the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Tag: writing (Page 3 of 4)

How I Became a Writer as a Fifth Grader

When I was attending elementary school, my neighborhood in Queens was going through “changes,” which was a code word for the “welfare housing” that opened down the block. There was constant talk of drugs and violence in school, and those who could afford it, started sending their kids to private schools. In order to keep the “good kids” at the public schools, local schools started academically advanced classes, where kids like me were pushed, isolated from the drug pushers in the classes down the hall. While this didn’t prevent my friends from being called “honkys” or “Oreos” at the basketball court, at least we received a decent education during school hours.

While I remember my teachers as being a hundred years old, they were probably thirty. Most of them were into the philosophy of education, having gone to teacher’s college, and were interested in “opening up” the educational experience for a new generation, especially for “advanced kids” like us.

I have no recollection how this all started, but somewhere in the third or fourth grade, our teachers allowed us to present our English and Social Studies reports orally – and in small groups working together. We were also allowed to bring objects, photos, even music that might enhance our oral reports, giving the reports a feeling of a multi-media presentation. These teachers were ahead of their time understanding the next generation – maybe the arrival of Sesame Street had made them appreciate the importance of visual stimulation to capture a young person’s mind.

This is where I became a writer.

I had no interest in personal expression. Much like I started blogging for the practical reason of flirting with mommybloggers, my goal in school was to use writing to create a entertaining smoke screen.  The problem needing solving: five of us had to do a joint report on some dull, serious topic (remember – we actually had to go to a library and do research back then!)   So, being an advanced student, I quickly realized that if I wrote some entertaining script that had nothing really to do with the subject — but captured the teacher’s imagination – we could sing and dance our way to an A+, and the teacher would never notice that we copied the reports out of the World Book the night before.

A tradition was born. For several years, I was the king of the “sharings.” These stories – done during our oral presentations, were more like one-act plays, usually movie parodies (I was into Mad Magazine) – and as time went on, they became increasingly elaborate, spectacles as complicated as the Beijing Olympics Opening Ceremonies.  These plays had songs and dancing and even “shootings” happening in the middle of the classroom.   I cannot believe that any teacher would let an elementary school kid do this today.  The school system would get sued by a parent.   Maybe, at the time I was there, the local public school was so happy to have any students that weren’t drug dealers, that they just let us do whatever the hell we wanted.

These sharings always took place in some imaginary locale created right in the classroom — there were scenes in discos and Vietnam.   My friend Rob and I once dressed up like Minutemen in Boston for a sharing on “The American Revolution,” tap-dancing while singing “Muskets and Defense” to the tune of ‘”Jingle Bells.”

This tradition continued up to high school, until it was time to study for the SAT — then all of a sudden everything got serious. At Columbia, writing term papers were a bore. You were never allowed to sing and dance while handing in the paper, even when it was for a dramatist like Shakespeare, who would have appreciated the effort.  Instead of having fun doing sharings, I sat by myself in the library and made up bullshitty “psychological literary analysis” stuff about Edmund Spenser’s sixteenth century snooze-fest “The Faerie Queen” instead.

These early dramatic works of mine were thought lost for the ages, but through some miracle, my father looked down on me this weekend from heaven and whispered in my ear, “Look in the back of my closet.” Hidden behind a slide projector was a folder which contained nostalgic stuff from my elementary school years that we hadn’t noticed before, including all of my famed elementary school “Citizen of the Month” certificates. Also included in the file was a five page “script” for one of these elementary school sharings.

I really don’t remember too many of the details about this sharing, but from looking at the “cast list,” I assume this is from the fifth grade. Our assignment apparently was to research totalitarian regimes of the Twentieth Century (pretty heavy for fifth grade!)  And what better way to explore this important historical and political theme of the horrors of the Twentieth Century than a light-hearted movie “parody” of the 1970’s classic movie “The Sting?!”

I won’t feel bad if you don’t read script. I was in fifth grade at the time. I’m mostly publishing it for my childhood friend Rob, who played the Paul Newman role. He should get a kick out of this. When I first discovered the script I was excited.  At last, I had proof of my genius.  Why was some dopey Hollywood producer telling me that my script doesn’t work yet.  Who the f**k is he?!  Doesn’t he know who I am?  I am like Mozart – I was writing brilliant scripts in the fifth grade.

But then, I read the script. Ooh boy, it is awful… and it makes no sense at all. NONE. How in the world did our teachers let us get away with this crap?!

Note: In the movie, the Paul Newman character is named Henry Gondorff. For some reason, I name him “Alfred Dreyfus,” the French Jewish artillery officer tried and convicted in 1894 on baseless charges of treason. Why? I have NO IDEA!

The following is copied verbatim:

The Sting 2

Johnny Hooker – Neil
Alfred Dreyfus – Rob
Alexander Slavsky (the Communist leader) – James
Snyder – Scott
Harold Mane (Snyder’s assistant) – Bobby

Music from “The Sting.”

Hooker runs in breathless.

Hooker:  They killed Luther, my best friend, the person who taught me how to be a con artist. That STUPID Communist organization. (to you) Hi, I’m Johnny Hooker. The place takes place during the Deppression. The Communists have all the money, especially the Communist organization that killed Luther. AND I’m going to get them back, but How? I’m going to put on the biggest con and get all their money. I’ll need a pro to teach me how, but who? I remember Luther once told me about someone, Alfred Dreyfus. I’ll go to him!

Exit. Carnival music. Hooker and Dreyfus enter.

Hooker:  So this is your hideout, a fun house, no one would look here.

Dreyfus:  It is a good hideout. Now, Hooker, you didn’t come here for a friendly visit, why did you come?

Hooker:  Well, you know Luther was killed by the Communists, I’m going to get them back by putting on such a big con that I’ll get all their money. I want you to teach me the big con.

Dreyfus:  Well, first you have to go to the Communist organization… (makes believe he’s still talking to Hooker as they walk out)

Hooker enters.

Hooker:  Now, I’m suspose to go to the Communist organization. Uh-oh, there’s Snyder and his assistant, Harold Mane!

Snyder catches Hooker, pushes him to the wall and bangs his head.

Manes:  We got you now, you can’t escape.

Hooker punches Snyder in the stomach and then the neck and runs out.  Hooker enters again.

Hooker:  So this is the Communist organization!

Slavsky enters.

Slavsky: You wanted me.

Hooker: Who are you?

Slavsky: I’m Alexander Slavsky, head of this organization.

Hooker:  My name is Johnny Hooker and I want to join your organization. I also want to get rid of someone.

Slavsky:  Who?

Hooker:  Alfred Dreyfus.

Slavsky: Any member of our organization can apply for someone to be killed. But how would you like him to be killed?

Hooker: Any way.

Slavsky: Oh, wait a minute, we’re having a Communist meeting today, will decide there.

Hooker: Wait, Dreyfus is just outside. He thinks I’m getting a drink of water. We better capture him.

Slavsky exits and enters with Dreyfus.

Dreyfus: Get off of me!

As Dreyfus goes in, he picks nose to Hooker. Hooker does back. They all sit. Snyder and Manes come and sit.

Hooker: Snyder and Manes, your Communists!

Snyder: We joined to apply to kill you, Hooker.

Manes: Let’s kill Hooker now!

Slavsky: One killing at a time. First, the Dreyfus case. Now for the question “how to kill him.” I say put him in a concentration camp, the Nazi Germany way!

Snyder: I agree!

Manes: Why don’t you kill him the Cuban or Spanish way!

Hooker: Put him in a labor camp, the Russian way!

Dreyfus: Why don’t you just give me hard labor like the Chinese?

Slavsky: I have an idea. Each person will tell about their punishment and then will choose. First me and Snyder will tell about ours.

(Nazi Germany report)

Manes: I’ll tell about my punishment.

(Cuba and Spain report)

Hooker: I’ll go next.

(Soviet Union report)

Dreyfus: Could a prisoner tell about a punishment?

Slavsky: You could, but it will probably not be used because it’s the prisoner’s choice.

(China report)

Snyder: Okay. Hands up everyone! I know that Dreyfus and Hooker are putting on a con. Hooker, you have to leave, thanks for telling!

Dreyfus: You squealed!

Dreyfus shoots Hooker. Manes shoots Dreyfus.

Snyder: Okay, let’s go Slavsky!

Slavsky: But my money is there!

Snyder: What’s more important, your money or your life?  Manes, take care of the dead bodies, I’ll take Slavsky to headquarters.

Snyder and Slavsky exit.

Manes: Okay guys, their gone, you can get up now.

Hooker and Dreyfus get up.

Dreyfus: Well, kid, you put on your first con.

Manes: The money’s over in the chest.

Hooker: Give it to charity. I’d only lose it in gambling.  At least we gave them the sting!

Walks out slowly as music plays.

The End

Bad Dialogue

The “love scene” from my latest screenplay, a romance titled “The Secret Affair of the Mommyblogger”:

The couple meet in his car, which is parked outside the “other” suburban Bed, Bath, and Beyond – the one the neighbors DON’T go to, because there is no Chipotle next door. The are immediately all over each other, the passion intense.

She: “I think we should put on the breaks.”

He: “And I think we should shift gears.”

She: “And I think I need an oil change.”

He: “And I think you turned on my ignition.”

She: “And I think you’ve just opened my glove compartment.”

He: “And I think I feel your airbags.”

She: “And I think we should go hybrid.”

He: “And I think your cupholder is convenient.”

She: “And I think I need a lube job,”

He: “And I think I’m going zero to sixty.”

She: “And I think we’re stuck in a fender bender.”

He: “And I think I’m overheating because of the steep incline.”

She: “And I think your timing belt needs adjusting.”

He: “And I think it is my internal combustion.”

She: “And I think you’re not watching the road signs.”

He: “And I think I blew a gasket.”

She: “And I think you stalled before I reached my destination. Hand me the GPS and I’ll get there myself. Then I need to pick up the kids from day camp.”

I’m Back to Being a Man

I’m sorry I was such an insecure woman yesterday.  I’ll try to be a better woman next year during “Write Like the Opposite Sex Day.”   A woman that will make you proud.  That you will want to befriend.

Next time, maybe I’ll be Janet, a strong-willed female poet, a single mother living in the South. 

“I come from from Mayflower stock, but there are demons in my past.   I live in a great big ‘ol house that my late father owned.  I loved my father and was heart-broken when he died.  I dote on my son, watching him grow up to be a man.  My best poems are about death.”

Another possibility is Kendra, a fashion model living in Paris.

“I’m very flamboyant.  I’m cold to other women   I’m confident, knowing that I’m idolized by everyone.  I’m knock-out gorgeous and my face is on magazine covers. Even though I’m not supposed to,  I eat pastries.   I have two big secrets — I don’t like people.  Or modeling.” 

 I’d probably be most happy as Angie — a playful, small town waitress in Vermont. 

“Some may say I am a child at heart.  On Fall mornings, I run outside, still in my pajamas, and jump into the colorful leaves, much as I did when I was a tomboy at seven.  I’m plain-looking, but don’t worry about it.  I have a “good personality,:” as my mother would say.  I  have three lovers.  I have sex five times a week.   Last night, I was with Tom, the chef from The Tamarick Cafe.  I loved feeling his calloused hands on my ass as I moaned deeply into his strong manly chest.  In the morning, I drank my coffee, rode him again until I came, and then went to play in the leaves.  If I had more money, life would be perfect.”

On Friday, several of you wrote blog posts “written as the opposite sex.”  They were all funny.  But we all made the same mistake — we reached for stereotypes.   I’m curious if we would have had more realistic results if we just wrote our regular blog posts, then changed a few gender-specific words here and there?   

Are we really that different in the way we write?

And seriously — do women really see men as such gruff horn-dogs?! 

For me, Christine’s post came “closest” to being one actually written by a man.   As the winner of my first real “contest” on “Write Like the Opposite Sex Day,” she wins a DVD of  the movie classic, Tootsie!

A Year Ago on Citizen of the Month:  Good Humor

Today I Am a Woman


My name is Neilochka.  I am a mother of two living in Los Angeles, who doesn’t really feel like she belongs.  I am insecure being around some of my more successful friends and wish that my husband was more attentive to me.  I like to bake scones, play board games, and kiss by the fire.  I miss my parents back home.  I am size 12 and trying to lose some weight.  I am from Wappinger Falls, NY, a small town upstate New York.  I graduated from SUNY Albany with a degree in Psychology.  I was working in marketing when I met Josh.

I had plans to go see “Sex and the City” with Megan and her friends tonight, but I wasn’t in a Carrie and Miranda mood.  Do I really want to sit through two hours of self-absorbed women negotiating relationships, looking absolutely terrific, AND living in NEW YORK?  As a former hipster gal myself (I lived in New York for six months after college before I moved back home), now mother of two — who now finds herself shopping at Costco! (can you believe it?), I have nothing in common with the Sex and the City gals anymore.  My life has not been “Sex and the City” for a long, long time.  Will someone please buy my book, “Diapers and the Poop?!”  Seriously,  I wouldn’t even have the time to write it with Kyle jumping on the couch every minute, making believe he is Iron Man (although he calls himself “Iron Chef” — hee hee).

Megan and her friends are nice,  and the screening was at the movie studio, but I didn’t feel like fighting the traffic.  I’m also a little insecure around Megan’s friends.    Last week, Erin had a birthday party for her seven year old at — get this — the Pantages Club in Burbank!  A nightclub for a child’s party!  I remember my seventh birthday party — at the Wappinger Falls bowling alley.   We had a Carvel “whale of a time” birthday cake.  Remember, this is LA.  Even Chuck E. Cheese has valet parking.  Now I’m worried about where we should have Kyle’s birthday party.  Josh suggested we rent out the Griffith Observatory.

Sometimes, I wish we had never moved to LA.  Josh says I’m just being silly… or depressed.  He means well.  I mean, I know there are a lot of cool Moms who live in town, who are able to juggle being a Mom and still being hip and trendy, like Rebecca from Girl’s Gone Child and Stephanie from Baby on Bored, but they are superstars compared to me.  I’m just a small town girl at heart. 

I’m thinking of going to synagogue on Saturday for the first time in twenty years.  Josh says he won’t go with me.  He doesn’t believe in any of that.  But I spoke to my sister, and we agree on one thing — I hit the lottery with Josh.  He is a darling.  Today, he sent me flowers from the office.  I think he’s a keeper.  Or he wants sex.  Bad.  Ha Ha.

I know work is everything to Josh, but with the internet, he should be able to write his animated cartoons anywhere he wants, even from upstate New York, near my parents.  I could even go back working with the marketing firm.  I need to look for freelance work.

Well, listen to me.  Blah blah blah.  I know… always complaining when I should be telling you how lucky I am.  I am lucky, knock on wood.  I even lost those extra three pounds this month.  I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and said to myself, “Not bad!”  I hope I win that wii fit on Redhead Momma’s blog.  I have a long way to go before I reach my ideal weight goal.  Soon is high school reunion time… and BlogHer.  Does anyone need a roommate on Saturday night?!

Are you guys going to watch “Lost” tonight?  I know I am.   Sarah B. was so funny on Twitter today. 

“If Sawyer takes his shirt off once more, I’m leaving my husband and marrying him.”

Sorry, Sarah.  He’s already taken.  By ME!

Toots, y’all.  xxxooo — Neilochka

(This is a project of “Write Like the Opposite Sex Day.”  Please comment on this post as if you were of the opposite sex)

Others changing their gender for one day:

Memarie Lane is a man.

Finn is a man.

Anymommy is a man.

Melanie is a man.

Christine is a man.

And check out the amazing haikus written for Haiku Friday  (also here) by women… writing the haikus as if they were men.

Masculin, Féminin


(how I visualize myself as a woman)

I’ve given a lot of thought about masculinity and femininity in the last few days, since I first mentioned this idea for “Write Like the Opposite Sex” Day.  This week — my blog, my therapy, my marriage, and my sex life all converged at a point somewhere in my brain. 

I’ve come to a definite decision about something.  I am a man.  I’m a man despite being pegged as a “female writer” by the Gender Genie (thanks Schmutzie).  That’s right.  I’m a man and I’m proud.   Even when I watch “All My Children,” I watch it like a man.  Sophia and I watch it completely differently.  I pay attention to the ridiculous plot.  Sophia notices that “Kendall is anorexic.” 

I’m honored that so many women choose to read this blog, but I’m not really sure I would ever want to be one of you.  Sure, it would be nice to be allowed to speak at BlogHer, but who the hell needs it?! 

I like being a man.

Men, we’re the lucky ones!  Sure, the women can have babies and be all “nurturing,”  but WE have our penises, and they can’t take that away from us.  I guess they can try to take them away, either physically or emotionally, but when I say penises, I don’t just mean our large and strong c*cks.  I mean the penises in our hearts.  The ones that makes us MEN.  You know what I’m talking about.   The woman NEVER will.

That said, I would make one helluva woman.  Just like the Michael Dorsey character in Tootsie.  If you are a male reader, do you think you would be a good woman?

If I were a woman, I have no doubt that every male reading this right now would be killing himself to get to know me.  You would totally want me.  I would be such a sexy woman.  I would show cleavage, but not too much.  I would know exactly when you are looking at my ass.  I would surprise you with my off-the-cuff remarks.  I would be funnier than you are.  You would say to yourself, “I have never met such a f**king amazing woman in all my entire life.  She’s as cool as a MAN, but he’s a woman!”

Sure, I know I sound like the ideal woman to you.  But don’t waste your time thinking about it.   If I were a woman, I would not go out with any losers like you!   Bloggers – heh.  A waste of my feminine time.  A woman like me deserves better.  I expect better.  I mean,  I can hang out and bullshit, and be one of the guys, but I also want to be treated like a princess.

And don’t try to use any two-for-one dinner coupons at the Olive Garden with me, you cheap assholes.

The plan is still the same for Friday — Write as the Opposite Sex Day.

Just Thinking About Writing

I’m a bit constricted by my blog at times.  I look around and see that most of the well-known personal blogs revolve around that blogger’s day-to-day life.   I know that is obvious.  I’m just noting that these writers rarely deviate from their theme.  They use their blog as a journal or diary.  These bloggers let you into their world, warts and all, until you feel as if you know their family — and you care about them.  The best of these blogs, like Dooce, are  well-written and honest. 

I’ve never kept a diary.  It always seemed boring to me.  And I sometimes have trouble being honest.  I’m not a liar.  Well, I am.  I don’t only lie to you.  I lie to myself.  That’s why I’m in therapy.  So, in a way, my lying to you is being very honest.  Get it?

I try to write about reality.  Most everything in this blog, including my conversations with my Penis, is rooted in reality.  I find it interesting that my favorite posts are almost never YOUR favorite posts.  You seem to love when I write in an honest, diary style.   You feel as if I connected with you because I revealed some private truth.   It’s as if personal blogging is supposed to be the private become public, and dammit – he won me over with the admission that his mother washed his mouth out with soap.  It doesn’t really matter that I spent twice as long crafting something really silly.  The comedy never wins the Oscar.

Even if I were completely fact-based about my day to day life, I’m not sure I can effectively capture “me” through the details.  What actually happened today — May 1, 2008?  Sophia got a flat tire on the freeway and I came to her rescue.  I bought a new tire for her car and had a cup of coffee in Denny’s.  I arranged to meet with a producer.  I spoke to my mother.  This is all fun stuff, but most of the REALLY interesting events occurred in my head.  I got annoyed about “blog badges” and wrote my last sarcastic post.  I went on Craig’s List and wondered about apartment hunting.  I wondered how Carly from American Idol was managing.  I made a note to write a post someday about Brian Dunkleman (remember him — the comedian who co-hosted American Idol with Ryan Seacrest in season one!). I wonder if he is still pissed or if he was able to move on to a happy life.  I worried about this headache that I’ve had for three days, and tried not to become a hypochondriac, fearing it is a tumor or something horrible.

Am I  presenting a clear picture of my personality, and does it even matter?  I had an IM conversation with someone last week who seemed to be under the impression that I was some sort of Lothario having sex chats with women in every American city.  When do I have time?!   Truthfully, online sex chats would be too difficult for me because I would feel obligated, as a writer, not to be cliched.  How many unique ways are there to say, “So, are you unbuttoning your blouse now?”

Me:  “My hand is touching you…”

Her:  “Here?”

Me:  “Yes, there… but that’s not very descriptive.  Let me go on Wikipedia and look up what it is actually called in the  English language.   Also, I already used “touching you” twice already.  There must be some other way of saying that!”

Her:  “OK, enough.  I had my orgasm.  Thanks.  Bye.”

 I would feel too much literary performance anxiety to have any fun. 

I present myself as a nice Jewish boy who’s calling his mother every day, and then the next day I’m f**king four women in my bedroom.  Who am I?   I’m not sure I really know exactly who I am, so why should you?

But let me just stick to the blog — my writing.  Would be better to focus more on the reality in my life, or continue writing whatever shit comes to my mind?  The inconsistency of this blog’s tone must be very frustrating for some readers. 

I can also go the other way — not caring about you, the reader, at all.   That could be refreshing.  That would probably be the most honest approach.   I could explore different facets of my personality.  I could write a post like I was a woman.  I’d like to imagine what it would be like to give birth.  Would that be weird for you?  I’d like to be racist or nasty and say things that I don’t really believe, but not worry about your reaction. Why do I always have to write about what I believe?  It might be more fun to write about someone else’s beliefs. 

I’d like to finish a post without having to make the ending work.

The Power of One Reader

On Sunday night, I was feeling sad.  I was thinking about my marriage situation, why I was taking so long to move out, whether I should get a roommate, if I should go to New York for a few weeks, how that would affect my writing, and other issues that I would rather not have bouncing about in my head.  These nagging questions took time and energy from important things, like keeping up with your blogs, or poking people on Facebook.

Don’t worry, Mom.  I wasn’t depressed, just sad.   

So, what does a blogger do when he’s feeling sad?   He writes a blog post. 

I wrote a blog post about… feeling sad.  When it was done, I read it over, and it just seemed pointless.  What was I  expressing? 

I… am… feeling… sad… period.    Bleh. 

There wasn’t much artistic merit here.  I didn’t describe the sadness in any poetic manner,  like saying my sadness was like a black cloud hovering over Redondo Beach or compare my life to the crumbling facade of an ancient pyramid in the Egyptian desert.  I’m not that melodramatic.  Life goes on.  My sadness was more a pedestrian sadness… a blah sadness.  The type a sadness where a friend might call you on the phone and say, “Hey, let’s go to see that new movie where Jessica Alba walks around in a bikini,” and I might answer, “Eh.”

So, I wrote the sadness post.  It was done, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to publish it.  I noticed that a blogger friend was on Yahoo IM.  I contacted her.

“Could you do me a favor?” I asked. “I wrote this post about being sad, but I haven’t published it yet.  Could you read it and tell me if you think it is something I should publish?”

“Sure,” she said.

I sent the post over and waited for her response.  After a few minutes of me nervously pulling the hairs out of my arm —

“It’s good.  You should publish it.”

“Isn’t it… about nothing?”

“Well, you’re sad.  That’s what it is about.”

The moment she said this, I suddenly felt very different… calmer.  I felt relieved, as if my stress had drifted off.  What had happened?

Someone had read my post about being sad.  Someone knew I was feeling sad on this Sunday in April.

Oddly, I didn’t have the need to publish it anymore.  She knew I was sad.  It was enough.  It wasn’t important to have readers from the four corners of the world reading my post.  I wasn’t trying to promote my blog.  I just wanted to to tell someone that I was feeling sad.  And now I did.  Mission accomplished.   I said thanks to the blogger, and that was it.  I deleted the post and wrote another post where I have sex with various women in my old bedroom in New York.  Did I think this new post was a bit stupid and perverse?  You bet.  But it made me laugh, and I wasn’t sad anymore. 

Bloggers always talk about how many “comments” we get, as if getting 300 strangers giving you feedback is the ultimate validation.   Sure, it is amazingly cool and satisfying.  Yesterday, I just wanted to connect… to say that I was feeling sad.   And one reader was all that I needed to make me feel better.

A Sh***y Post

For the first time in a very long time, I spent a good hour just looking at a blank screen.  I was thinking about why you come here to this blog.  I figure you come here because you like something about the writing.  Maybe I commented on your blog at some time, and then you commented on mine, and before you know it, we assumed we knew each other. 

There is a dark side to this.  If I start writing boring stuff, you will probably go away.  After a whole bunch of tedious posts — say, about my fingernails — only my mother would be left reading this blog.  My mother would not abandon me.  She would keep reading the blog no matter what.  That’s what mothers do. 

Sometimes, I’m afraid of writing something shitty.  I’m worried that you will drop me like a hot potato.  After all, there are plenty of other blogs out there.

It would be cool to write something really shitty.  I think I would enjoy writing something really shitty once a week.  Should I tell you in the tags or beforehand, so you know when I KNOW the post is conceived as shitty, opposed to when it just comes out shitty by poor planning or distraction?

For instance, this is a pretty shitty post.  I know it.  It is not an accident.  I enjoyed writing this shitty post.  I’m writing it on Notepad.  I can delete it or I can copy it and publish it on my blog so you can read it.  The question remains:  Why would you want to read it? 

I have no idea. 

No, that’s a lie.  I actually do.  I think I would enjoy reading it if YOU wrote it.  But I’m odd in that way.

A few days ago, some blogger wrote a comment where she said, “I love you, Neil.”  I took this nice comment as meaning that the person liked the current post, or that something in my writing connected with that person.  I know the person doesn’t REALLY love me. I’ve had this lovin’ feeling myself at times.  On my last count, I have been in serious love with seven female bloggers over the years, and three male bloggers.  These are bloggers who I have grown attached to in the most unhealthy of ways — caring about them way beyond normality, crying when they write about being miserable, laughing when they are happy, worried when they don’t blog, mad when they didn’t comment. 

I usually fall in love with a blogger because of her writing.   And then she writes something shitty, and the magic is gone. 

But gradually, I learn to respect her in a healthier manner, as I see that her writing that shitty post was important for her to write.  It reminded her that her writing is her own — and not others — and that if she wants to write something shitty, she should do it, confident that even if everyone thought she sucked, her mother would still read her blog.

Will We Reach 300 Interviews?

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I hate to make this blog ALL Interviews ALL the time, especially when I just put up such a fabulous post of passive-aggressive spam poetry, but I have been getting quite a few questions via email about the Great Interview Experiment.  I was going to just email everyone involved, but I figured just writing a post was easier.  So, let me make just one last public announcement.  Don’t think of this as a real post, but as a informational one.   (hey, it’s like my first ad!)   I’d like to keep the blog focused on the usual nonsense.   Sophia, my Talking Penis, my mother, my therapist, and the other usual blog characters are getting jealous.

That said, I hope you’re getting to read some of the interviews.   If I forget to add you to the “completed” list, just tell me.  I have a feeling that the one person getting the most out of this is … ME.  I love being introduced to new people and learning more about old friends.   I even emailed a few of you telling her how much closer I felt to you after learning more about your life.  I’ve been “blogging” with some of you for the longest time, and was always too shy to ask you about basic biographical stuff!   Now, I have someone else doing the dirty work.

If you forget who you are supposed to interview, I keep on updating the list.  I know a few of you have to drop out because of time constraints (or giving birth!).  Please email me (at neilochka at yahoo) or just contact the other two people in your interview “chain.”   If you are stuck without an interviewer or interviewee, or if they haven’t gotten back to you within a week, email me and I’ll give you new partners.  If there are some of you who would like to INTERVIEW someone, but not be interviewed yourself, please email me or comment, because we will probably need a few pitch-hitters.  Remember, I can just keep the interview process going, so you can always join up at some future time.

I hope everyone is having fun, and feeling like you are part of a community (even if it is a community of self-obsessed ego-maniacal nudniks who love themselves too much)

To join the Great Interview Experiment, sign up in the comments of the original post, not here.  Thanks.

Next Week in Therapy

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I’m sitting across from Brenda, my therapist. 

Therapist:  So, how did you feel about i?

Neil:  I was a little upset at her.

Therapist:  So what did you do?

Neil:  I withdrew.  I went into my room and wrote.  That made me feel better.  I think I do that too much.  I did that as a kid a lot.  I was an only child.  I always felt most comfortable just sitting around writing something.

Therapist:  What did you write last night?

Neil:  I wrote a silly blog post titled “If I Was Married to Hellga of American Gladiators.”

Therapist:  Hmm…

Neil:  Although no one reading it would know, I was probably venting about Sophia…

Therapist:  So, writing this blog is an important outlet for you.

Neil:  I suppose so.

Therapist:  Maybe it is a form of therapy for you.  A way for you to think about things.  What do you mostly write about?

Neil:  All different things.  Mostly funny things.  About Sophia.  I’ve even written about you. I mean not real stuff.  Well, sort of real.  I use different names for you, and your image has changed as time has gone on.  In the beginning, I made you into a hot babe therapist.  Once I wrote about being distracted because your legs were showing. 

Therapist:  Really?

Neil:  Yeah.  Silly stuff.  But you do have nice legs.  Jesus, I can’t believe I’m telling my therapist that she has nice legs.  Sorry.

Therapist:  It’s OK.

Neil:  But I’ve also written more serious stuff about therapy, like that I’m not an “adult” yet.

Therapist:  I’ve never done this with another client, but your blog seems a large part of your life.  Your fantasy life.  Do you think it would be a good idea if I read your blog?

Neil:  Oh, I was under the assumption that you had been reading it.  I even wrote about that.

Therapist:  No, I wouldn’t read it unless you asked me too.  Do you want me to?

Neil:  Sure.  Why not?

Therapist:  I don’t know too much about blogs?  How do people find you? 

Neil:  It’s sort of complicated.

Therapist:  Do a lot of people come to the blog?

Neil:  Well, it depends.  Right now I have a lot of people coming because I’m hosting this interview thing where people interview each other, but I have no idea how many of them are actually READING aything I write.

Therapist:  Let’s make next week a special one.  We’ll sit by the computer together and you’ll show me some of what you write on your blog.  I want you to show me things that can best help me understand you better.  Let’s make your blog part of therapy, since it seems to already be like that.  Or print out five posts that you want me to read.

Neil:  OK, but you DO realize I’m going to write about this on my blog tonight?

Therapist:  I have no doubt.

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