boy, I think you’re right.  Let’s get out of here, before the police pass by."

As our Ringolevio days quickly faded in our minds, we hurriedly left the school grounds, never to return to our old elementary school.

I guess it was time to grow up.

LA is so Laid Back

March 14, 2006 / / 78 Comments

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Do you remember that Seinfeld episode where they can’t find their car in the parking garage? 

I have one better.

Let’s backtrack to yesterday.  Sophia and I made up and my anxiety lessened.

“Do you want to go for dinner tonight?” she asks.

“Sure.”

“Oh, by the way, we’re also going out with Andrew and his mother.”

“No way.  I can’t handle him right now.”

“It’s his birthday.  We have to.”

My anxiety level shoots up three hundred percent.

You see, I’m a Zen Master of Serenity compared to Andrew.  He makes everyone nervous.  Sophia is his only friend.  Although he is basically a nice guy, he’s what they used to call “eccentric.”  He’s a 35 year old Korean-born artist whose only real enjoyment in life is taking photographs of bugs.   His photos are actually beautiful and artistic…   Andrew would be a very successful artist if only he didn’t always get into fights with gallery owners.  He’s brooding, sullen, and bad tempered.  But I did say he was nice, right?

We make plans to meet outside of my apartment building at 6:30. 

At 6:30, Sophia and I go outside and wait.  6:30.  6:45.  Where is he?  We get a phone call.  He’s on the side street, waiting at the driveway of the parking garage. 

“And hurry.”  he says.

We rush over and see that Andrew and his mother are sitting in a car, but not in front of MY building.  They are in the driveway of a parking garage of an apartment building ACROSS THE STREET. Not only are they waiting at the wrong place, but there’s a loud cacophony of honking horns.  It seems as if Andrew is trapped between the gate of the parking garage and some RESIDENT of that building, a college girl, who wants to drive in with her Mercedes.  She can’t move because Andrew can’t move.  And behind her are TWENTY cars trapped on Hauser Blvd., which is always crowded during rush hour. So she cannot move back to let Andrew back out.  Everyone is screaming at each other and honking.  Andrew is beet red and screaming:

“Fuck you!  Fuck You!  Fuck you!” 

Sophia and I jump into the car.   The Mercedes Girl opens her garage gate with her remote.

“I think she wants you to go in,” Sophia tells Andrew.

“I’m not going in.  I want to go backwards.”

“You can’t go backwards.  You’re trapped.  There’s a hundred cars behind us!”

Dear readers, have you noticed that so far, I haven’t said a word in this story.  Usually, I’m the main character of my own tales.  But this time, I was just sitting there wondering if my Tic Tac could be used as a placebo for Xanax.

The Mercedes Girl honks over and over. 

“What the hell does she want me to do?” Andrew cries.

“Go in and then we’ll come right out again.” says Sophia.

Andrew drives in.  Mercedes Girl drives by, shaking her head, angrily.

“Idiot!  Jerk!” she says.

Andrew begins to look like one of those cartoon characters that have steam coming out their head.   As Mercedes Girl parks in her spot, the gate closes, leaving us trapped inside.

“One of us has to talk to the girl,” says Sophia.

“I’ll do it,” volunteers Andrew’s mother.

Andrew’s mother heads over to Mercedes Girl.  We watch as Andrew’s mother and Mercedes Girl  talk it out.  They seem to be working out the situation.  Suddenly, Andrew jumps out and starts pacing in front of the car and twirling around like a dreidel.

“What’s going on with you, Andrew?” asks Sophia.

“She’s dissing my mother,” replies Andrew.

“I think you should get back into the car and let your mom get us out of here.” 

“No one talks to my mother like that.  Especially this bitch.”

“Andrew, c’mon, this whole thing is even sort of funny.  Just keep calm.”

“What is that bitch saying to my mother? Hey you — what are you saying to my mother?!”

“You were wrong!” says Mercedes Girl.  “How about apologizing?!”

“Never, you fucking bitch!  Who the fuck do you think you are, driving around in that Mercedes…”

“There’s no problem anymore, Andrew,” says his mother.  “She used to live in Seoul, too.  Just go back into the car.”

“You need to control you son, Miss.” says Mercedes Girl.  “He’s crazy.”

“You think just because you own a Mercedes that you’re better than me, you fucking…”

Sophia and I jump out of the car to calm him down.  Mercedes Girl starts walking away towards the door leading to her apartment building’s lobby.

“Fuck you!” Mercedes Girl screams at Andrew, then turns to all of us.  “Fuck all of you!”

Mercedes Girl enters her lobby and locks the door behind her, purposely leaving us behind with no way to get out.

We are trapped in the parking garage of someone else’s apartment building.

Sophia and I look at each other.  Surely, the girl is going to come back and let us out of the garage. 

She doesn’t.

We drive to the gate, hoping that it will open automatically .

It doesn’t.

We see a phone on the other side of the gate. 

“Perfect!” says Sophia.  “We can call the manager.”

But we need a key to get to the other side.

Sophia and I look at each other.  Surely, someone will be either coming or leaving the building pretty soon.

An hour passes.  

We are all sitting in  the car, the engine running, ready to sneak out… as soon as someone opens the gate.   But no one is coming or going.    We can’t leave by car.   We can’t leave by foot.   We don’t know who to call.  We’re stuck. 

Sophia and I are now laughing at the absurdity of the situation.   Andrew sits stone-faced and hasn’t said a word to any of us.   But every few minutes he mumbles:

“Bitch… fucking bitch…”

Sophia and I try to cheer him up by saying that the whole scenario is hilarious.  We sing “Happy Birthday.”  He scowls.

Finally, Mercedes Girl reappears, carrying her remote for the garage.

“I’m going to let you out, but I want you to know you were wrong…  You should be more considerate…”

‘Yes, we were wrong,” says Sophia.  “You’re very kind to let us out.”

“Kind?!” screams Andrew. 

He has finally decided to talk.

“You’re nothing but a fucking…”

Andrew’s mother puts her hand over his mouth, muzzling him, so we could get the hell out of that garage — and finally go to dinner.

I Love L.A. (We Love It!)

March 11, 2006 / / 56 Comments

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In any relationship, there must be change.   When you first meet someone, there is always a lot of newness and sexual energy.  But things grow stale without variety.    That’s why I’ve changed my mind about memes in my second year of blogging — and decided to do one. 

Thanks Shane Nickerson at Nickerblog, for tagging me with this special Los Angeles meme.

Four Things About Los Angeles

Four Jobs I’ve Had In My Life in LA:
Reader/Story Analyst
Sitcom Writer
Disney Animated Cartoon Writer
Web Producer

Four Movies About LA I Could Watch Over And Over:
Singing in the Rain
Sunset Boulevard
L.A. Confidential
10

Four LA-Themed Shows I Love(d) To Watch:
24
The Brady Bunch
Three’s Company
Curb Your Enthusiasm

Four Places I’ve Lived All Over L.A. (With Food Memories From Each):
Mid-Los Angeles:  Fairfax and Melrose (with two female roommates — just like Three’s Company!):  Corned Beef sandwich at Canter’s Deli
Santa Monica:  9th and Santa Monica (ooked out over Toyota dealer):  Benita’s Frites on Santa Monica Promenade
West Hollywood:  Fountain and Poinsettia:  Noodles at Toi on Sunset
Redondo Beach: Yellowtail from Ichiriki Sushi

Four Places I Would Vacation At In LA:
Ritz Carlton, Pasadena
Chateau Marmont, West Hollywood
Big Bear
Hotel Oceana, Santa Monica

Four LA-Based Websites I Visit Daily
Delicious Life
Jew Eat Yet?
Words for my Enjoyment
Living the Romantic Comedy

Four Of My Favorite Foods Found In LA:
Pink’s Hot Dogs, La Brea Avenue
Dim Sum at Empress Pavilion, Downtown LA
Lemon Tart at Sweet Lady Jane, Melrose Avenue
Chicken Cilantro Soup, Martha’s 22nd Street Grill, Hermosa Beach

Four Places In LA I Would Rather Be Right Now:
Farmer’s Market, 3rd and Fairfax
Driving PCH in Malibu when there is no Traffic
Hermosa Beach Pier
Huntington Library, San Marino

Wanna Do It?
Cruisin’ Mom
Inland Empress
Dad Talk
Diary of Jamie
and Sophia!

I don’t usually write that much about Los Angeles.  Maybe I’m afraid that my snobby East Coast readers wouldn’t show any interest in anything about the city other than celebrity encounters.  However, unlike Pauly, I rarely run into celebrities in the supermarket or pharmacy (although I did almost crash into Julie Andrews’ car in the Beverly Center).   To get a real sense of Los Angeles media life (other than the typical Hollywood stuff) I would suggest LA Observed, which is essential LA reading (and frequently more interesting than the Los Angeles Times).

A few weeks ago, I read that Parisian blogger, Nathan, was coming to Los Angeles for a visit.  I always get nervous when I hear someone is visiting LA for the first time.  It’s a difficult city to like, especially when you’re coming from one of the most beautiful cities in the world.  I emailed Nathan, going into LA Chamber of Commerce mode, pleading with him to give the city a chance before he even got on the plane, knowing ahead of time exactly what bad things he was going to encounter — the traffic, the narcissistic people, the ugly buildings, etc.  I reminded him that the city is spread out, and many of its charms can be hidden.

Despite the beauty of the Pacific Ocean and the mountains that surround the city, LA is an ugly city, filled with mini-malls and lack of history.  I miss New York a lot.  But LA does have a weird energy that keeps me here.  Maybe the city’s lack of maturity parallels my own.  Or maybe I just like wearing flip-flops to IHOP.

Update:  I used to tell my friends in New York that the one thing keeping me in Los Angeles is Trader Joe’s.   Today my mother called and said that they are building a Trader Joe’s on 14th Street.   Damn New Yorkers!  

Now there’s no reason to stay in Los Angeles —

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Fact-Finding Mission

January 30, 2006 / / 27 Comments

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Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles is one of its most shameful spots.  Thousands of homeless roam the streets in this scary 50 square block section of the city.  But finally, Los Angeles city officials are tackling this problem.  A delegation of Los Angeles leaders, including representatives from downtown Los Angeles’ business, law enforcement, and political organizations, travelled to New York’s Times Square on a "fact-finding mission."

New York famously cleaned up Times Square in the 1990s. More than $1 billion has been poured into the area for shelters, housing and cleanup. Times Square saw a 68% decrease in crime between 1992 and 2005. Once a cluster of sex shows and run-down buildings, it is now a bustling city center and tourist destination.

Can Skid Row learn from Times Square?  This 30-member delegation wanted to find out.

Of course, there are huge differences in these two areas.  New York’s Times Square has been world-famous for a hundred-odd years and is located in the middle of the city.  Skid Row is in an grungy dangerous part of town that Angelenos wouldn’t travel to for any reason, even if Pamela Anderson announced she was going to strip naked there on Friday night.  

Some wondered if the trip was really necessary at all.  After all, isn’t the man who "cleaned up" Times Square, former NYPD head William J. Bratton, now the Chief of Police of the LAPD?  Why not just take him out for lunch here in LA and ask him?  Why travel 3000 miles and spend our city’s dollars? 

But City Council members were adamant that this trip was necessary in order to learn what New Yorkers do right — and to find solutions to Los Angeles’ homeless problem.

I feel honored here at Citizen of the Month to be able to sit down with several members of the delegation, to discuss their trip — and what it could mean for Los Angeles.

Councilman Ed Cheatem (D) said,

"My assignment was to see as many Broadway shows around Times Square as possible.  I was especially impressed by the enthusiastic crowd at "Spamalot."  If Los Angeles was able to build several Broadway-sized theaters on Skid Row, imagine how that would help clean up the area?"

Asst. Police Commissioner Manuel Dinero disagreed.

"I saw "Spamalot" and wasn’t impressed.   The biggest problem facing Skid Row in Los Angeles is the lack of fine eating establishments, like they have here on Times Square.  I chose to eat dinner 3-4 times at Becco on West 45th Street.   To taste Lidia Bastianich’s Antipasto Misto, an assortment of marinated and grilled vegetables with assorted seafood, was a real eye-opener.  If we were to open an establishment like this in skid row, I would think our problem would be solved.   Most homeless people cannot afford to eat in a restaurant like this, so they would just move away to a place like Riverside or Oxnard."

Not everything for the delegation revolved around education and "fact-finding."  After all, they were in the "city that never sleeps."

State Senator Igor Misleadi said,

"I’m sure the taxpayers understand that part of our mission in New York was to behave like a typical upscale tourist, in order to learn ways to improve our Skid Row as a tourist destination."

It was State Senator Misleadi himself who chose the fashionable W Hotel, Times Square, as their home base.

"We definitely need one of these on Skid Row!" said downtown LA real estate developer Will Steel.

While most of the group went out "clubbing" during their second night in New York,  Los Angeles Administrative Officer David Embezzlo and former Council Supervisor Mario Fraude, remained in the hotel, continuing with their work.  As part of their research, they asked two high-priced hookers to come to their rooms.  They were eager to learn what differentiates upscale New York hookers from the prostitutes on Los Angeles’ Skid Row.   Knowing that finding streetwalkers is impossible in visitor-friendly Times Square, they chose instead to deal with an escort service that operated from the Upper East Side. 

Supervisor Fraude spoke about his findings: 

"The fact that these women had to travel to Times Square did nothing to hamper their abilities to perform their services.   I was very impressed.  The obvious difference between these upscale New York hookers and their Skid Row counterparts is that these New Yorkers were much more attractive.   I also felt less fear of catching some disease.  Although their prices were a tad high for a typical county supervisor’s salary, I would say that a New York hooker puts a great deal more effort into her blowjob than the typical prostitute on Skid Row."

Administrative Officer Embezzlo agreed.

"I really learned a lot during this "fact-finding mission" to New York.  I’m hoping we gain as many insights during our upcoming "research" trip to Paris."

Neilochka Leaves His Apartment

November 29, 2005 / / 62 Comments

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Now that I’ve written for Blogebrity for a full three days, I think I’ve earned the right to call myself a “blogging expert.”  (media outlets – please contact my agent, Sophia Lansky, for more information). 

As a blogging expert, let me share with you one of my astute professional observations about the blogosphere:

Most bloggers are just plain weird.  Social outcasts.  Losers.  Anti-social nutcases.  I mean, who else sits all day in front of a computer at work, then comes home to sit at their computer all night to blog?   What other morons reveal the intimate details of their lives to strangers who are crazier than they are?  What other perverts post semi-naked photos of themselves on a weekly basis for HNT?  On the last survey of my readership, I counted 1/3 as alcoholics, 1/3 on anti-depressants, and 1/3 as having bi-polar disorder. 

Listen, I’m not that normal myself.  Despite my friendly personality online, I’m actually pretty shy.   I’m much more comfortable making virtual friends than real ones.   In fact, I’ve lived in my apartment building for a year and a half, and haven’t made one friend here.

One possible reason is that I’m subletting from my friend, Phil.   After I separated from Sophia, he let me use his apartment after he moved into his mother’s old place.  The management here was not very happy with the arrangement.  To “punish me,” they told Phil that I can never use the gym, the patio, or the swimming pool.   Several times, I’ve wanted to march into the manager’s office and say that this is unfair, but you guessed it – I’m too shy to do it. 

Last Saturday, there was a big party down the hall.  It seemed as everyone on my floor was invited, except for me.  I didn’t get angry at them.  I scolded myself:

“Enough of these unreal blogging friends.  It’s time for you to make some REAL friends.  Right here in the apartment building!”

But how?  Where would be the best place to meet the other tenants and show them how charming Neilochka can be? 

Of course.  The elevator.

I decided that on Tuesday, I would keep on taking the elevator up all day, meeting and befriending my neighbors.  I would take the elevator up with one neighbor, then walk down the stairs, wait for new tenants to show up, and take the elevator up again.

Here is a log of my day’s activities:

7 AM – 8 AM

No tenants come into the elevator.  The newspaper boy shows up, but he doesn’t really count.  Besides, he didn’t talk to me because he is still pissed that I canceled my Los Angeles Times subscription two months ago.

8 AM – 10AM

Return to the apartment, and take a little nap. 

10 AM – 10:30 AM

Do a little blogging.  IM with Pauly D, who promptly cuts me off when he gets a call from someone more important person than me.

11: 08 AM– 11:12 AM

My first tenant enters the elevator with me.  He is a Korean-American in a nice suit, around 40.

Neil:  “Hi.”

Silence.

Neil:  “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”

Korean Man:  “Yes.”

I look up at the fluorescent lighting.  One of the grilles has been missing for over a year.

Neil:  “When are they ever going to fix that?  What would it cost them – five bucks?”

Silence.  The Korean man moves slightly farther away from me.  The elevator opens and he exits.

11:27 AM – 11:30 AM

I’m on the elevator with an elderly man.

Neil:  “Hello.”

Elderly Man:  “What?!”

He’s clearly hard of hearing.

Neil:  “Hello!”

Elderly Man:  “What?!”

I give up trying.

11:47 AM – 11:53 AM

I’m in the elevator with an attractive, yuppyish married couple in their mid-thirties.

Neil:  (pointing at the lighting grille)  When are they ever going to fix that?

Yuppie Guy:  You’re right.  It shouldn’t cost them more than five dollars.

Neil:  Right!  Right!  Five dollars!  Hey, I’m Neil Kramer, apartment 314!

Yuppie Guy:  Jack and Susan Neveroff.  Apartment 322..

Neil:  Nice to meet you.  How long have you been living here? 

Yuppie Guy:  A while.  But we’re moving next week.

Neil:  (disappointed)   Moving?

Yuppie Guy:  It’s like that grille up there.  This apartment building is a mess.   We bought our own house.  We’re tired of living like losers.

Yuppie Wife:  (elbowing her husband)   Jack…shh…

Yuppie Guy:  Oh, I’m sorry, pal.  I mean it is fine living here if you’re a student…

Neil:  I’m not a student.

Yuppie Guy:  Well, it’s different when you get married…

Neil:  I am married.  I’m separated.

Yuppie Guy:  Oh…

Uncomfortable silence.  The elevator opens and they quickly exit.

NOON – 1:00 PM

Lunch break.  Leftover Chinese food for lunch while watching “All My Children.”  I try to IM Pauly D again, but he makes believe he’s not there.

1:46 PM – 1:53 PM

A perky redhead enters the elevator carrying an “E! Entertainment” shoulder bag.

Neil:  “Do you work for E!?”

Redhead:  “Yes, I do!”

Neil:  “That’s great.  You can walk to work.”

Redhead:  “That’s why I moved in here.   I miss walking everywhere, like in New York.”

Neil:  “I’m from Queens!”

Redhead:  “Me too!”

Neil:  “He, do you know Jay at “E!”?

Redhead:  “Jay… hmmm…no…”

Neil:  “You know, maybe that’s not his real name.  I only know him from blogging.  He’s a blogger.  Sometimes bloggers don’t use their real names.”

Redhead:  “I know.  I have a blog.”

Neil:  “Yeah?  Me too!  Mine’s called “Citizen of the Month.”  It’s just nonsense and stuff.”

Redhead:  “Mine is a knitting blog.”

Neil:  “What’s it called?”

Redhead:  “I’d rather not.”

Neil:  “Why not?  I’ll check it out.

Redhead:  “I really like to stay anonymous.”

Neil:  “What am I going to do?  I just want to look at it?”

Redhead:  “I said no!”

Neil:  “You don’t have to go all crazy over it.”

Redhead:  “Look, I don’t want to talk about my blog with you anymore, OK?”

Neil:  “You know, I write for Blogebrity now.   I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

Redhead:  “No.”

Neil:  “Well, I single-handedly could have made your blog the top knitting blog in the country… just like that!  But because you’re so stubborn and won’t tell me the stupid name of your blog…

Redhead:  “Fuck you, you stalker!”

The elevator opens.  As she exits:

Neil:  “You’re never gonna work in this blogosphere again!”

2:30 PM – 4:30 PM

I order a mojito at Nick’s Bar.  I’ve never had a drink in a bar during the afternoon in my life, but I decided to try one today.  Two drunks sit next to me.

5:03 PM – 5: 08 PM

I enter the elevator with a fiftyish, gruff-faced woman in a business suit.

Neil:  (a little tipsy)  “Hello.”

Gruff Face:  “Hello.  I don’t recall meeting you.”

Neil:  “Neil Kramer.”

Gruff Face:  “Neil Kramer…. Neil Kramer… what apartment are you in?”

Neil:  “Apartment 314”

Gruff Face:  "In Phil’s old place?"

Neil:  "Yes."

Gruff Face:  "So, you’re the one who’s in Phil’s place?!  I’m the manager here.  I think you know that I’m totally against you being here." 

Neil:  "Well…"

Gruff Face:  "Let me speak.  I don’t know who you are.  I don’t know if you are going to disturb the other tenants."

Neil:  "I’ve already been here a while."

Gruff Face:  "Then let me repeat the rules.  Since you are not a tenant, you cannot use the tenants’ patio, the tenants’ gym, or the tenants’ pool…"

Neil:  "I understand, but I wanted to talk…"

Gruff Face:   "There’s nothing to talk about."

The elevator opens.  I point to the grille on top.

Neil:  "You know, a lot of the tenants are complaining about this grille not being fixed."

Gruff Face:  "Who?  You?"

Neil:  "No…no…"

Gruff Face:  "Then who?  The married couple who’s moving?"

Neil:   "Uh, yes…"

Gruff Face:  "Well, they’re moving.  So, they can go to hell."

The manager exits the elevator.

5:30 PM – 9:00 PM

I return home and go back to blogging.  I make a vow never to leave my apartment again.

Today on Blogebrity:  ‘Tis the Season to Feel Anxious Over Your Blog (Brooke, Schuey, Dan, SAC)

Welcome to the Hotel California

October 10, 2005 / / 50 Comments

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"You mean now you actually have to BUY one of those awful sandwiches on an American Airlines flight?"  I asked Ashley, the flight attendant from Dallas, Texas.

She laughed.  Maybe it was the way I asked the question, but she laughed a lot.  She seemed to like me.  I could see her nipples getting hard under her uniform.

Before I knew it, I was in the back of the plane learning what the "mile-high club" was all about. Her uniform flew open as she rode me to her orgasm.  With the flight from Albuquerque to Los Angeles completely full, this seemed like a dangerous thing to do.  But since I’ve always been afraid of flying, I still wore my seatbelt.  As Ashley the flight attendant moaned and came, I thought I heard her say, "Thank you for flying American Airlines."

That’s when i woke up, a legal pad in my hand.  I was going to write a post for this blog, but I must have fallen asleep on the plane. 

I was on the flight with Sophia, her eyes bloodshot, her nose dripping all over the place from her cold.   A baby was crying behind us.  The businessman in front of me leaned his chair back, giving me officially two inches of leg room.  After three weeks away, first at my father’s funeral, then in Albuquerque, it was time to come home.

Life Goes On.

Now that my father has been gone for a few weeks, the "missing" him part is settling in.  It’s weird that he’s just "gone."  I can’t just call him up whenever I want, knowing he’ll be there.  He always ended his conversations by saying, "Be of good cheer," which I always found very weird.  Did he learn that in a British movie from the 1940’s?  But I’ll miss him saying it.

When you’re younger, you think the world revolves around you.  Part of getting older is realizing that it doesn’t.  Even when you go to the better world (whatever that is) —

Life Goes On.

I was out of Los Angeles for three weeks.  Did life just stop there while I was gone?

"Of course not," said the voice on the American Airlines overhead speaker.  "This is Roger Andrews, your pilot.   As we approach LAX, Neil, I’d like to thank you for flying American Airlines, especially since we were too cheap to give you a bereavement fare and you had to use your frequent flier miles.  But then again, it’s fitting that you flew with us, since your father always went with American  American for some unknown reason.  Maybe he thought it was patriotic.   "Always fly with American," he used to say. 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that," I said.   "So, what happened in Los Angeles while I was gone."

"Neil, this is Roger Andrews, your pilot.  Life went on, as it always does: 

74,300 Iced Blended Non-Fat Mochas were sold at the Coffee Bean.

6,105 women had their boobs made from a B cup to a D cup.

1,520 really bad screenplays were registered with the Writers Guild of America.

7 freeway chases occurred on the 101, four of them covered live on Eyewitness News.

575 new members were inducted at the Hollywood Scientology Center.

4 ICM assistants were promoted to talent agents after giving oral sex to their bosses.

758 Los Angeles residents moved to Oregon.

3, 878 illegal Mexican residents moved to Los Angeles."

Life Goes On.

Ode to the Coffee Shop

September 18, 2005 / / 62 Comments

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(photo by Ronald C Saari)

I was driving down La Cienega Blvd. when I noticed that they finally took down the "Ships Coffee Shop" sign.  Of course, Ships closed years ago, but they kept the sign up even after they threw down the restaurant to build a used car lot.   I figured they were going to always keep the sign up as a historic marker, much like they left up a piece of the Berlin Wall.

Ships holds a special place for me because when I moved to LA, I had my first Thanksgiving in Los Angeles there.  I sat by myself, along with some other lonely guys eating their "Thanksgiving Day Specials."   The waitress that night wasn’t especially friendly, but she was our "Mom" for the night.  Although I don’t remember her smiling, she did bring me an extra dish of cranberry sauce.

I’ve had a lifelong attraction to coffee shops (or diners on the East Coast), but Ships was unique for one big reason:  there was a toaster on every table.  You toasted your own bread!   When I saw that, I thought it was the cleverest gimmick I had ever seen.  I used to come in just for coffee and toast, just for the pleasure of making my own toast!   My toast always came out burnt, but hey, making it was exciting!  

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Ships was a prime example of the "Googie" 50’s-60’s style of architecture.  Designed by Martin Stern Jr., Ships was famous for its Coffee Shop Modern style, from the restaurant itself to the spellbinding "space-age" marquee in front.  There may be pseudo-50’s diners popping up all over the place nowadays, like Mel’s Diner, but they are nothing like the real thing.  Sadly, there are only a few authentic ones left, including Pann’s near LAX.  I bring my parents there whenever they fly in from NY.  It’s one of my favorite places in Los Angeles, especially on a Sunday when people show up after church.

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I’m not sure why I like coffee shops and diners so much.  Maybe because they are simple places where the rich and poor, black and white, sit right next to each other.   My father is a big coffee drinker and I started drinking coffee at an early age, despite my mother telling me that it would "stunt my growth."

In high school, I wasn’t much of a drinker or party guy.  I actually never enjoyed the taste of beer.  My typical Saturday night would be going to the movies with a friend or friends, and then heading for either the Hilltop Diner or the Palace Diner near Queens College.  For the price of some fries and a coffee, you could sit there for three hours bullshitting about nothing, much like I do today with my blog.  This is my new diner, only now I drink instant coffee.

Do kids today still hang out at diners?  I know they go to Starbucks and coffee bars, but it just ain’t the same experience, especially if everyone at your Starbucks is the same age as you.  It’s good education to rub shoulders with families, cops, workers, and drunkards, all sitting booth to booth.  And half the fun of eating out is messing around with the waitress.  Does anyone remember the unscrewing the top of the salt trick?  Flipping off the Starbucks "barrista" just doesn’t give you the same thrill.

In college, I wrote half of my term papers at Tom’s Diner, made famous by Suzanne Vega and as a backdrop for Seinfeld’s diner (although the real place wasn’t half as interesting). 

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I would hang out there with friends, just like I did in Queens.  The conversation may have been more cultural — arguing about Plato’s Republic, for instance, but basically it was the same bullshitting as it was in high school.

I added a whole new vocabulary when I came to Los Angeles:  Norm’s, Du-par’s, Jan’s, and Canter’s (although that is technically a deli).  Once I started dating, my coffee-shop outings lessened.   What woman wants to be taken out to Norm’s?   A couple of "hip" coffee shops opened in town, like "Swingers" on Beverly,  but the hip concept sort of ruined it for me.  You don’t really go to a coffee shop to be "seen."

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When I was little, I used to love going with my mother to work because her office was in Union Square — right next door to Jason’s Coffee Shop, a really cool old-fashioned place. 

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In the late 80’s, as the area got more trendy, they gutted the place and renamed it "Coffee Shop."  The waitresses were all model types.  The customers were all twenty-three years old and my mother didn’t feel comfortable going there anymore.   It may have been a cool place for awhile, but it never had the spirit of a real "coffee shop" — even if they did keep the old sign. 

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LadyMathematician recently sent me a NY Times article about life in the trendy Lower West Side, where some coffee shops are getting so hip that they are employing bouncers and using velvet ropes.

Debbie Harry frequents the Empire Diner, a Deco-era stalwart on 10th Avenue and 22nd Street, said Donovan Low, the night manager there, while Mike Tyson was a regular at Chelsea Square. The Star on 18 Diner Café, on 10th Avenue between 17th and 18th Streets, draws a young crowd of mixed gay and straight groups; Cafeteria, Pop Burger, and Diner 24, on Eighth Avenue and 15th Street, attract a more self-consciously stylish crowd.

Sophia wasn’t a big fan of many coffee shops.  She much preferred the Coffee Bean and classier joints or ethnic hole-in-the-walls.  But now that I’m sort of a single man, I’ve started revisiting some of my old haunts.  There’s no better place for a single guy to go for a cheap meal and friendly smile from a waitress.

Oh, by the way, I’m writing this at IHOP.

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