Some of the comments on my last post about a “caring” Twitter account were difficult for me to read. I hate being thought of as a “nice guy.”
“You’re a good egg!” someone wrote. “Such a humanitarian!”
Ugh. Are you trying to ruin my love life?  All the hot male characters on “All My Children” are the “bad boys” Ladies, be honest with me — would your rather have a raucous one night love-fest with Mister Rogers or Roger Federer?
I needed help with my image. Damage Control. Luckily, my friend Lisa works at a large PR firm in New York and we spent the day brainstorming in her Madison Avenue office overlooking 23rd Street.
“In today’s media environment, it’s all about appearance and branding.” she said. “Most of us have several levels, but audiences can only focus on one dimension at a time. There are thousands of informational points vying for attention in today’s multimedia world, and each broadcaster only gets enough time to send out a strong single throughline to the public arena through words, visuals, and actions.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You need to ask yourself, “Who is Neilochka?” You present yourself as a goody-two shoes and then you complain about never getting laid. The problem is not YOU. You have more than one dimension. The problem is that you project yourself in a singular fashion, like an image on a movie screen. And that image is goody two shoes.”
“But I’m not really a goody two shoes.”
“Exactly! That is why I can help you do, as a professional. I can help you bring forth another facet of your personality, filtering out the static information you don’t want, changing how you are perceived by your readers and followers.”
“I don’t want to lie or create a false impression just to change my image.”
“Of course not. But I am sure that you aren’t always nice. Can you think of a situation recently where you were NOT NICE or a goody two shoes?”
“Well, uh, yeah. I wasn’t that nice to my mother this morning.”
“That’s good. Now we’re getting somewhere. Tell me about it.”
“I woke up this morning and my mother was in the kitchen. I sleep in the living room, so I was easily awaken. She had some lame-o excuse for waking me up.
“I’m sorry, Neil. But I wanted to make you a cheese omelet. I know this is your favorite.”
I scratched my balls and sat at the kitchen table, unshaven. She placed the cheese omelet in front of me, along with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. I took a bite of the omelet, and I spit it out.
“What the f**k is this?” I screamed. “Do you call this a cheese omelet?”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“You used Swiss cheese! You know I like Munster Cheese in my cheese omelet!”
“They didn’t have any Munster cheese in the supermarket. A car smashed into the side of the store yesterday so they were only open half a day.”
“I don’t care! Did you really expect me to eat THIS?”
I tossed the plate like a frisbee, smashing it against the wall, the cheese omelet sticking to the wall like putty.
“I’m not gonna eat this crap! What kind of mother are you?! I am so disappointed in you!”
I threw the glass of orange juice against the wall, just for dramatic effect, then stormed out, leaving my mother in tears.”
“That is perfect!” said Lisa, my PR friend. “You must write a post about this. You are such a BAD boy in that story! The girls are gonna be getting wet just thinking about you!”
“Really?” I cried, enthusiastically. “Wow, that is terrific. No more Mr. Goody Two Shoes for me! And then, at the end of the post, I can tell them that — starting today — I’m going to start writing once a week for a really nice group blog about my attempts to go “green” to help save the planet!”
“Uh, no, bad boy. Don’t write about that.”
(more tomorrow)
