Wednesday, September 29, 2004
But I had a jack and coke as opposed to a jack and diet coke, thus I am riding high on a wave of mutilation. No! I mean a wave of caffeine. Cease to resist, giving my goodbye. Drive my car into the ocean. You think I'm dead, but I sail away. On a wave of Coca Cola Classic.
My lovely officemate Kelly and I were watching Ren perform backflips in his barn to let off steam, and we were quite bothered by the way the Lori Singer character refers to her father, the stern dance-hating preacherman played by John Lithgow, as "Daddy."
There's something phenomenally offputting about 16-year-old girls, ladies (if you will), who still call their father "Daddy." I suppose the immediate connotation is the sexual-conquest question (conquestion?) of "Who's your Daddy?" which is an expression that has always seemed vaguely icky no matter the circumstance. Because when a man fucks a woman, does he really want her to reply, "You! You're my daddy! Now buy me a pony!"
Beyond that, the reciprocal situation just doesn't happen: if you knew a sixteen year old boy who called his mother "Mommy," wouldn't you be concerned?
Like, the other characters in the Reverend Shaw Moore universe don't think it's weird that Ariel's all "Goodnight, Daddy." "All right, Daddy." "My Daddy hates me in these red boots." But if Ariel went over to Ren's house and he was all, "Okay, Mommy," she'd probably be all weirded out, and she'd run straight over to Sarah Jessica Parker during-her-gawky-phase and say, "That McCormick guy is really weird, he called his mom 'Mommy!'" And then S.J.P. would be all, "Eeeeew, gross, that's icky, but i've gotta go meet Helen Hunt for a choreography rehearsal."
Monday, September 27, 2004
Sunday, September 26, 2004
I know, I know, you've been seriously bummin', longing passionately for the dog days of summer 04, waaaaay back in July when you could see a new episode of A2Z every Tuesday night. Lust no longer -- rock A2Z Will Smith (the last episode to air) this Tuesday, it airs, like every other hour or so: 1:30pm, 5:30 pm, 8:30pm, 11pm, 3:30am, etc.
In other news, stay tuned because I'm on two new VH1 shows that don't have airdates yet.
And, to those of you who are asking, that is indeed my voice on those Fuse promos. Shhhh.
So I was watching that Greenskeepers video thing? And, Dig: James Gumb is Hedwig! Hedwig is Buffalo Bill! Einhorn is Finkel!
I don't know who these Greenskeepers are, but I seriously want to make out with them.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
The "To A Bush?" Revolution
While we're rocking the Bloom County, let me share something from my mindheadworld. Oftimes, I say something and nobody responds. Inside my mindheadworld, I quip to myself, "To a Bush?"
It comes from the strip, which is included in a book called "Toons for Our Times," which is a Bloom County compendium that my aunt and uncle gave to my mom and dad in 1984. I read it religiously as a child.
It's really easy for to slip into a rant. And in just those moments, when I can't help it and I'm just blathering on, I like to think that at least the bush is listening. And sometimes, just thinking that the bush is listening makes me feel like it's a-okay to rant away about everything that makes me mad.
Now, we all know the Bush isn't listening, not to common sense, not to reason, not to basic human rights. So, I hearby initiate the To A Bush Revolution: We, the undersigned, hereby pledge to rant freely and frequently about all the shit that makes us mad, and we will imagine that both a bush and Bush are listening, and eventually if we rant hard enough, perhaps someone will take notice.
Here, let me start you off:
1. You want to put a fucking Jesus freak insane person who thinks that his imaginary friend named 'god' is more powerful than science in charge of health issues and reproductive rights????????
2. All people are created equal except for gay people because they shouldn't get married?????
3. SEPARATION OF CHURCH AND FUCKING STATE. Can you stop asking your imaginary friend named 'god' to bless America?
4. PLEASE JUST FUCKING ADMIT YOU WERE WRONG AND RESIGN, YOU TURD.
It's the real McCoy.
Man, don't you love watching Dan Rather pussy himself? All this fuss over forged documents. Typewriters vs. computers. All I can think of is that Bloom County bit. Back when Opus was running for president? So the Bloom County Meadow Party discovered Elvis's secret diaries, and sold 'em for lots of money? And Newsweek picked up the story? And then the team of experts authenticated the secret diaries?
Just like that.
K-mart had a special.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Look -- I am in all my whored-out finery. My friend Gary took me to a party at Soho House and I figured that I had to dress like a tramp. So I did. We were at a party celebrating Virgin's new bedthings on their airplanes. I believe I am sitting on one of their bedthings, but I'm at Soho House, not at an airplane. Did I mention I was at Soho House? Because I was.
Happily, my friend Cliff and I took off all our clothes and jumped into the pool atop Soho House. Yes, indeedy, I removed my cheap hooker costume and jumped into the rooftop pool in my altogether.
Why? Much like Everest. Because it was there. And because I was drunk and happy. And because I have a long history of taking my clothes off at swanky parties and jumping into rooftop pools.
My friend Josh, however, called me on it: oh, how I wanted to be Gawkerstalked. "VH1 talking head frolics naked in Soho House pool!" But, alas. I am so G-list that nobody cares. Not even when I expose my enormous aereolae to all of Manhattan. Sigh.
Monday, September 20, 2004
Saturday, September 18, 2004
The writer says it best:
"I Found Some Of Your Life
You are unknown to me.
Your camera's memory card was in a taxi; I have it now.
I am going to post one of your pictures each day.
I will also narrate as if I were you.
Maybe you will come here and reclaim this piece of your life."
Yes, friends, I am officially in love with the idea of this website. I am going to doodle its name on my notebooks and write poems about it using far-reaching metaphor and simile and other fine devices of a rhetorical nature.
Bex + "I Found Your Life" forever.
I'll even FLAMES the relationship:
Bex Schwartz + I Found Your Life
T = 1 L = 1
R = 2 O = 2
U = 2 V = 0
E = 2 E = 2
75% chance of ...
Let's see. Cross out all the letters that repeat, leaving us with the letters that appear only once:
B X S C H W A T Z N D Y L
add 'em up -- that's 13 unique letters.
Now we count 13 cycles through the word "FLAMES"
(as in, F = 1, L = 2, A = 3, M = 4, E = 5, S = 6, F = 7, L = 8, A = 9, M = 10, E = 11, M = 12, and E = 13)
Oh, fuck my cock! We have a 75% chance of being ENEMIES!
I'm going to have to fudge the data and use my full name:
Bex Beth Schwartz + I Found Your Life
T = 1 L = 1
R = 2 O = 2
U = 2 V = 0
E = 3 E = 3
86% chance of being ....
(Unique letters = X S C W A Z N D Y L. That's 10).
10 hops through FLAMES = M! M is for MARRIED!
Awwww yes. Me and I Found Your Life have an 86% chance of getting married.
And numbers don't lie, folks, numbers don't lie.
Alternative Comedy Jam
The alternative scene is buzzing with some of the best kept comedy secrets in NYC. Come down to the Sidewalk Cafe and watch as the next wave of comedy stars unleashes their comedy in this funky downtown space.
Bex Schwartz - Host
Friday, September 17, 2004
Un film du noir: (using the very rudimentary French skills left in my pot-addled brain)
Mary Kate! Mary Kate! Je suis triste. Quelle tristesse! Oh, je ne peux pas continuer.
(Mary Kate! Mary Kate! I am sad. Such sadness. Oh, I can't continue).
Tu es une foue! Moi, je suis contente. Je suis en pleine forme. Regardez-moi! Je suis contente and je suis tres tres belle.
(You are a fool! Me, I am happy. I am healthy. Look at me! I am happy and I am very very pretty.)
C'est vrai! Tu es magnifique. Mais, moi! Pauvre moi! Je suis miserable. Qu'est-ce que ta secrete?
(It's true. You're magnificent. But, me! Poor me! I am miserable. What's your secret?)
Je mange! Je mange beaucoup! Voila -- je mange les repas du bonheur! Ils me font TRES FUCKING CONTENTE! Je les mange et mange et mange.
(I eat! I eat a lot! Check it on out – I eat these Happy Meals! They make me REALLY FUCKING HAPPY. So I eat 'em and eat and eat.)
Sacre vache! Donnez-moi! Maintenant! Je voudrais d’etre contente et belle comme toi.
(Holy cow! Gimme! Now! I want to be as happy and pretty as you are.)
(enjoy your meal!)
ASHLEY: (elle mange)
Quelle joie! Ils sont YUMMYLICIOUS! Mon dieu! Oh, merci beaucoup, Mary Kate! Je suis tres tres tres contente.
(What joy! These are YUMMYLICIOUS! My god! Oh, thank you so much, Mary Kate. I am so very very happy.
La nouriture du McDonald’s – je l’aime.
(Mcdonald's food -- I love it).
Et moi, j’adore le bonheur!
(And me, I love happiness!)
Manger, c’est la meillure!
(To eat – that’s the best!)
------ fin ---------
Thursday, September 16, 2004
This is why Bob Seger is awesome:
He STILL loves that old time rock and roll.
And what about now, Bob?
Let's check in. ... .... Yup!
He STILL loves it!
And ... how about now?
And, hey, Bob, let's speak of things that matter, with words that must be said: "Can analysis by worthwhile? Is the theater really dead? And what about NOW?"
Yes, folks, he still loves that old time rock and roll.
I think I'm in love with this DJ named PJ. When Kelly Johnson abandons "Schwohnson" (Bex Schwartz + Kelly Johnson = Schwohnson) and becomes Kelly Harrison, my heart will be broken. But if PJ the DJ is there to ease the pain (by playing Journey's "Open Arms," perchance), then I know I'll be okay.
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
You might think that this is a statue commemorating the historic ironship, The Monitor, but you would surely and sorely be mistaken.
It's actually Paul Bunyan -- dig those hunky pecs? Totally Paul Bunyan, kickin' back. He's in maxo-relaxo mode. He's propped one foot against some sort of pier-thing, and he just might be doing something naughty between his legs there.
The secret about this Paul Bunyan statue is that Paul lounges atop a hollow base. The base is filled with dead babies. Because we have a voraciously hungry panda, and he needs to eat babies.
Everyone knows that pandas eat babies. GROWL ME LOOKING FOR BABY TO EAT! BABY TO EAT! BABY TO EAT! I GOTS TO GET ME SOME BABIES TO EAT! ... that's what pandas say.
I strongly suggest getting yourself an attack panda. They're so cuddly and they disembowel your enemies. And if you have no enemies, they'll totally disembowel the guy who didn't call you back.
I was talking to a friend today about life and society and stuff and I mentioned how the general collective complacency of the world makes me just want to culture jam.
When I was in college, my best friend Josh and I did some rad shit, yo.
For one, along with our friend Eric Ducker, we made this rad magazine called Grail that kicked some serious satirical/investigative ass.
But, more importantly, we fucked with shit.
We went to Wesleyan University, where everyone was a liberal. It was AWWWWESOME. But rife for fucking-with.
I will now reveal what we've only told choice people.
The frosh dining hall, Mocon, was a key place for advertising meetings and events. People would make enormous banners promoting their cause and suspend them from the ceiling so everyone could take notice.
Once, we made a banner that said, "Wesleyan's first meeting of the NRA! Friday at 8, in the campus center."
The reaction was great. People were outraged. YES!
Then we hung a banner that said, "Protest the formation of Wesleyan's first Right-to-Life group!" Because, of course, most people on campus (bless 'em) were Pro-Choice.
We actually got press on that one.
Culture jamming made us happy.
Fuck with the status quo, yo.
This starbucks-chair person? He's exactly the type of person with whom I want to hang.
I quoted this Steven Wright quote at the perma-rad Milo, but I shall repeat:
"I got into an elevator at work and this man followed in after me. I pushed '1' and he just stood there...I said, "Hi, where you going?" He said, "Phoenix." So, I pushed 'Phoenix'. A few seconds later, the doors opened, two tumbleweeds blew in...we were in downtown Phoenix. I looked at him and said, "You know, you're the kind of guy I want to hang around with."
If you want to make me fall in love with you, you can do two things:
1. Play with my hair
2. Be the type of person who gets on the elevator and goes to Phoenix.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Now, dears, I grok the visual imagery -- a hearty, healthy young woman licks her lid squeaky clean before sending it to Yoplait (one can only imagine the horrors of sending dirty yogurt lids through the US Postal Service -- crusty, smegmariffic bacteria breeding grounds of near-Anthrax-like disease-spreading proportions!). So, lick your lid clean, lick breast cancer.
How many licks does it take til you get to the center of a breast cancer?
Anyhoo. Tumor-licking aside, join the fight against breast cancer without having to involve your tongue: The Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation.
Yawn. Me. So. Sleepy. But. Brain. Is. Whirring.
And speaking of old o-foto albums! This was from this random party I went to last December. It was a themed black and white party. Who are these people with whom I seem so chummy chum chum? I have no idea. The dude on my right? It was his birthday or something. The girl on the left? She, too, was there by herself, so we bonded in existentially lonely solidarity. There was another girl at the party who told us about using Craig's list to have sex every single night. We scoffed.
Look, don't my breasts look fake? TAKE THAT, Awful Plastic Surgery website! The right bra plus the right neckline = fake-looking real breasts.
Lindsay Lohan, I'm sorry I ever doubted you.
BEST. PHOTOGRAPH. EVER. That's Louis on the left and me on the right, and we were performing the first ever production of the Bex 'n' Louis show, a jazz-hands-a-riffic production number that spontaneously ensues when we reach a mutual level of non-sobriety. Woo!
I was just browsing some old o-foto albums. This moment of danceglee occured in the first moments of 2004. Awwwwwesome.
I went to the Botanical Gardens in Brooklyn yesterday.
Eating salad in a Botanical Garden is like eating a hamburger at the petting zoo.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Oddly enough, I once wrote myself the same suggestion:
Back when I thought I had something to tell the world, I had a column in my college newspaper the final semester of my senior year. This was the first one. Note the title: "Counting the Cars on the New Jersey Turnpike."
But then I became obsessed with Woody Guthrie, and I decided to be the voice of the people. I changed the title to "This Machines Kills Fascists" [that's what good ol' Woody inscribed on the back of his gee-tar over yonder there].
Thus, in Woody=speak:
We was angered that they wanted to give us a name linkin' us to those other schools, those 'special' schools with the fancy-schmancy nicknames, so they done called us 'the independent ivy,' and, well, we was just up in arms over it. Near had a conniption fit: "Media Whores"
And then all this shit started going down all around and I thought someone needed to bring in the metaphorical deconstructive broom. Or perhaps it was a dustbuster:"Efficacy 101"
And, then the Admissions office arranged Prefrosh weekend to coincide with Uncle Duke Day, when everyone does druuuuugs, man. They had to surgically remove my tongue from its deep,deep,deep position firmly lodged in my cheek. [This was intended to be performative poetry, btw]: "Welcome, Prefrosh"
And finally ... I was going to change the world through ART. This was me once. Yeeeks. Good thing that cleared itself up.
Pretentiously Prattling on about Postmodern Performance in re: my thesis production of Einstein Dreaming
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Fred Ebb has joined the cast of that big ol' Cabaret in the sky.
Give 'em the old Razzle Dazzle, Fred. Razzle Dazzle 'em.
Operation Sibyl Buttons
Yo People -
I'd proudly sporting one of these badges. The design is just so fucking tight that I feel less icky about sloganeering (aka 'bumper sticker activism). Check it on out:
From my best friend Josh:
As a lot of you probably know, a few weeks ago some activists hung a
pretty fantastic banner on the Plaza Hotel here in New York before the
Republican convention. I thought their message deserved further
distribution, and I got the group's permission to reproduce the banner
on buttons -- see the attached image.
I'm distributing the buttons to whoever wants 'em, at $2 each. (That
just about covers my costs, by the way. I'm not doing this for profit.)
You can find get more info about the buttons, as well as the group
responsible for the original action, at:
Whether or not you're interested in the buttons, pass this on -- you'll
be helping me out.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
Chris Sauer and Ron Caswell and other real rockstars were the band Janet Vodka. I joined late-in-the-game as the character, Janet Vodka.
(With apologies to Phil Ochs)
Oh, once I was young and impulsive
I go-go danced for a rock band
Drank too many shots of tequila
And covered my breasts in Saran(tm).
But now I've grown older and wiser,
And that's why my life is so bland,
So love me, love me, love, I'm a liberal.
"(Once I was young and impulsive
I wore every conceivable pin
Even went to the socialist meetings
Learned all the old union hymns
But I've grown older and wiser
And that's why I'm turning you in
So love me, love me, love me, I'm a liberal.)"
Friday, September 10, 2004
Great Scott! Jumping Jehosophat! You've never heard of the BADLANDS DANCE? Why, gee whiz, Mr. Wilson! It's somewhat similar to the HBO Dance, formerly my fave dance of joy.
WHAT? You mean to say you don't know the HBO Dance? Such tomfoolerly! Surely you jest! It's what happens when you go see a movie at Bryant Park and they play the HBO Feature Presentation song. And you start off crouching low to the ground until those first harp gliss things, and as the music swells and builds, you gradually raise yourself up to the sky, thrusting your arms high up in the air and waving 'em around like you just don't care. As the music reaches its crescendo and climaxes, you should be orgasming joy out from your very pores.
OKAY! Now, class, you're ready for the Advanced Dance of Joy, taught to me by one of my mostly-companions, Mr. Jay Golon.
"Lights out tonight / trouble in the heartland.
Got a head-on collision smashin' in my guts, man.
I'm caught in a cross fire that I don't understand."
// feel the beat, bob your head, uncross those arms, and get ready to rumble!//
"But there's one thing I know for sure, girl --"
// sing along with Bruce! //
"I don't give a damn for the same old played out scenes
I don't give a damn For just the in betweens
Honey, I want the heart, I want the soul
I want control right now!"
"(You better listen to me, baby!)"
// get those fists ready, ready, ready, readysteady, and now GOGOGOGOGO! Pump your fist rhythmically into the sky! Feel the surging power of the inherent frustration of life in the Dirty Jerz! And thrust! Thrust! Thrust! //
"talk about a dream!
Try to make it real
you wake up in the night
With a fear so real
Spend your life waiting
for a moment that just don't come
Well, don't waste your time waiting --"
//THROW ALL CAUTION TO THE WIND AND AND BOOGIE DOWN! And shout BADLANDS at the very tippy toppymost of your ever-lovin' lungs//
you gotta live it everyday, Let the broken hearts stand
As the price you've gotta pay.
We'll keep pushin' till it's understood and these badlands start treating us good"
//Back to thrusting fists, GO!//
"Workin' in the fields till you get your back burned
Workin' 'neath the wheel, till you get your facts learned
Baby I got my facts learned real good right now"
"You better get it straight darling:"
//Scream out: "ECONOMICS ACCORDING TO THE BOSS"//
"Poor man wanna be rich, rich man wanna be king
And a king ain't satisfied till he rules everything"
//Sing along with Bruce, ya'll!//
"I wanna go out tonight, I wanna find out what I gaaaaawt"
// And THRUST. and THRUST. and THRUST. and THRUST. //
Well I believe in the love that you gave me
I believe in the love that you gave me
I believe in the faith that could save me
I believe in the hope and I pray that some day
It may raise me above these
BADLANDS (CHORUS) // Repeat chorus lyrics and choreography //
mmmmmmmm, mmmmm, mmmmmm //You best be humming or moaning or ooohing right now, bitch. //
SAXOMAPHONE SOLO! // While Clarence plays, shout out BIG MAN! BIG MAN! BIG MAN! //
mmmmm mmmmmm // This is more than just hum-moan-ooohing, you best be fucking harmonizing, yo. //
// And THRUST! And THRUST! And THRUST!//
For the ones who had a notion,
a notion deep inside
That it ain't no sin
to be glad you're alive
I wanna find one face
that ain't looking through me
I wanna find one place,
I wanna spit in the face of these badlands
For advanced dancers: Shout "BADLANDS!" every time you enter a room, a subway car, an elevator, pass through a turnstile, greet your loved ones.
Bono ain't got nuffink on Bush.
Big Ups to RX for making this. I think it's super rad. Super duper rad.
NO, you fascist fucker. Let's bloody well rock it.
What do we think, friends? Do we hearken nostalgically back to "Nightswimming?" Do we think it's too poppypop and not Murmursmurky enough? But don't those harmonies melt your cockles a little bit? Do we like that the lyrics are so overt in the mix? Ou sont les "up to par and Katie bars the kitchen-size but not me in" moments?
Just wanted to share.
I heart C.S.I. because it's all about sexy science! Each character is as sexyhot as he or she is smart! So the smarter and more scientifically-apt the CSI, the more smoking he or she is as well! AWESOME! And the girl CSIs are totally hot. And they get to wear sexytight clothes. But they're GENIUSES! And sexyhot! And each episode brings us a rockin' ass 'action sequence' in which they conduct the SEXIEST. ELECTROPHORESIS. EVER. to the tune of some hot new rockin' ass song from some synergistic CBS-and-its-media-holdings artist. It's like a sexyhot music video, but instead of R&B dude humping some skinny chick with a big ass, they're separating the fucking double felix. And if that isn't the best simile EVER, then -- bite my butt and call me Larry.
Hi, I'm Larry.
But, fo' reals, kidz! Sexy science! MORE MORE MORE!
More sexy science!
SEXY SPACE SCIENCE!!!!
Yo diggety, I'm-a write me a t-vision show about these astronauts who live on a space station where they grow hydroponic plants and conduct fission-based processed to save the Earth after we've depleted all our natural resources. AND THEY FUCK. ALL THE TIME.
(And, you little silly hillbillies, don't go waving your 'no friction in zero G' flags at me. Oh, no no no. I've got that covered. We'll put handholds on all the surfaces where they might choose to screw. So they can hold on to something stable and get some traction and hump away.)
Hump. Hump. Ribbit. Hump.
That's what a frog says!!!
And, oh wow, Sweet Jesus on a Hot Cross Bun -- a Zero G money shot would look FABULOUS!
Sexy space science! Be still my beating heart.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
I scanned page 230 from "Reveal: The Story of REM" just to show off. Nyah nyah. I wrote about this phenomenon before but I can't figure out how to link to an old post. But, for the record, I'm still a girl. And Zeek belongs to the very wonderful Jay Michaelson, not to me.
Ah, La Jolla. Land of the nude beach and the freaky-deaky Mormon temple. Man, I'm all hardcore atheistic and shiznit, but I could perhaps be persuaded to worship in Cinderella's castle. They won't let non-Mormons in, though. I guess they check for the fruity underwear -- Mormon frisk! Mormon frisk! Mormon frisk!
But, hell, I reckon that alien Moroni thing in the cave told Joseph Smith sumpin' sumpin' good -- any religion with a $30 Billion Empire can turn God into Mickey Mouse if they damn well want to.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
i have to go carefully put on clothes to go be fabulous.