Citizen of the Month

the writing and photography of Neil Kramer

Page 91 of 187

We Talked About Eliot Spitzer in Therapy

March 12, 2008 / / 48 Comments

I spoke about Eliot Spitzer in therapy yesterday. It was a weird conversation with Brenda. Usually, I walk into the office and we fiddle about until we fall into some sort of topic. Yesterday, I sat down and immediately said, “I think we should talk about sex today. Isn’t that what we are SUPPOSED to do in therapy?”

The conversation turned to the news about the governor of New York because, well, frankly, I’ve never been with a high class hooker. Or a moderately-price prostitute. Or cheated on my wife. Or even been to a Hooters. And THAT was on my mind.

Now before my female readers go, “Wow, what a wonderful fella,” DON’T. Who knows what would happen if I actually became governor of New York and had the opportunity to afford some high priced hookers. I’m sure Mr. Spitzer was a nice Jewish boy at one time also. Hell, now that I see what high priced hookers make, I might want to BECOME a call, uh… boy. Writing is slave labor compared to what they make! And they get free dinner, too!

Note: The following is a bit rambling and I may disagree what I say tomorrow, but I’m just spitting it out anyway.

Yesterday, on Twitter, I noticed some discussion about Eliot Spitzer. A woman was describing him in negative terms. She was saying that he was arrogant. She also made mentioned that a lot of high powered men feel the need to have sex on the side. After all, he wouldn’t be governor if he didn’t have big cojones. She was mocking him, but I have to admit, that to a guy like me, her negative portrayal almost made him sound cool, as if this super-powerful guy just has so much sperm building up in him that it had to go somewhere. Like he was a nerdy Superfly. Remember when I once wrote a post about some spam I got about some pill that could increase the amount of your semen so you could flood the entire neighborhood with your “seed” and impress your neighbors, as well as fertilize their lawn? Men are into that sort of stuff. I could even hear some guys talking about Spitzer in the locker room. “I bet you his wife wasn’t giving him enough p***y!” Even Spitzer himself only apologized to his wife for embarrassing her. He is more ashamed of getting caught than breaking his marriage vow. He probably thought it was a healthy release. Hey, he is a powerful man with powerful needs.

I’m no saint. And I don’t moralize. I enjoyed seeing your bras on my birthday. But, all in all, my sexual adventures are pretty tame. I pretty much went from hopeless nerd to being married. Why she married me is still a mystery. I never really had wild and crazy days, so that’s dangerous. Take that as a warning. Maybe I should go to a prostitute someday, just to see if I can do it. Almost like sex therapy. The idea of sleeping with some complete stranger that I’m paying for freaks me out and seems totally unappealing. But maybe it is good for a man to be able to just take some woman and be selfish about it. I bet you never get performance anxiety. You can come fast. You can come slow. She doesn’t have to have an orgasm. You can have sex standing on your head. You are paying for it! It’s sort of like going to therapy… but more interactive!

I am totally FOR legal prostitution. I feel that hookers are here to stay — who can refute thousands of years of history — so why not make it safe and get some tax dollars. Maybe we can let the Native-Americans run the prostitution rings? They do a pretty good job with the casinos. But don’t expect to see me with a prostitute soon. Not for any moral reasons. I just don’t think my personality fits the bill. And, in a way, that bothers me. Shouldn’t a man’s c**k go up just because a naked woman is in the room with him? I know… I know, it doesn’t work that way. But maybe I would be the governor of New York if I was more that type of personality.

I’m sure some of you have cheated on your spouses. In fact, I have spoken to a blogger who has cheated on her husband with a married man. Again, I don’t moralize. The woman was having some problems at home, and this was an outlet.

“How do you feel about the other wife?” I asked.

“Well, not too bad. She wasn’t satisfying him,” she answered.

It was another case of a man who just needed a lot of f**king — so what could he do?! He had no choice! It almost seemed to be part of his appeal!

Over the course of my life, whenever I wasn’t getting enough, I usually turned… well, myself.

My Penis: “Do we really have to talk about this…”

I’m just saying, as a dramatist, those exploits aren’t very dramatic. They are almost uncomfortable to talk about. I don’t go to my friends in the bar and say, “Hey Brad, John — you won’t believe how good my masturbation went this morning!”

But, they sure would be all ears if I told them that I just “did” a beautiful $3500 high-class hooker. Or I had an affair with the buxom brunette from the office.

OK, I’m going to stop this post now. Maybe I’ll finish it later. I’m losing my train of thought. Eliot Spitzer is probably resigning as I’m writing this. I’m sure there are thousands of blogs talking about him right now. I bet you that this is the only blog on Technorati that uses Elliot Spitzer as a segue into talking about masturbation.

Eh, this isn’t really about masturbation. It is about being a man and what his sexuality is all about. And how I somehow associate power and money and creative talent with the need to f**k a lot. Can you think of Picasso painting without visualizing him f**king all the time?

Tags: Eliot Spitzer, male sexuality, therapy

A Sh***y Post

March 12, 2008 / / 54 Comments

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.

Oprah’s Big Give

March 10, 2008 / / 35 Comments

oprah2.jpg

I watched this show on Sunday:  Oprah’s Big Give.   The very concept of the show made me uncomfortable:  An Amazing Race reality show where contestants compete by seeing who can give away the most stuff to poor, miserable, and disabled individuals in need.  It is a bizarre meshing of Oprah’s “My Favorite Things,” “Extreme Makeover Home Edition,” and “The Grapes of Wrath.”

Good Samaritan:   “Mr. CEO, I want to thank you so much for your generous donation.  This money will go a long way for opening a school for homeless children who lisp, and for hiring the finest in speech pathologists.”

CEO:  “Hold on, hold on.  Let’s wait until the cameraman shows up.”

Good Samaritan:  “What cameraman?”

CEO:  “Isn’t this donation for Oprah’s Big Give?  Aren’t you a contestant on the show?”

Good Samaritan:  “No, I told you on the phone I wanted to ask you for a donation for a school for homeless children who lisp.”

CEO:  “You’re doing this on your own?”

Good Samaritan:  “When I was younger, I lisped, and well, kids laughed…”

CEO:   “You mean you just called up and I let you in — and you have nothing to do with Oprah?”

Good Samaritan:  “Well, I saw how generous you were on her show last night and –“ 

CEO:  “Get the f**k out of here!  I don’t just let anyone walk into my office.  I thought this was another donation for Oprah’s show.  I thought this was going to be on TV.”

Good Samaritan:  “Oh, I’m sorry.  But what about the donation?”

CEO:  “Give me that check back.  You’re an idiot.  Why are you collecting money for charity for NOTHING when you can be doing it on Oprah’s show and winning a million dollars!”

Good Samaritan:  “A million dollars!?”

CEO:  “My father always said, “Charity begins at home.””

Good Samaritan:  “Hell, yeah.  Can I borrow your computer for a second.  Let me sign on at Oprah.com.  I’ll come back here next time with Oprah’s camera crew.”

CEO:  “Now we’re talking charity!”

How I Learned to Love Body Scrub

March 9, 2008 / / 51 Comments

shower2.jpg 

It’s not easy being a modern man.    You try to be a good male feminist by promoting a woman candidate to be the first female President, until all the women you know start telling you that it is the MALE candidate who is better at understanding the needs of American women.   What next?  A male speaker at BlogHer?!

And then, if I ask for photos of female bloggers’ bras for my birthday, I’m a sleazy, typical male.   But if I profess my love for ABBA, I get emails like this one, a list of the “50 Gayest Songs Of All Time” —

20. Dolly Parton “9 to 5”
19. Coming Out Crew “Free, Gay And Happy”
18. Village People “In The Navy”
17. Frankie Goes To Hollywood “Relax”
16. Village People “Macho Man”
15. Judy Garland “Over The Rainbow”
14. Bronski Beat “Smalltown Boy”
13. Diana Ross “I’m Coming Out”
12. Cher “Believe”
11. Gloria Gaynor “I Am What I Am”
10. Alicia Bridges “I Love The Nightlife”
9. Madonna “Vogue”
8. Olivia Netwon-John “Xanadu”
7. Kylie Minogue “Better The Devil You Know”
6. Pet Shop Boys “Go West”
5. Kylie Minogue “Your Disco Needs You”
4. The Weathergirls “It’s Raining Men”
3. Gloria Gaynor “I Will Survive”
2. Village People “YMCA”
1. ABBA “Dancing Queen”

Now, I actually like ALL of those songs (other than #19, which doesn’t sound familiar to me), but so what!

This was not the first questioning of my sexual orientation this week. 

On my birthday, Sophia gave me the best present she could have given me – she was super-nice to me.  Although things haven’t really changed between us — I’m still moving out — at least we don’t have to glare at each other as we pass each other in the morning.  I give her a lot of credit for making things better. 

I always complain on Valentine’s Day that the woman gets flowers, while the guy nothing, so I was surprised when Sophia brought me flowers for my birthday.  How thoughtful.  I know it is corny for me to ask for flowers, and sort of ABBA-ish, but I appreciated the special gesture. 

Later, I told Sophia about this old Italian restaurant nearby that a friend recommended, so we went there for dinner.  Wow, was it a bad choice.  It was the worst food either of us ever had.  Open since 1945, the restaurant’s menu only had two items — spaghetti and lasagna, and each was awful — soggy pasta and ketchup-tasting tomato sauce.  The patrons seemed to have been bused in from a convalescent home.  Normally, a bad restaurant choice on my part puts Sophia in a bad mood, but this establishment was so lousy, that it was quite amusing.  When our hapless waiter asked us if we would like to have bibs with our spaghetti, we both laughed out loud.  It was that type of place.  Sometimes bad experiences turn out memorable.

On the way home, I called my friend and asked him how in the world he could RECOMMEND this place.   I told him how much Sophia hated it. 

“Dude,” said my friend, being one of those guys who says “Dude.” “This is totally your fault.  I said this is a place where WE should go.  You don’t bring a girl there.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” I asked.  “And why would I want to go there even without Sophia?  It’s terrible.”

“Yeah, I know it sucks.  But they have cheap beer.  And it isn’t fancy.  You know, it is a place to go with the guys.  Like having a chilburger at Tommy’s.” 

The last time we met, we had a chiliburger at Tommy’s.

“So you think that when I’m with Sophia, I go to a nice place with good food, but when I’m on my own, I just go to Tommy’s for a chiliburger?” 

“Sure, don’t you?” he asked.

“No, I actually don’t like eating crap either.  I like good food.”

“I can’t stand those fake Beverly Hills Italian restaurants where they give you little portions and put pesto sauce on your pasta.  That is so gay.”

“I like pesto sauce,” I stated.

Silence.

Why do some men still use that “gay” term to describe something they think is “unmanly?”  And is pesto sauce really that unmanly?

Anyway, back to the body scrub.

Now that Sophia and I reached a detente in the house, we decided to get our lives a bit back in order before I start my apartment searching.  The house was in a serious mess.  Neither of us had done the dishes in days.  The patio, once a haven of beauty, was in a state of disarray again.  I threw some of the old pots and scrubbed some of mud away.  Skanky water filled some hanging pots without the proper filtration.  I emptied them out, holding my nose, hoping not to catch malaria.

While I dealt with the patio, Sophia met with the cable guy, who had come over for the third time this week, trying to fix the spotty TV connection. 

After helping outside, all I could think about was… a shower.  I felt utterly disgusting, with all this mud all over me.  I went into the bathroom upstairs, undressed, and turned on the water in the shower.  Now, I love showers, for a whole number of reasons.  They are relaxing.  I can think.  I can sing.  I can dance.  Who doesn’t love a shower?  But today, it was all utilitarian.  I wanted the dirt off.   But there was no soap!

I jumped out of the shower, soaking wet, ready to grab the soap that is usually by the sink.  But it was another casualty to our in-house tensions during the last few weeks.  No one had put out any new soap.  I was about to open the bathroom door and run to the other bathroom for soap, when I heard the cable guy working on the TV in the next room.  I jumped back into the shower. 

That is when I discovered Sophia’s “body scrub” sitting on top of the railing, next to the shampoo and conditioner. 

I had seen it there a hundred times before, but like a workaholic who never stops to smell the flowers, I had never thought to actually try something called a body scrub.

The liquid was grainy and reminded me of the texture of some long-forgotten acne medicine.  Unlike that teenage elixir, this liquid was fragrant, making me feel as if I was running naked through a grove of wild apples.  I put the body scrub all over me — my back, my feet, my face — and scrubbed away.  When I was all done, I had never felt cleaner or more refreshed. 

Body scrub, I don’t care if you are in the same category as ABBA and pesto — you have won me over!   If YOU are considered gay to enjoy… well, then I am proud to march in your parade.

A Birthday Chick-Lit Tale: The Royal Bra

March 6, 2008 / / 74 Comments

bra21.jpg

Thanks for all the cool photos! I know that this is going to sound sappy, but I can’t think of a BETTER birthday present than having you come to this site and actually READ the nonsense I write. So, thanks.

I have no idea where this is going, or if I’ll ever finish it, but just knowing you’re reading it makes me laugh —

The Royal Bra by Neil Kramer

Chapter One

“I can’t believe I’m actually here,” Sarah said, pinching her own arm. “Me, lil’ Sarah Rothberg, here in Manhattan at the British Consulate at an exclusive party for the Royal Family.”

She closed her eyes thinking it all a dream, but when she reopened them, the amazing reality had not disappeared. The whole night had been a whirlwind for Sarah, from the moment she entered the British Consulate. What glamour and elegance! And so far from her typical dorky life of a Brooklyn-born working drone/editorial assistant for Science Interest Magazine.

Sarah knew she was out of her element from the moment she was announced at the door, and saw all the well-dressed guests and the lush 19th Century interior. She immediately ran to get a glass of champagne to calm her nerves. And then another. And then a third. Since when did she become such a lush? She knew she was getting a bit tipsy after that third glass of champagne.

“Sure,” she rationalized, “I was hoping to become a little more comfortable and social by having a few drinks — it is a party after all — but how in the world did I end up in the second floor “library” making out in the darkness with a virtual stranger? I’m a good girl. Sarah Rothberg doesn’t do one night stands.”

Although she couldn’t make out the books on the shelves, she was sure that Jane Austen was there, watching her.

“Would she scold me for being so brazen, or would she say “You go, girl!?”” Sarah wondered, giggling to herself.

Maybe tonight will be the night.

Sarah’s mind drifted back to the man on the sofa who was kissing her so passionately. And what a kisser he was! If this is wrong to do, let it be.

“No jury would ever convict me, ” she thought. “I would tell them about his lips, the way his hands tenderly feel my body. Oh, he’s good. Real good. Not guilty. By reason of insatiable.”

Sarah’s impure thoughts were just getting good when they were rudely interrupted by the alarm blasting from her iPhone.

“Oh no, I have to go,” screamed Sarah, gathering up her clothes and running out the library door.

“But wait…” said a deep male voice. “Don’t go. I don’t even know…”

But Sarah was already halfway down the stairs. She was feeling dizzy. The champagne. The man. The emotions. She had to stay focused. She had to leave the Consulate before the stroke of midnight, when her Guy Larouche sapphire-blue gown would dissolve back into a pair of Levis.

It’s what the fairy godmother told her.

Back in the library, His High Royal Highness Prince Robert of Cornwall flicked the light to the library, revealing a shirtless man with the toned chest of a sportsman. Rushing to the window, he hoped to still catch a glimpse of the woman he has just met, but he only saw her for a second, until she disappeared into the New York dark.

“Please come, back.” he whispered to the night air. “I don’t even know your name.”

In all his years, Prince Robert had met many women — specimens of the gender who were thought to be his “equal” — beauties with exquisite taste, proper upbringing, well-travelled, pencil-thin daughters of billionaires who knew how to place a baccarat bet in Monte Carlo or what wine to order at Alain Ducasse in Paris. But never has he met a woman like the women he just kissed. What passion. He could still taste her on his lips and feel her skin next to hers. Had she even known that he was the Prince? Did it matter? The more he thought about her, the more he could feel the Mountbatten of his loins saluting at full attention. Hail Brittania!

He must find her. But how? If only he had some sort of clue, some information that can lead him to the woman… the one who he must make the Princess!

And then he saw it. The clue. Hanging on the edge of the sofa, was… her bra. He remembered how he gently unclasped the back of the bra and it fell down, away from her, like falling leaves during Autumn in Hyde Park.

Prince Robert walked over to the hanging bra, savoring the feel of the material, remembering how her breasts responded to his caresses. It was a purple bra. He read the label. It was from a company that he had never heard of mentioned in his social circles, where bras are usually tailor-made in France.

“Playtex Cross Your Heart,” he read out loud to himself. He took it as a sign from God. “I DO cross my heart that I will find you.”

Prince Robert dressed and went downstairs. He saw his father, the King of England, deeply in conversation with his friend, the new President of the United States, President Obama.

The King waved Prince Robert over.

“President Obama, this is my son, Prince Robert.”

But Prince Robert was not in any mood for pleasantries or chit-chats. He had something more important on his mind.

“President Obama, I know we have just met. But I have something very important to ask you that will play a significant role in Anglo-American relations. I need your help.”

Then, in one strong, swift, upward gesture, Prince Robert lifted up the purple bra for all to see.

“We need to find the American woman who fits perfectly into this bra!”

Within hours, there was a frenzy in the media, both on TV and in the blogosphere. Twitters were being sent all across the world, spreading the news. New York was in an uproar. The New York Post was the first to announce an open call with their headline:

“Prince Robert to New York: BRA-VA!”

“An open call will be held tomorrow afternoon at Madison Square Garden. Women will be expected to try on a specifically-sized bra. Only one woman will fit perfectly in the bra.”

By morning, there was chaos. Women of all shapes and sizes lined up outside Macy’s on 34th Street and little by little, the line grew. And grew. The line snaked it’s way uptown, past Central Park, past the Upper West Side, past Harlem, and into the Bronx. Many of the women, knowing that they were going to try on a bra once they reached the Garden, made a point of just wearing a bra in the street — hopefully catching the attention of the Prince before they even got to the Garden. Some women dispensed with bras completely, going topless, thinking the Prince would appreciate their resourcefulness. And besides, it was a beautiful day.

It was a sight never seen before in New York, and probably never again. Thousands and thousands of women of every religion and color, shape and size, standing in line, the fresh air hitting their exposed bras and breasts. For once, women found themselves free to talk about their breasts in public. Some talked about breast-feeding. Buxom women were supportive of women with A-cups, saying how athletic they looked. Flat-chested women spoke of their envy of full-breasted women. Big-breasted women complained about back pain. Women started taking donations for breast cancer research, and gave each other bra-buying advice. Some women wore special, elaborately-decorated bras for the occasion, and New York’s artistic community came out in force, with female artists constructing their own bras out of unique materials, such as felt and tin cans.

For men, it was a major holiday — a day every male New Yorker will remember in happiness for the rest of his life, much like VJ Day, or the Mets winning the World Series. Throughout the city, women were walking around, taking the buses, eating hot dogs — just wearing their bras. By afternoon, men began to even see it as normal and just enjoyed the view, without making such a big deal over what God gave women.

Of course, for many men, it was overwhelming. Ronald Boxner, age 78, had a massive heart attack and was rushed to Mount Sinai Hospital. As he was being rushed by ambulance, he knew his time on this Earth was up. He asked the emergency worker if he help him lift his head, so he could just watch the women with bras walking in the city.

“Of course,” said the EMT.

Ronald Boxner died a few moments later. His final word were, “This is the happiest day of my life.”

Of course, this outpouring of women into midtown Manhattan was not all for noble reasons. For many women, this was all about MONEY and POWER. They were there to snag a rich husband. These golddiggers would never truly love Prince Robert.

Sadly, New York City is filled with these golddiggers. Like Shirley and Jackie.

Shirley and Jackie have always been on the prowl for men. They also have no respect for the male gender, thinking them as horny dumb creatures, who are only after sex. Shirley and Jackie use whatever it takes to nab a wealthy man. Both are owners of the latest in breast enhancements, created by — and they would be proud to tell you this — the older brother of the doctor who worked on Pamela Anderson’s boobs in Los Angeles. This is not the first time that they have had surgery on their breasts, or their lips, or the thighs.

“There’s no way I’m gonna be stuck with a loser guy from Brooklyn.” is Shirley’s motto. “If wealthy guys like big tits, that’s what I’m gonna give them.”

It was a typical evening at home, when Shirley and Jackie heard the news about the Prince. They were in the middle of their daily “Wheel of Fortune” showing, when Eyewitness News broke in with the news the purple bra and the big event at Madison Square Garden sponsored by the Royal Family.

The newscaster showed a photo of the bra.

“From all accounts, the “Royal” bra is a 34B.”

“Hell, I CAN fit my DDs in that, if I really squeeze them tight.” announced Jackie.

“Not if I get on line first,” said Shirley.

Jackie and Shirley adjusted their huge breasts and rushed to the door, each hoping to get on line first, passing their youngest sister, Sarah, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor with Ajax.

“You stay here and keep cleaning, pancake chest.” said Jackie to Sarah. “We have important business to attend to.”

As Jackie and Shirley slammed the door behind them, a tear fell from Sarah’s eye onto the already perfectly clean kitchen floor.

Sarah IS the owner of the purple bra.

(to be continued or not, depending on my mood)

Clinton or Obama?

March 5, 2008 / / 58 Comments

election1.jpg 

In all my years of following politics, I don’t recall a Democratic race being so close and and so embittered as the current race between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama.  Like in a Hollywood movie, these are two allies torn apart by the intensity of the political process.   Democrats usually rally behind a candidate by March.  Events are different this year.  Tensions are high as friends and families draw the lines in the sand — Clinton or Obama.  The Democratic Party has been splintered.  Liberals, progressives, men, women — these “categories” are now useless, as each demographic divides itself into smaller and smaller sub-groups.  Blacks, whites, Jews, union members — no one votes as a single bloc anymore.  Candidates and pollsters alike are scrambling to decipher what Democrats want and who to appeal to in this important election.

As of today, here is what the Democratic landscape looks like, according to the most recent polling:

Women over 50 who lived through the feminist movement:  Clinton

Women under 40 who know more about their vibrators than the feminist movement:  Obama

Voters who want change:  Obama

Voters who want change, but not as much as the other voters:  Clinton

Women who make over 100k — Clinton

Women who make over 100K but are divorced from a randy husband who was getting oral sex from his “intern” — Obama

Blacks who think Obama is too “white”  — Obama

Blacks who think Obama is too “black” — Obama

Blacks who owe favors to the Clintons — Clinton

Guilty Liberal Jews who say they love “rap music” just to look cool — Obama

Religious Jews who think Obama will nickname the White House the “First Mosque” — Clinton

Small Town Americans who have never met a black person, but feel comfortable with them  — Obama

Small Town Americans who have never met a black person, but still don’t like them — Clinton

Small Town Americans who have never met a black person, but still don’t like them, but have heard Clinton speaking on the TV — Obama

Misogynists — Obama

Racists — Clinton

Misogynists and Racists –  McCain

Misogynists and Racists who hate McCain – Clinton, because at least she doesn’t seem like a typical dame

Academics in Universities — Obama

Academics in Universities with Tenure — Ralph Nader (what do they care?!  They have a job!)

Asian male models who look gay, but aren’t — Obama

Women who buy Anne Taylor suits at the outlet mall — Clinton

Men who show their private parts on MySpace — Clinton

Men who go online and ask for photos of women in bras — Obama

Crest users — Obama

Colgate users — Clinton

Those who make love to Neil Diamond — Obama

Those who make love to Nine Inch Nails — Clinton

Those who know that Hillary Clinton and Hilary Duff spell their first name differently — Obama

Those who say, “Who’s Hillary Duff?” — Clinton

It is clear that this race is going down to the wire!

Happiness Project, Day 5 — Depending on Yourself

March 5, 2008 / / 44 Comments

It is 2 AM, and I just woke up with, my thoughts urging me to rush to the computer and write this down. It’s as if therapy has finally knocked its way into my brain.

Here’s the thought. It may seem obvious to you, but I’m a slow learner:

Things are always going to fail if you’re always looking for someone or something else to make you happy.

Sure, the perfect relationship can help you be happy. Sure, getting a few photos of bras in the mail for your birthday will put a smile on your face. But when it comes down to it, you need to depend on yourself for your own happiness. Even finding Beyonce in your bed tomorrow morning is not going to change that, although it will go a long way in helping.

I can’t become dependent on bloggers for my happiness on my birthday, any more than I can put all my money on a spouse or significant other. Too much pressure all around. I’d love for you to say hello to me on my birthday, but I need to take care of myself, not depend on you to give it to me. It’s nice to get attention, but you shouldn’t need it. This is how I’m going to make this birthday as significant as my last birthday. I’m going to use all this therapy I’ve had, and be less neurotic this year.

I know this post has WTF written all over it. Feel free to mock the self-importance. I certainly would do that if YOU wrote it. That’s the one big danger of therapy. You begin to take this crap a little too seriously.

After the bra incident, I came up with a short list of things that made me happy, and asked you to send me photos of them. I’m sure some of you will. But, honestly, why wait? And why feel bad if NO ONE did. I can just as easily get the photos myself and enjoy them the same.

bra2.jpg
Bras

bagels2.jpg
Bagels

pizza2.jpg
Pizza

ny2.jpg
NYC Street Scenes

abba2.jpg
ABBA

dickens2.jpg
Books by Charles Dickens

belt2.jpg
Cool Men’s Belts

That wasn’t so hard, was it? I didn’t have to wait for my mother, my wife, or random bloggers to give it to me.

I did it myself.

Reader survey:

A) I love the new Neil. He’s so insightful.

B) He’s still completely dependent on anyone who smells nice. It’s all Bulls**t.

C) I have no idea what this post is about.

D) Bring back his Penis!

Third Post of the Day About the Bras

March 4, 2008 / / 18 Comments

As some of you may notice, my last two posts have mysteriously disappeared.

(I just put them back. Some of you took the time to comment and it seems rude to take the posts down now)

In case you are just tuning into this channel, it is my birthday on Friday and I took it upon myself to ask some unusual requests, like asking for photos of your bras, not necessarily on you, or retro photos of bra advertisements.

But maybe it isn’t appropriate right now for my to be living my fantasy life so thoroughly online, considering my unsteady situation at home. I don’t want to look like a jerk or make you feel uncomfortable about Sophia, some of you who know her. The truth is — I was feeling needy at the time, the way most of us do before our birthday.

Another issue: maybe it isn’t very classy to ASK you for any photos. I don’t want to make anyone feel obligated, as if I would actually treat you any better because of it.

I guess I just want that same feeling of wow-ness, love, and affection that I felt last year on my birthday, when Sophia and Danny helped set up that amazing birthday for me, and so many of you were involved. There’s really no way to top that, even with bras.

I still look at the artwork I received, most of it near or over my desk. I still wear the t-shirts that tout your cities across the country. I don’t want to lie to Elisabeth, though. I’m still on book 1 of the Proust series that she send me. I’ll make it through the rest of the series, I promise… some day. Or at least see the movie.

For now, a happy birthday email or comment on Friday is more than enough for me.

When I move out, and feel lonely — then the bra photos will be MORE THAN WELCOME.

I know this whole thing is probably coming off as incredibly self-absorbed, but think of it as an insight into the modern urban male’s psyche and you’ll feel better about it.

I hope you enjoyed today’s “Bra Trilogy.”

Therapy 03/04/08

March 4, 2008 / / 17 Comments

I just came out of therapy. This is how it went with my therapist, Brenda.

Therapist: Hi, Neil.

Neil: Hello, Brenda.

Therapist: How are you doing?

Neil: I want to show you something on the computer. My blog post today. I wrote it last night.

We both sit by her desktop.

Neil: Friday is my birthday.

Therapist: Happy early birthday.

Neil: This is sort of embarrassing, but I asked readers to send in photos of their bras.

Therapist: I’m reading that.

Neil: Now, I’m thinking the whole thing is just crazy. Why would I ask for women’s bras?

Therapist: Why do you think?

Neil: Maybe I’m just feeling horny and lonely now that I’m moving out soon.

Therapist: Then you wouldn’t just ask for bras hanging on towel racks, would you? It probably is deeper than that.

Neil: Well, what else could it be?

Therapist: Maybe the bra represents… women… blah blah… nurturing… we all… blah blah… need love… you are a man… blah blah… sexuality important… need comfort… mother… and breasts… blah blah…

Neil: Hmmm… if I asked you to show me your bra, would you do it?

Therapist: Sure.

Brenda lifts up her blouse to show me her frilly pink bra.

Neil: Thanks, Brenda.

Therapist: Anytime, Neil. But time’s up!

5) ABBA

6) Books by Charles Dickens

7) Cool Men’s Belts

Happiness Project, Day Four: Send in the Bras

March 4, 2008 / / 35 Comments

bra2.gif
The Official “Bras for Happiness” badge

Neil: Hey, Penis, you want to come out and play?

Neil’s Penis: Nah, I’m depressed.

Neil: Wow, I never heard you say that before. I thought you NEVER got depressed.

Neil’s Penis: Well, you’ve finally done it, haven’t you? Proud? Now, I just want to sit around and watch American Idol.

Neil: I’m sorry. I guess I know how you feel. It’s because…

Neil’s Penis: Yes… and also…

Neil: …it’s our birthday on Friday…

Neil’s Penis: Woo-hoo, big deal.

Neil: You’re always so sarcastic, Penis. You don’t really mean that. We can still celebrate together.

Neil’s Penis: Celebrate what?! You have to admit this year’s birthday is gonna be a downer. Last year, Sophia arranged for our greatest birthday we ever had, thanks to all of those bloggers. This year, with Sophia and you…

Neil: Well, maybe other bloggers can come through again, cheering us up. They always do. Remember when we missed Fall, they emailed us photos of the foliage from the East Coast. And when we were lonely with Sophia away, they shared photos of their beds with us.

Neil’s Penis: Yeah, they are a special group. But now we’re at a low point. I can’t imagine anything they could give us that would be the pick-me-up we need.

Neil: I can. Remember when when we were teenagers, and we used to wait for the mail to come, so we could see the Macy’s circular, just so we can look at the bra ads.

Neil’s Penis: Of course, that’s one of my fondest memories.

Neil: Bras! The Magic of Bras can save the day.

Neil’s Penis: Bras? What do you mean?

Neil: Imagine if bloggers email us birthday photos of women in bras — retro Maindenform ads, Victoria Secret models — or even the most special gift of all — a photo of a female blogger’s OWN BRA. She doesn’t have to be wearing her bra. Her bra can be hanging in the shower or on the kitchen chair, or just sitting next to the dog on the bed. But it would be HER BRA — and I would know it!

Neil’s Penis: Brilliant, Neilochka. I think it might just work!

(I will be posting these photos, so if you actually email me a photo of YOUR BRA for my birthday and just want to keep it, uh, private… please tell me so. Otherwise, just send me a photo of a woman in a bra — any age, any race, any shape!)

(Why do I have the feeling like this post is going to get me booted out of BlogHer?)

(If I said this post was sponsored by Bali and was using this as a way to monetize my blog rather than just being a horny guy exploiting his birthday for selfish purposes, would that sound better?)

Send in those bras! My birthday is Friday. Neilochka at yahoo dot com.

Update: You can now email me photos of things other than bras.

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2025 Citizen of the Month

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑

Social media & sharing icons powered by UltimatelySocial