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the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

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Fictional Characters of New York — #29

August 10, 2014 / / 3 Comments

Russians

Dimitri’s favorite story was about the size of his dick.  Here it goes —

“When God was handing out dicks, the Creator, being fair-minded, presented equal size penises to every man. But he made a mistake in the shipping process.  He hung the penises on a clothesline for the taking, but immediately noticed that the shorter men had trouble reaching so high.   God didn’t want to start creating man all over again, so instead, he went the easier route — he extended some of the penises to make it easier for the shorter men to grab from the clothesline.  And THAT is why many of the shortest men have the biggest cocks.”

Yan found this story ridiculous, as he did most of Dimitri’s  stories, and Yan didn’t shy away from telling him so.   Dimitri was Yan’s best friend of seventy years; they had known each other since their days in the red wooden grade school in Kiev.

Dimitri liked a good tale, but he wasn’t a liar.   He DID have the biggest dick that Yan had ever seen, noticing it first when they skipped school to go skinny-dipping in the watering hole by Vartan’s farm.   It hung from his friend’s small frame like one of those giant cucumbers his mother used to buy at the Odessa Privoz Market.

Perhaps it was that extra testosterone of having such a big dick that made Dimitri so combative.  Dimitri and Yan could argue about anything.   And Yan loved the joy of their daily debates.   The topic was irrelevant.   Which wife made the best borscht?   Is Obama a communist? Brooklyn or Queens? Best soccer team — Germany or Brazil? Who owned the more luxurious car? Who would have made more money if they remained back in the old Soviet Union? Most talented singer — Frank Sinatra or Anna Netrebko?

These debates could last for hours, sometimes into the night, and the spouses of Dimitri and Yan accepted their husbands as more married to each other, if not by law, then by time spent together.

On Sunday, Yan woke up early, and letting Lubov, his wife, sleep, he walked over to Dunkin’ Donuts on Main Street.  He was hoping to find Dimitri waiting for him.  Their weekend arguments were a sacred tradition, like going to church.   He was ready to argue his dear friend about anything, anything at all.

It was Dae, the Korean owner of the store (and sometimes bookie) who told Yan the bad news.   Dimitiri had a heart attack in the street early that day.   His kind and argumentative best friend, the man of owned a thousand stories and the biggest dick that Yan had ever seen, was no more.  Yan cried for the first time in seventy years.

That night, Yan was in the mood to argue with someone.  He though of facing against Lubov, but she was too mild-mannered and would agree too easily.  With Dimitri gone, he lost his opponent.

So, Yan argued with God.   He told God that He had made another mistake much worse than building a clothesline too high for the shorter men to get their penises.

God had taken away Dimitri from his life.

Fictional Characters of New York — #28

August 9, 2014 / / 5 Comments

trevor

When you’re childhood friends such as Bree and Kathy, roommates in college, keeper of secrets, nothing should come between you, especially a man.

But Tyler became that man.

In Bree’s opinion, Tyler was sexy as hell and great in bed, but an irresponsible child, not worthy of someone like herself, an up-and-coming new media executive with a Fortune 500 company.  Yes, there was chemistry, but she assumed it merely the result of a common background from similar families in the Bronx.   No, he was not Mr. Right.  It was a step backwards, not forward.

So, after Bree broke it off , she had no problem giving Kathy her approval, her blessing even, to see Tyler on a casual basis, knowing Kathy’s loneliness and lack of success in the dating world.

Bree never expected any real chemistry between the two, the athletic and intense Tyler and the pretty, but bookish Kathy, or that she would soon feel the jealousy and torment of imagining the pale and blushing Kathy riding the naked body of this awful and selfish man with wild abandon, and enjoying it tremendously.   This was not the Kathy that she knew.

“Do you want me to stop seeing him?” asked Kathy at Chipotle a few weeks later, sensing Bree’s frustration. She was good at reading the moods of people, something Bree lacked.

“No,” said Bree.

“Bree, your friendship is more important to me. I’ll ask you again. Do you want me to stop seeing him?”

“Yes.” she said.

Kathy paused, expecting the answer she didn’t want to hear.

“Fuck you, Bree. I’ll do it for you. But fuck you. I was happy.”

It was the first time Bree ever heard the proper-bred Kathy curse.

Kathy kept her promise, but didn’t return any of Bree’s phone calls.  Kathy also quit any activities that might bring the two in contact, such as their book club, or attending concerts at the Y. For three years, the two women — once best friends — cut off all contact.

In April, as spring arrived in the city, and the flowers bloomed in Central Park, Bree and Kathy crossed paths again, in the produce section of Whole Foods on 57th Street. They both started to cry, tears of happiness and guilt, and retreated to the upstairs coffee bar to reconnect and embrace. They had committed the worst sin possible — they had let a man break them apart.

“I love you, Bree. I’m sorry I cut things off. I thought about you every day. You’re my best friend. Forever.”

“It was my fault,” said Kathy, blowing her nose with a Whole Foods napkin. “I discussed it all with my therapist. I was too co-dependent. I’ve always been that way with men. The most important thing in life is friendship. The most important thing in life is… YOU.”

Bree put her hand on Kathy’s. The two women stood, and reaching over the table, they hugged strongly, as if the power of the hold could make up for three years lost time.

“I’ve moved to a new condo,” said Kathy, as they left Whole Foods. “I live around the corner on Third. Come walk with me. I’ll show you the place.”

“Of course,” said Bree. “I want to hear about everything that’s happened with you over the last three years, best friend.”

“Same here, best friend,” replied Kathy.

They two of them walked down 57th Street, together, into the sunset. And then, as they crossed the street, they saw him, wearing a blue and white checkered shirt and his hair combed neatly.  It was Tyler.  He looked better than ever.

Find Your Tribes

August 8, 2014 / / 9 Comments

venn1

Last weekend’s blogging conference was colored by the Gaza conflict that played out on my hotel TV at night.   It put me on edge.   The social media lingo used at the conference suddenly seemed more militaristic than intended.  Words like”Followers” and “Following,” gave me images of soldiers and commanders.  Even the expression “ally” (Feminist Allies, LGBT Allies) had the unfortunate association with the first and second World Wars (Allies and Axis).

But I had the most discomfort with the oft-repeated mantra of “Find Your Tribe.”

At first glance, “Find Your Tribe,” is good advice for a blogger or writer, especially for a newbie searching for a niche, but this year, I was unable to hear this word without also hearing “tribalism.”  Why were we telling others to find their tribe, when the very concept involves exclusion?  Aren’t 98% of all wars about disagreeing tribes bumping heads?

When I arrived at JFK on Monday,  there was a giant TV at the American Airlines gate.   CNN was reporting on the ceasefire between Israel and Hamas, brokered by Egypt. I sighed with a relief, not only sickened by the violence, but also the nastiness that I saw online.

It was midnight and the taxi line was short.   Within five minutes, I was on my way.   My taxi driver was a bearded young man with hair as black as shoe polish. His steering wheel bore the colors of the Palestinian flag.  His first name was Mohammed.

“Where you heading?” he asked.

I told him the address.

“By that KOSHER supermarket, right?” he asked.

“Uh, yes.” I mumbled.

The cab was dark inside.  I was in the back seat, my computer bag at my feet.  A pungent air freshener was hanging from the rear view mirror, swaying to the bumps on the Van Wyck Expressway.   I heard a faint speaking from the front, some Arabic, but mostly English.   At first, I thought it was the radio, but as I leaned in, I could see Mohammed speaking into a headset.   He glanced at me in the rear view mirror, but was too involved in his conversation to notice me eavesdropping.  I bent over to look into my computer bag, but the real intention was to listen more closely.

“Is he there with you now?  Will you see him again?” whispered Mohammed into his headset. “No, I’m not jealous. Are you jealous of me? Will you tell me if you do it with him? I just did it that once. I told you about it. But she was nothing like you. You turn me into an animal. Come visit. OK, tomorrow. Will you think about me tonight? I will think about you, all night. When I am in bed. I have to go. I have a customer.”

Mohammed stopped talking. There was silence as the cab moved onto the Grand Central. I’m normally shy and never speak to strangers, but I had an insatiable need to talk to this driver, to learn more about his story. I took the risk.

“There used to be this TV show called Taxicab Confessions,” I told him.  “On the show, cabbies would listen in to their customers as they talk about their personal lives, but I think this is the first time a customer has ever listened in on the taxi driver.”

Mohammed laughed.

“Oh, you heard me speaking to Abal.  Sweet Abal.”

Mohammed proceeded to tell me the story of Abal, his lover in Germany, and their “open relationship.”   The trouble began when Mohammed started seeing a woman in Brooklyn on Friday nights, who was smart, and had a good job, be she couldn’t compare to the”wild cat moves” of sweet sweet Abal.

“Where did you fly in from?” he asked, changing the conversation, as if it wasn’t polite for a driver to talk so much without reciprocating the interest.

“California,” I said.

“Was there a woman there?” he asked, grinning

“Women.”

I’m not going to reveal the rest of the conversation, but let’s just say that straight men of all color, creeds, and religions have more in common than previously thought, with similar passions and frustrations with the opposite sex.

The fighting in the Middle East never came up, nothing about religious or national tribalism, nothing about Israel or the Arab world, Muslims or Jews.   Instead, we focused on a common Tribe between us — “Single Guys Dealing with Women.”   Why do we always go for our differences rather than our similarities.   I’m sure if I continued my conversation with Mohammed we would have discovered more common tribes — “New Yorkers,” “iPhone owners, “Men who Put Air Freshener in their Cars.”

Telling others to “find your tribe” — as if we each have only one tribe that becomes our identity — is bad advice.   It is simplistic.   It breeds isolation and zealotry.    It’s better to say, “Find Your TRIBES (in the plural).”

We live in an overlapping Venn Diagram of tribes, where one person can be Christian, an American, A Kansan, a Writer, a Father, A Democrat, a Juggler, and a Stamp Collector.   By suggesting that people find their TRIBES, rather than their TRIBE, we are sending the positive message to our friends to focus on the concentric circles of connection, which builds compassion and empathy,  rather than the myopic view of tribalism.

I doubt Mohammed and I are ever going to be friends, or if I will ever see him again. I’m sure we have tribes in common, and many that disagree.  But by acknowledging that we are ALL a multitude of Tribes, interlocking circles on the Venn diagram of life, we remind ourselves that the only true Tribe is everyone.

Singing Cabaret

August 2, 2014 / / 3 Comments

I’m not big on crowds.  My experiences with conferences tend to revolve around hanging with one or two people who I strongly connect with for one reason or another.   This year, at BlogHer, that person was JC, the Animated Woman.  Besides driving with her to San Jose from Los Angeles, we did a little sightseeing in LA after the conference, including a visit to this weird Hollywood store filled with old Hollywood props.  Last night, I made this appropriately weird little slideshow movie for her to watch on her flight back to Montreal.

BlogHer ’14

July 28, 2014 / / 65 Comments

blogher14

First the positive.   The sessions were interesting.  The Voices of the Year reading was one of the best yet.   Standing ovation good.   This year honored 10 years of BlogHer, and the atmosphere was celebratory.  There was a feeling of nostalgia in the air, combined with an openness and hopefulness towards the future of the internet.

San Jose is a mellow city (even a little dull), but I liked it as a locale for a conference.   Sure, New York and Chicago are more exciting, but this year attendees stayed around and participated rather than running around town for sightseeing opportunities.   The final party, outside in the warm California sun, was fun, and felt like clubbing in the classiest McDonald’s in the world (they were the sponsor of the event).

I was honored to be part of a Pathfinder session on Becoming a Visual Artist. It was the fourth time that I had been involved in a session (Storytelling with Amy, Blogging with Elan and Laurie, Fiction Writing as a Writing Lab, and now photography with Lucrecer).

Now the negative.  No, let me rephrase it.  It isn’t negative. It is just change. And the change is not BlogHer, but ME.

I felt less personally invested in the blogging community than in previous years.  Is it the result of my interest in mobile photography?  Do photographers become aloof from the world, acting more as observers than participants? I didn’t even dance at the final party, always one of my highlights, instead choosing to photograph the OTHERS dancing.

Perhaps the disengagement is a natural reaction to a once small world that is now part of a bigger media world.  Everyone now has a reason for their blog, whether to “help others” or get on TV.   Whatever happened to just starting a blog because you are crazy, lonely, and neurotic?

I think back at how emotional unstable I WAS in the past, especially during previous BlogHers.

At my first conference, I tripped at the Chicago Sheraton registration line as I met Elan (Schmutzie) for the first time, tears in my eyes, as if she was some character I had been reading about in a book and had suddenly materialized as a living, breathing person.   As if she was Harry Potter, and Harry Potter wanted to meet too!

This year, at BlogHer,  Elan and I hugged on the last day, our suitcases trailing after us.   We apologized for hardly speaking during the entire conference. We were too busy with our own sessions.

“Eh, no big deal,” I said.   I’ll see you on Facebook later.”   This is not something I could… or would…. say eight years ago.

One of my highlights of BlogHer 2009 has nothing to do with the sessions.  It was me bitching to Jenny (the Bloggess) and Tanis (Redneck Mommy)  for what seemed like an hour about this “Blogging with Integrity” campaign started by the “evil” Liz (Mom 101) and others.   I have no idea why I was so passionate about this topic at the time, but I was sure that everyone putting side banners on their blog saying “I Blog With Integrity” would destroy Blogging as We Know It.   It was as if Joseph McCarthy had taken over the blogosphere.   Now, I just laugh at myself for acting so weird.

Tanis wasn’t at BlogHer this year, focusing on her family.   Liz wasn’t there either.   Jenny WAS there, but mostly in the capacity of the best-selling author of “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened.”

The line was so long to see her at the book-signing that I said, “Eh, I’ll just see her on Facebook later.”   This was becoming my motif.

Does the name BlogHer make sense anymore?   Maybe they should rename it FacebookHer. Or SocialMediaHer.

Sure, there were SESSIONS on blogging, but I had very few personal conversations about blogging.   I had interesting discussions about publishing, race in America,  using Pinterest, and the cheekbones of Kerry Washington, the TV actress who was also one of the keynotes. I think we still use blogs as a tool, but are frankly bored about talking about it.

OK, enough ranting.   My new aim in life is to become a positive person, like that woman I met at lunch who handed me her business card that read “Positivist Entrepreneur.”

I had a great time this year.   I met so many new people, not to win more “followers,” but to understand why the hell anyone would waste their time starting a blog in 2014 rather than just write for the Huffington Post.

A lot of the newbies I met were much younger than the typical mom blogger  (I mean, “they could be my daughter” young), and it made me feel kinda old. One kind woman in her early twenties came up to me and said that she was honored to meet me because “she was a big fan of my work on Instagram.”  She addressed me as Mr. Kramer.  I choked on my coffee.

I got many compliments on my new designer jeans that I bought two weeks ago at Nordstrom.  I wore them every day of the conference.   But I didn’t get laid.  San Jose is just too hot for any hanky panky.

I missed having a roommate.  I’m a yenta at heart.   I like gossiping until late night with Sarah or Marty.

As usual, I heard a lot of talk about hits and followers and platform.  I had a nice conversation with a popular fashion blogger until I mentioned that my comments and visits to my blog were half of what they were only three years ago, and she took off as fast as if I had just announced that I had syphilis.

There were whispers and rumors that this might be the last year of the big BlogHer conference, and that the organization would focus instead on the niche-conferences dedicated to food and business and politics. I hope it isn’t true. The annual BlogHer conference has become an important ritual for me.

But if the co-founders decide to change direction, I would understand.  A conference that appeals to personal writers, political activists, business women, and coupon moms ALL AT THE SAME TIME is hard to maintain forever.  Splitting up by tribe and demographic might be the way of future.

It might even be good for me.    BlogHer has been extremely kind to be, taking me into their, uh, bosom, as one of their own.   But it has never been my authentic “tribe.”   If the annual conference ends, it might feel to me like a parent kicking their deadbeat artist son out into the real world to get a job.  And maybe it is time to stop caring about BLOGGING as some sort of spiritual or personal journey, or as a social or radical act, and focus on it as a way to advance my career.   Because THAT is blogging 2014.

Thanks to everyone I met this year, both old and new friends.   And thank you for BlogHer for being such a class act.

Special thanks to JC and SueBob who made the long road trip back and forth from Los Angeles into one of the highlights of the weekend, even though we never sang any songs.

Fictional Characters of New York — #27

July 19, 2014 / / 4 Comments

melting

It was eight months ago, on the way to work, during a unseasonably December morning in Soho, that Gretchen told me that she was pregnant.

“Pregnant.  But we’re gay,” I said.

“No, you’re a lesbian.  I’m bi-sexual.”

“Are we going to argue semantics again? I wish you never took that course at NYU.”

“I’m not talking about language. I’m talking about reality.”

“I know, I know.  Language is reality.”

“Laura, I’m pregnant.”

“How can you be pregnant?”

“It’s what happens sometimes when you fuck a guy.”

“You fucked a guy?”

“I’m in love with a guy.”

“You’re in love with a guy?”

“I’m bi-sexual.”

“What are you saying, Gretchen?”

“I’m moving out. I’m moving in with Ryan.  I’ve been seeing him for five months already.  I’m going to have a baby.”

We were crossing the street at the time. The snow from last week’s storm was melting, turning into mush.

“It’s betrayal,” I said, as we jumped over a puddle.

“I know this is hard to hear. It’s hard for me too.”

“It’s not just betrayal of me. It’s a betrayal of all lesbians. Of the entire community. You can’t fuck a guy and have his baby. Unless we do it together.”

“Ryan’s a gentle man.   An illustrator of children’s books.  The heart doesn’t know gender. It just knows love.”

“And what about me? What am I going to do?”

“We’ll always be friends.   I love you, too.   I want you in my life.  I want you to be the baby’s godmother.”

“I’m not going to be that baby’s godmother. I don’t give a shit about your shitty baby.”

That was eight months ago.   Since then, I have gone on a few dates with women I met online, but nothing interesting. No chemistry. Not like I had with Gretchen.

Today, I received an email to the baptism of her baby, (a baptism!?) but I deleted it.

Three Months Later

July 14, 2014 / / 41 Comments

I was not surprised when she blocked me on Facebook and Twitter.   She TOLD me that she was going to do it.   But I figured it would be for a few days, and then she would be back.   It wasn’t the first time we went through this charade.

Juli and I met online.  We became immediate friends.  We were both going through a divorce, but as bloggers, we chatted mostly about writing.    Gradually this platonic friendship grew into something more — a long distance romance.

And it was definitely a LONG distance romance.  I lived in New York.  She lived in New Zealand. When we spoke on the phone, we were more than a day apart.   After a year of struggling with our schedules, chatting at inconvenient hours, we decide there was only one solution — I had to travel to New Zealand to see her.

For a month and a half, I had the most amazing time of my life. I spent Christmas and New Years with Juli and her young son.   It was summer in New Zealand!  We traveled around the South Island, and everywhere I went,  the beauty of the landscape blew me away.  I even learned how to camp… in a tent!   I found myself falling in love with a special woman.

The problems only started when I returned to the States.  Where do we go from here?  She was unable to leave the country because of her son.   We discussed my moving to New Zealand, but where would I work? Where would I stay? What if things didn’t work out?

There were no fights. Just a lot of unanswered questions. I was indecisive. I wanted baby steps. She wanted grand gestures. If I could go back in time, I might play my hand differently. Or I might not.

A long-distance relationship can be powerful, but it comes with it’s own set of strains. There were times when Juli would tell me that she needed to hide me on Facebook or Twitter, not out of anger, but because it brought up feelings of yearning and jealousy. I would laugh and tell her that she was being silly, but I understood exactly how she felt. It was difficult being separated from someone you cared about, and the breezy connections you have on social media can feel like an insult to the deep and honest love of a true relationship.

Three months ago, Juli went one step further.   She said that she needed to stop talking with me — for the sake of both of us.   Our long-distance relationship was holding us back from real life.

I laughed and told her to take her break. “I’ll be waiting for you when you come back,” I texted.

But she didn’t text back. And she didn’t answer any of my emails.

We haven’t interacted in three months.  She was serious this time.  Circumstances had changed and time had passed.   She had gone back to school and was searching for work.   She didn’t need me bogging her down, especially if our relationship wasn’t going anywhere.

Now the roles were now reversed.   She didn’t see my updates online, but I still saw hers.   I knew she got a new job from seeing her Twitter updates.   But I couldn’t talk to her about it.   The sight of her name brought up emotions that I’m not sure I wanted to feel anymore. So, after I write this post, I need to go on Twitter and Facebook, and block her too.   It just hurts too much.

Fictional Characters of New York — #26

July 14, 2014 / / 2 Comments

bigbird

Like many children growing up in the 1960s, Ben learned his life skills by watching Sesame Street. By kindergarten, Ben could recite the alphabet and count to ten.  The moral philosophy of the PBS became Ben’s guiding principle of life — he believed that people of all races and backgrounds could live together in harmony, even if his own family couldn’t do the same.

In later life, Sesame Street never prepared Ben for unemployment at age 50, or for his divorce with Angela, his wife of 20 years. But through a set of circumstances that could only be described as ironic, Ben fell into a part-time job playing Big Bird in Central Park, hawking photos from tourists visiting the city.

Big Bird was never Ben’s favorite from the show.  He acted like a pussy.  He preferred Oscar the Grouch, who reminded him of his father, a gruff man who used to drink his beer from a can while watching his cop shows.

But needing the money, Ben faked a good Big Bird, nailing the speech and mannerisms, and the kids of Central Park — youth of all colors and creeds — loved him, tugging his feathers as if he was their long lost friend. He made a few good tips too; frantic parents shoved shriveled five dollar bills into his big bird hands. Ben hated his new job.  He felt deep deep shame.   But gradually, Ben learned to control his tears by reciting the alphabet and counting to ten.

 

Fictional Characters of New York — #25

July 7, 2014 / / 3 Comments

walk

In her old life, Michelle used to walk past Cynthia, the mousy neighbor in apartment 3D, never uttering a word. Michelle had nothing in common with this shy librarian.

But six months after her accident, Michelle’s friends stopped calling, as did her boyfriend. She didn’t blame them; she knew the life of a high pressure career, having been a news director at CBS News. New York City is a race and there is no waiting for the fallen.

But when loneliness and deep depression became Michelle’s only visitors to her Manhattan apartment, it was Cynthia who brought books to read, food to share, and encouragement to heal.

Never had Michelle felt such warmth towards anyone as when Cynthia took her arm and said, “You will walk. You will work. You will find love again. Baby steps.”

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