Quite Possibly The Greatest Thing I have Ever seen on the Internets

Fuckmycock a million times over. I heart this so much it hurts. "Rejected" by Don Hertzfeld is fucking brilliant.

In actuality, Don Hertzfeld is fucking brilliant.

Sometimes This Shiznit Just Writes Itself

The Mary Kate and Ashley Olson Shag Collection.

smirk.

Bestest MashUp EVER!

Holy shit, this DJ Earworm guy is BRILLIANT! This "No One Takes Your Freedom" is so damn good, it blows my mind.

Last night, we went to our faverave bar (The Black Bear Lodge -- it's totally the bar that would've been in the Great Northern if they had a bar there) and shot many, many electronic elk and deer. A fabulous time was had by all.

I'm all super glam right now because I just shot pickups for what was called "Celeb Feuds 2005" and is now called something like "Awesome Celeb Beefs 05" or something like that. Speaking of my on-VH1 career, don't miss:
Tuesday, 4/5 -- Paris's Most Shocking. (sneak peek at 11am and 3pm, premiere at 10pm)

Also, check it on out: my boy John Roderick makes a cameo in the kickawesome new Decemberists video.

Squirrel and Banjo

Squirrel and Banjo, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

Oh, fuck me hard. This squirrel is playing the banjo!

If you learn about the squirrel's mommy, it all makes a lot more sense. Doesn't it? Doesn't it?

These Colors Don't Run

squirrelgroundzero, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

This squirrel had me at hunting for Osama. And look at her, pulling a Petra! Do check out her website.

I also really like the supermodel gallery. Forrest Stump -- bwa ha ha ha!

Sputter ... sputter ... widdle 'quirrel!

Sorry for the lack of bloggyness, dear hearts. I am swamped with work and planning this impending move. But I still love you all.

Pat O'Brien -- the REMIX!

Mad props to Thighs Wide Shut for posting the firstest Pat O'Brien voicemail remix. Let me shout it out again, Thighs Wide Shut is one of my most faverave sites.

Doubtless you're all way up in the Pat O'Brien heezy, but here's a recap courtesy of Defamer.
Hearts to the remix!

Season 5 of Surreal Life -- REVEALED

Breaking news from the VH1 hotline ... they've just revealed the cast for the next season of The Surreal Life:
C-listers, start your engines:

*Baseball legend or 'roid droid? I just hope all the other housemates tell him secrets and then he goes and writes a book about it -- it's JOSE CANSECO!
*The worst thing to happen to white America's perception of black women since Sherry Palmer on 24 -- it's ex-Apprentice candidate OMAROSA!
*The bitchiest world's first supermodel ever, and the winner of biggest fishlips on television, it's JANICE DICKINSON!
*Will that stop us, Pep? I doubt it! It's SANDI DENTON (aka "PEPA")
*My little heart is doing the Dance of Joy -- it's BALKI BARTOKOMOUS (aka "BRONSON PINCHOT")
*Some pretty woman from England who doesn't eat -- it's CAPRICE!
*And finally, he was the one boffing Pink and dealing with her man hipbones -- it's "Motocross Madman" COREY HART!

Oh, yes. It's seven kinda-sorta-celebrities picked to live in a house in the Hollywood Hills. See what happens when they stop being nice and start being kinda-sorta-real.

Poor, Poor Eloise

787-toon23, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

Heidy Ho, ya'll. I was away for the weekend, livin' it up rustic-stillz in a wonderful cabin in upstate NY. Miss me? I thought so. Jealous? Teehee.

My mom sent me this Eloise cartoon. My mom and I heart Eloise. I still refer to certain people as my mostly companions.

My roomie and I got a new pad! We'll be crusin' it up in mothercluckin' Chelsea. Expect many, many posts about my new house in the upcoming weeks.

And now, alas, I have a million things to do.

But please know, dear friends, that I just enjoyed the MOST AWESOME WEEKEND OF MY ENTIRE LIFE and you can just put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Can you guess what this is?

taxidermy008, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

Come on. Take a guess. Take a good long look. Really scrutinize this photo ... or perhaps I ought to say: really scrotumize this photo. Yes! Ding ding ding! It's mounted deer testicles! A steal for a mere $185! Thanks to Jeanette, at Jeanette's Taxidermy!

And, while you're there, mayhaps you'd like to turn little Fluffy into a pillow?

Note: this is a photo of a taxidermied deer scrotum mounted (heh) on a piece of wood. The piece of wood is clearly hanging on a wall somewhere. Why is there what appears to be pubic hair (deer pubic hair?) attached to the top of the plaque? We may never know.


Extra note: Thank you very much for making me feel better about myself and my monstrous thighs and football-player shoulders. Because you're all so nice, I've decided to reward you with this photo of a taxidermied deer scrotum. Awwww, shucks.

Am I THAT Fat?

So someone who calls himself the "Pissed Off Critic" wrote this in myold skool guestbook:

Bex, I've been watching you on VH1 in the past few months and I really thought you were a fat girl. I can't tell because seeing you on "Planet Bex" you seem to be height / weight proportionate. Don't get me wrong, if you are a fat girl, you may still get lucky with the Pissed Off Critic. I think it's your tits that make you look fat. I like a girl with a nice rack (and you certainly have one). Either way, don't change a thing because fat or thin, you are hot. Do you want my number? I'll be happy to take you to a buffet or something (no meat of course). Let me know

At least he knows I'm a veggie.

And, look, I know I'm no waif. I've been called 'Amazonian' and I grok, I do -- I have wide hips and really broad shoulders. In the Old World, I would've made a fine wife because I have that typical child-bearin' body. My dad's 6'2" with linebacker shoulders and I inherited my mom's dimples and my dad's shoulders. So sue me. I go to the gym a lot, but, heck, I'm a big girl. But do I look fat? FOR REALS? I trust you, honest readers, to tell me if it's time to really commit to double-extra cardio, because I will. Now I'm all sorts of freaked out and my self-image is crumbling rapidly. TELL ME THE TRUTH, o' Oracles of blog-reading!

People, Let Me Show You How to MOVE THIS

Hi, tigers. My beloved roommate and I are fixin' to move into a new 2bedroom apartment in NYC. We have a beautiful and spacious apartment in Greenpoint right now, but we're really far away from the subway. We'd like to live closer to the subway so that
a) I can wear high heeled shoes and be able to walk to the subway without falling over in utter agony
b) we can get into Manhattan in less than 50 minutes
c) during the winter, we don't have to walk 25 minutes home from the Ltrain at 2 in the morning when there are bad people (like rapists) lurking in the snowdrifts
and the most important reason of all
d) so that people will come visit us and play with us.

We're thinking we want to move right near the Lorimer station on the L. But we're open to suggestions. We like space, and lots of it. And we have two lovely kitties. And we won't live on the Upper East Side because we are so totally not homogeneric. And we won't live on the Upper West Side because I growed up all Jewish and I don't want to be surrounded by that sort of lifestyle because it will make me have all sorts of identity confusion. But we both work in Times Square, so we're open to all sorts of transportational options.

Hook a sister up, yo. 3...2...1...contact me if you know of the GREATEST 2 BEDROOM in NYC EVER!

(please disregard this post if you don't live here)
(especially please disregard this post if you live outside of the city and you have a ginormous house and you're sitting there quietly smirking right now).

Some Australian Wants to Know About "Girls Bring You to Orgasm Tied to Pole Holding Your Penis"

So I have this sitemeter thing (it's that little rainbow square at the bottom-right of my blog) and it tells me how many people visit my site (SO MANY!) and what sites refer them to my little piece of the blogosphere. And, apparently, someone in Australia got to my bloggy mcblog by googling "girls bring you to orgasm tied to pole while holding your penis." Kelly and I are quite perturbed by this referral -- not just because I have never EVER written about girls bringing you to orgasm tied to pole while holding your penis" but because we have NO IDEA what the fuck that means. Are you tied to a pole, or are the girls tied to to a pole? Do the girls bring you to orgasm while you're tied to the pole and holding your own penis, or are they holding your penis while you're (or they're) tied to the pole? and how are you (or they) tied to the pole? bosun's knots? a sailor's hitch? the bunny goes around the tree and down into the hole and back up the hole to eat a carrot?

me so confused.

but now, i'm probably guaranteed to be the #1 site on google anytime anyone else googles "girls bring you to orgasm tied to pole while holding your penis." diff'rent strokes (ha) for diff'rent folks, right?

Stay in the Heights!

"Stay in the Heights!" is how Ben Vereen always signed cards and stuff, back when I was working in la theatre and he sent flowers to people with whom I worked. But, more importantly, Josh and I made a culinary adventure last night to Jackson Heights, where we ate ourselves into a food coma at the Delhi Palace, thanks to the recommendation of my pal Mike. Dinner was stupendous, although I have never in my entire life eaten so much food that I wanted to vomit -- until last night.

So, before dinner we were wandering around the Heights looking for a bar for a pre-dinner aperitif. We got a little lost -- from what I can suss out, once you get off the subway, the neighborhood stretches out in four distinct ethnic zones -- there's the Indian street, the Latin street, the Korean street, and the Fried Chicken street. We ended up walking down the Latin street and walked into a bar blasting salsa music. It was a basic bar that was mildly oddly lit with green spotlights. All the bartendresses were unbelievably scantily clad -- the shortest skirts and the tightest shirts ever. We took a seat at the bar and ordered a round of bevvies.

We couldn't help but notice a Giant lurking behind us -- he was almost 7 feet tall, with shoulders as wide as Refrigerator Perry's. He was bald and wearing a suit. He wasn't drinking, he was just pacing. Josh pointed out that it appeared that we were making this large man nervous, as he kept kinda checking us out. Hmmmm. We looked around the bar at the other clientele -- nothin' but dudes, none of whom were speaking to each other. And the Giant clearly seemed to be on some sort of security detail. Josh said, "Do you think we're in a brothel?" I said I didn't know, but it seemed like perhaps something was going on -- maybe there was a cockfighting ring in back? Wasn't one just busted in Queens just like week? Or maybe there was illegal gambling going on?

Then the bartendress came back over to us. "So, is this your first time here?" she asked. Uh, yes. "Do you live in the neighborhood?" No, we both live in Brooklyn but we just came up here for some dinner. "So this is your first time here. This is the best bar. I'm so glad you're here. Is everything all right?" Uh, yeah. And then she kept us company for quite some time, ignoring the other customers.

Never in my whole life has a bartendress asked if it were my first time here. Either we had stumbled into a neighborhood bar that culinary adventurers never hit, or else, uh, she was just really observant (and super friendly?)

Now, I was sitting facing Josh, with my back to the rest of the bar. Josh was facing the rest of the bar. He pointed out that at least five men had emerged from the back of the bar during the time we'd been sitting there. "There are at least five men sitting there who definitely did not walk in the front door," Josh observed. Curiouser and curiouser! And the Giant was still pacing, and still shooting us weird looks. We decided it was time to go to dinner.

"But you're coming back, right?" the bartendress asked. "Promise you'll come back. Please come back. Promise? Promise?"

Unbelievably friendly bartendress, or was there something else going on? We may never know. We didn't return because we were so sick from our over-consumption of friend vegetables and paneer. But, as Josh said as we were leaving, I do hope she finds the rest of her skirt.

The Room Smelled Like Cumming and Thoughts of Ass-Slapping Were Spoken Out Loud

So my roomie's been hanging out with this new posse, and after hearing so many stories about his kickawesome new friends, I simply had to meet them. And so, last night, we all repaired to Dallas BBQ for some Texas-sized margaritas (if you order an extra shot, they bring it to you in a test-tube. I built a pan flute out of the test-tubes! I played "When the Saints Go Marching In!)

One of the members of the new posse is my new best gay boyfriend. And we have the same birthday! Because our mutual half-birthday is tomorrow -- that's how we figured out that we were both born on 9/20. Anyhoo. My new best gay boyfriend has many fine examples of beauty product. He has also has several bottles of Cumming - The Fragrance.

You've heard of this already, right? Alan Cumming has a fragrance and body product line called
Cumming, The Fragrance. There's also a body lotion called Cumming All Over You.

So. Of course, we all spritzed ourselves with the scent of Cumming. It's like rubber and leather and dirt and mansweat. The official description is: "a sexy, fun and michievous fragrance with Top Notes of: Bergamot, Black Pepper, Scotch Pine, Whiskey. Core notes of: Cigar, heather, douglas fir, rubber. Base notes of: leather, highland mud, peat fire, & white truffle." Whatever's in it, it's somehow the most arousing scent in the world. Like, I sniffed someone's wrist after he had just sprayed Cumming all over it, and I just wanted to mount his hand then and there. It's un-BE-lievable. You get a whiff of Cumming and you just want to spank or be spanked (the sound of ass-slapping must be heard, is what i'm saying). You sniff Cumming and strongly desire some ass-slapping -- that's a more concise way to say it.

I dunno, man. Not to let the bat out of the bag or nuthin', but this Cumming thing is going to make this city a much more exciting place to live. I plan on investing in the fragrance, actually. Because whoever I'm doing it with simply must wear Cumming. I want to bathe in Cumming. I want to spend my life rubbing against people who smell like Cumming. Holy sweet jesus, it's like Muskrat Love. I'd like Cumming in my hair and Cumming on my body and Cumming sprayed all over my bed.

(by the way, I have yet to stop amusing myself with the whole Cumming innuendo thing. if the fragrance weren't so damn amazing, the joke would be annoying. but instead, it remains endlessly entertaining no matter how many times it gets repeated.)

I want Cumming all over me!

You Know I'll Be Fine; I Can't Wait Til the Future Gets Here

Oh. My. Sweet. Bajeeebus. This is a work of sheer genius and kickawesome wonder.

It's 2014, and, "in feeble protest to Googlezon's Hegemony, the New York Times goes offline." It's a transmission from the Museum of Media History and it's just brillant. BRILLIANT! BRILLIANT!


Googlezon ... Newsbotster ... holy brillz, brillz, brillz.

Hide Your Head in the Sand, Little Girl

Just a quickie (an early afternoon delight, if you will):

Y'know that Beatles song, "Run for Your Life" ???
Y'know how it's a threatening and vaguely frightening song?
Y'know how the chorus goes:
You better run for your life if you can, little girl
Hide your head in the sand, little girl
Catch you with another man
That's the end'a, little girl

Well. For a really long time, like unti I was 18, I thought that song was about a girl ostrich. Because only ostriches hide their heads in the sand, right?

Look, Pa, A Fawn!

So the summer of '98 was a real roughie-toughie for my family. Both of my grandfathers were very sick and my parents were coping with the imminent death of both of their fathers. I was living in NYC that summer, staying in an NYU dorm and interning at PS 122. I had just cut my hair and pierced my nose, so I thought I was pretty awesome. But I wasn't living at home and so I wasn't necessarily privy to the day-to-day updates on my grandfathers' failing health; all I knew was that the phone call could come at any moment that one or both of them had passed away.

Sometime in July, my mom called to tell me that my Zaydee Sam had died. He was my father's father. My dad drove into the city to pick me up, because we were going to fly down to Florida that next morning. I was thoroughly exhausted at that point and more than mildly overwhelmed by the whole thing. We caught an early flight down to Tampa and the journey was pretty matter-of-fact. Until we started to come in for the landing and I started looking out the window.

I'm not sure if the flight from Newark to Tampa actually flies over the Everglades or not, but all I knew was that we were flying over what looked like lush, swampy forest-like terrain. And all of a sudden I flashed back to my eight grade English class, taught by the aptly-named Mrs. Frost. That spring, we read "The Yearling" by Margaret Rawling. Perhaps you would like to read the first chapter ? Remember -- Jody makes a fluttermill?

Anyhoo, so we're flying over what I assumed were the Everglades, and all I could think was that the Everglades must be simply teeming with Yearlings. And I said, out loud, "Look, Pa! A Fawn!" Which is what Jody said to Daddy Gregory Peck in the movie. And then, something went ka-boing in my head, and all I could think of was: what would happen if all the Yearlings busted out of the Everglades and you saw them all over Florida? Like, there would be Yearlings shopping at the Piggly Wiggly; Yearlings waiting on line at Disneyworld; Yearlings dancing in the discos in South Beach.

I started laughing hysterically -- the Yearling fantasy was an emotional release; a catalyst of sorts. And I got completely insane, like I went way over the deep end and everyone on the plane was staring at me. "She just lost her grandfather," my mother tried to explain. Although that explanation would have warranted weeping, not insane maniac laughter.

Heh. Yearlings. Heh.

Look, Pa -- a fawn!

Dance, Jean Claude Van Damme. Dance Like the Wind

Watch Jean Claude Van Damme shake it like a polaroid picture.

KICKAWESOME, for serious. It's SO his birthday.

This Here's a Dead Parrot

Beware the Ides of March, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

I went to the very lovely Meredith Zeitlin's house on Saturday night for an Ides of March Party -- those of you who watch lots of VH1 (and who doesn't?) will recognize Mizz Zeitlin's voice from most of our celebreality promos. Anyhoo, my pal Steve was also there and he took lots of pictures. I think I was attempting to be sassy in this photo, but I look a bit like a monster instead.

Because I've vowed not to be one of those Dear-Mr.-Henshaw bloggers, I'll spare you the minutiae of my AWESOME weekend, which was really just fantabulously AWESOME in every way, shape and/or form, but I'd like to share a small anecdote with you:

So my parents went to see a Sunday matinee of "12 Angry Men" with their friends, the Simons. I haven't seen the Simons in ages, but our families were really close when I was growing up. Anyway, the Simons' house was always really loud because they had all these parrots and cockatiels who squawked all the time. So I asked the Simons how their birds were doing, and Mrs. Simon revealed that Spunky (one of the cockatiels) died several years ago, but he's still in their freezer (in a ziploc bag). Apparently, the bird died while one of the Simons' kids was in Italy and so Mrs. Simon wanted to keep the bird around so that the daughter could say goodbye to it when she got home. But that was four years ago. And the bird is still in the freezer. In a ziploc bag. YES, there's a fucking frozen parrot in their freezer (and it's not pining for the fjords). A parrot-sicle. Mrs. Simon claims she's waiting for the spring thaw to bury the bird. I think perhaps she takes it out of the freezer and talks to it, but then puts in back in the freezer before it defrosts.

KICKAWESOME Brand New Video for "We Didn't Start The Fire"

Holy sweet Jesus, this is my dream come true. I heart "We Didn't Start The Fire"

Check it on out -- someone made a video for W.D.S.T.F. using actual images of everything in the song, including some snarky commentary and subliminal messages.

Why didn't this exist in 1990, when I was so obsessed with the song but I had to go through the lyrics with my mom and dad and ask them about all the things I didn't know (what's a pasternak? what's chou-en-lai? what's british politician sex? who is begin? what's a panmoujon? etc.) I was in sixth grade, so sue me.

The thing about this song is that it was my gateway to realizing I possessed the superhero ability of talking backwards. And because the talking-backwards thing has had such a ginormous impact on my life, I shall treasure W.D.S.T.F for always.

Ted Leo Melts Your Face -- Kelly Clarkson Stizz

Ohmigoodnessgracious, the wondrous Ted Leo ROCKS THE FUCKING SHIT out of "Since U Been Gone!

Totes kickawesome, babies! Scott Stereogum has an mp3 up from an Ted Leo interview/performance over at UGO. (Note: you can right-click and save the mp3 from Stereogum).

How rad. I am currently mega-obsessed with Mizz Kelly's "Since U Been Gone" and I lurf-lurf-lurf this Ted Leo version -- especially because he picks up on the "Maps" bit that Pitchfork sussed out a litte while ago. (Note: "Maps" was my fave song LAST February, and "Since U Been Gone" was my fave song THIS February -- the world is such a perfect place, innit?)

Speaking of Mizz Kelly Clarkson, Mizz Kelly Johnson and I were maxin' and relaxin' in our poweroffice, and that damn Sandals commercial came on, the one with the song that goes, "A moment like this ... some people search forever for that one special kiss ... i can't believe it's happening to me ... some people wait a lifetime ... for a moment like this" and the two of us sang along to the spot (it airs on VH1 like every single promo break) and Kelly said, "This song is so painfully cheesy, and yet I can kind of imagine wanting to dance on the beach to it during my one special moment." And I said, "You are SO singing that song on your honeymoo" and she concurred. And then we kept singing what we THOUGHT was the Sandals commercial, until a co-worker yelled at us to stop singing "That damn Kelly Clarkson song" and then we realized -- HOLY FUCK, that song isn't JUST a Sandals commercial, it's actually the song Kelly Clarkson busted out at American Idol, and then we found that CD in the office and jammed out, doing over-expressive modern interpretative dance that involved a lot of poignant r-e-a-c-h-e-s and chest-thumping. It was awesome. And then, everyone else in the office glowered at us because we were rocking "A Moment Like This" at the proverbial Spinal Tappian 11.

Note: I intentionally spelled 'honeymoon' as 'honeymoo' because I would quite like it if that name stuck, for good. Doesn't a honeymoo sound like the cutest, most funnest best thing in the whole wide world?

How to Name That Tune

Check it on out -- The Daily News has the scoop on a new service to solve the age-old problem of "Ohmigod, I love this song -- what is it???"

The way it works is you dial (866) SONG-411 and then hold up your cel phone to record 15 seconds of the song, and then the service (called SongLink'd) ((note the very of-the-oughts specially placed apostrophe)) sends you a text message with the name of the song and the artist and a link to a website where you can purchase the song. Hot stuff.

This is all very exciting, mostly because I SWEAR I had a long and excited conversation with a few friends a few years ago about how we ought to develop a service wherein you could hold up your cel phone and record 15 seconds of a song and then a database somewhere would identify the song and tell you to which song you were listening. FOR REALS, I totally had this conversation... As did the rest of you lot, if you're the type of person who hangs out in bars with jukeboxes with the sort of CDs that may prompt you to drunkenly jump off your bar stool and shriek "Ohmigod, I love this song -- what it it?"


For the record, the song is called "Africa" and it's by Toto. Or else that song is called "Since U Been Gone" and it's by Kelly Clarkson and it's still most best. Or, lastly, that song may be called "Caravan" and it's by Van Morrison.

I Wish I Was Special ...

Check out this kickawesome animation to the acoustic version of Radiohead's "Creep." HOLY RADNESS. I always seem to forget just how rad this song is. In "I Love the 90s Part Deux," one of our most bestest talking heads (Hal Sparks) quipped that the lyrics are basically the sentiment of every nerdy little guy lusting after someone way out of his league: "You're in my math class ... but you won't notice me." That sorta thing.

Speaking of being the nerdy little guy in math class, I've spent the better part of this week (two days so far) screening episodes of "My Coolest Years" to do a promo for an upcoming "My Coolest Years" marathon. The show, for those of you who missed the series when it aired this part summer, features various semi-celebs and c-listers and comedians talking about their high school lives. Each episode is about a particular subgenre of High School -- there's an episode about the Dirty Hippies, an epi about Jocks & Cheerleaders, and epi about Bad Girls, an epi about Metalheads -- you get the drift. And each show is broken into several "universal" topics about which all the Hippies and Jocks and Metalheads and Geeks and Sluts reminisce: the Cafeteria (and its hierarchical seating arrangements), the Prom, Partying, Romance.

And EVERYONE has all these memories about gettin' jiggy wit it when their parents were still at work, or stories about hoping to get some puddin' after the prom, or about all-night makeout sessions in tents on the beach, and I'm just like ... zug? I TOTALLY FUCKED UP MY ADOLESCENCE. No wonder I'm such a complete and utter mess of a grownup -- I never went through the whole romance thing of teenagerhood. Like in that line in Death Cab's song "We Looked Like Giants" when El Gibbard sings "And we'd learn how our bodies worked..." Well. I never did that whole learnin' about how bodies worked, yo. I didn't date anyone in high school, I went to the prom with friends (no puddin' hopes) and I didn't even date anyone in college. So combine my continued existence in The Celibacy Club (no one wanted to be a member!) with the fact that I was stone cold sober til I was 20 or so (when I went to London), and you get the fact that i was a BIG MOTHERCLUCKING LOSER who didn't party hearty, didn't make out with anybody, and never learned how to sustain a relationship.

I should add, however, that although I didn't drink, I did go to drinking parties. If the Cheerleaders and the Football Players were A-level popular, I probably hovered around B minus / C plus (until senior year, when I was probably on the D-list) and I went to parties and talked backwards to entertain the drunkards. One night, everyone was drinking in the Arboretum behind the swimming pool and the cops came out from behind the bushes, with sticks taped to their heads and camo paint on their faces. They were wearing bush costumes, and they were literally doing that "i'm hiding in the bushes and I will tiptoe forward a few inches at a time so's you don't realize that I am not really a bush but I am actually a cop merely pretending to be a bush" dance that they do in cartoons. It was rad.

I told Kristin about this and she remarked that we must have had a very safe town, if the cops had enough time on their hands to make bush costumes and hide in the bushes to bust teen drinkers. Teen drinkers in the Rock were pretty sneaky -- if there was a party going on, we'd all park at least four blocks away so that there was a perfectly formed ring of concentric circles emanating out from what was clearly ground zero -- party central. Genius. So the cops busted every single party. And so you'd have to run from the cops. Like, climbing over fences and shizzy. I'm not even sure why we continued with the ritual every single weekend, because at that point the Chief of Police was boffing the Captain of the Cheerleaders. In a squad car behind the CVS. AWWWWesome,

ANYHOODLES. My real point was that I wish I hadn't been such a total loser as a teen because I'd be better equipped to deal with grown-up hood. Like, last night? The squirrels found their acorns and I was really, really, really nervous about revealing this fact to the boy? And so, finally, I had to blurt out: "Um, I have my period -- AIIIIIEEEEEEEE!" And had a minor nervous breakdown, because I've never had to deal with the whole menstruation + boy situation before. I like to think of it as Learning How to Deal With Womanhood at Age 26. (Incidentally, I think "Learning How to Deal With Womanhood at Age 26" would make an excellent Death Cab song).

"The Name of this Play is Talking Heads" -- HOT DIGGITY

So, Mr. Mark Spitz, who also writes for SPIN, has written a play called "The Name of This Play is Talking Heads" -- it's about, apparently, people just like me: the Talking Heads who provide a never-ending stream of nattering content on VH1. According to the Times' review, Mr. Spitz reveals that we Talking Heads are often coached to deliver the soundbites the producers want, and his protagonist is "shocked at how vapid television can be." Like, um, duh?

In a vaguely hubrisistic way, I'm flattered that someone has taken the time to write a play about the VH1 talking head phenom. And I'm way impressed that the show is up and running -- as a former theatre person (actually, I'd quite like to return to my theatre person roots, but we'll, much like The English Beat, save it for later) I know how difficult it is to mount a full-on NY production. [Speaking of which: aw man, last night, I totally mounted a full-on NY production. Thank you, I'll be here all week). But I'm mildly incredulous that High Art (theatre) is now commenting on Low Art (VH1 talking head shows). It just seems so art imitating life that doesn't need to be imitated ...

And speaking of theatre, PLEASE go see my all-time faverave show: Shockheaded Peter. It's back in NYC, and it is oh-so-worth-seeing. Please, see it post haste.

And further speaking of theatre, longtime F.O.B.'s (friends of Bex) will recall my stint in Grindhouse A Go Go, during which time I portrayed a lesbian dominatrix gym teacher, Courtney Love, an 80s-sitcom-style hiphop orphan, and a smutty rock-loving investigative reporter (not necessarily in that order). I was fortunate enough to become close friends with the talented and insightful Tom Tenney, a man whose commitment to ART and ARTISTS is nothing short of admirable and awesome. Tom's been through the day-job wringer recently so please read his tale of woeful malfeasance and see if you can help. Or at least spread the meme.

Smell what the Rock is Cookin'?

I'm sorry. I have nothing to say about the Rock. But I'm watching a supersneakpeek of "Most Wanted Bodies" and they just showed the Rock asking us to smell what the rock is cookin'. I've never smelled what the Rock is cookin', and something makes me think that I wouldn't necessarily like it very much. But watch the show! Tonight and every night this week at 10pm.

Last Friday, I shot "Michael Jackson's Most Shocking." It was weird. As we went on, I turned into an indignant old churchlady. I just can't be mean and obnoxious about Michael Jackson, because the man is clearly unwell. They wanted be to be funny about what will happen to Michael if he ends up in prison, and I just couldn't do it; I became incredibly sincere (I know, no one believes that I can be sincere, but every so often a ray of earnestness pokes through my veneer of cynicism (my patina of sarcasm?) about how Michael Jackson ought not to be sent to a prison, he ought to get some serious medical treatment and end up in facility for the mentally unwell and unsound where he can get some intense therapy ... I don't think Michael Jackson lives in the same world that we do, and I think that before we judge him, we need to understand that he's crazy like a fucking fox.

Anyhoo. The squirrel who lives in my uterus is just starting to look for his long-buried acorns. It's not at critical-levels of agony yet, but rest-assured, we're just a few short hours away.

So I was asked to speak at my 5 year reunion today, as part of a panel on "Five Years Out" -- where we've been since Wesleyan and how we got to where we are today. I'm kinda flattered, and kinda skeeved out. Just the way I like to feel. It's funny, the other panelists are someone in the Peace Corps, someone who teaches at a Culinary school, someone who makes documentary films, and me. One of these things is not like the other ... it's ME! Doing nothing to make the world a better place, no way, no how, no matter what!

It's so 1993 -- Take the Friend Survey!

Okay, so Kelly's Amish sister JUST got on email, and she's like 13 years behind the rest of us tech-savvy types. But she sent Kelly the FRIEND SURVEY and then Kelly sent it to me and then Kelly and I exchanged friend surveys and then I thought, WOW, this is bringing us so much joy and laughter, maybe some of my faithful readers might like to take the FRIEND SURVEY and we'll all learn all about each other, as if it were 1993 all over again and I were still using Prodigy to get my email (I was BTPD92B@prodigy, yo). We will not be offended if you're too busy to respond, but, heck, our boss is "out sick" and so we're using our time productively. So. Here are my answers. I hope you learn alot about me and think many nice thoughts about how nice it is that i'm your friend.

your friend,
bex

"Welcome to the next edition of getting to know your friends. What you're supposed to do is copy (not forward) this entire e-mail and paste it onto a new e-mail that you'll send. Change all of the answers so that they apply to you. Then, send this to a whole bunch of people you know INCLUDING the person that sent it to you." 

1. IF YOU COULD BUILD A SECOND HOUSE ANYWHERE, WHERE WOULD IT BE? On the moon (2nd choice: Barbados)

2. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE ARTICLE OF CLOTHING? lowcut black tank tops and black pants. Fave current article of clothing: red vinyl superhero jacket

3. THE LAST CD YOU BOUGHT? Now It's Overhead (recommended by my pal Ethan Kaplan )
 
4. WHAT TIME DO YOU WAKE UP IN THE MORNING?  8:30 on a good day, 9:20 normally. Ideally, 11am.
 
5. IF YOU COULD PLAY AN INSTRUMENT, WHAT WOULD IT BE? bass, because if I could really play bass, i'd be so much hotter.
 
6. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE FLOWER? sunflowers or purple azaleas
           
7. WHICH DO YOU PREFER, SPORTS CAR OR SUV?  neither, but i'd choose a sports car over an SUV because SUVs are gas guzzlers
 
8. DO YOU BELIEVE IN AFTERLIFE?  i believe in the continued flow of energy and consciousness
 
9. FAVORITE CHILDREN'S BOOK? "The Search for Delicious" - Natalie Babbit.
 
10. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE SEASON? summer, because i don't have to wear a lot of clothes and the shoes are more fun.

11. IF YOU HAD ONE SUPER POWER, WHAT WOULD IT BE? the ability to understand everything in the universe and to always know the answer to every possible question

12. IF YOU HAVE A TATTOO, WHAT IS IT?  a small star on the inside of my left wrist; three stars on my lower back   

13.  CAN YOU JUGGLE? No
 
14. THE ONE PERSON FROM YOUR PAST YOU WISH YOU COULD GO BACK AND TALK TO? (name withheld), the boy who broke my heart

15. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE DAY? Saturday

16. WHAT'S IN THE TRUNK OF YOUR CAR? i don't have a car. but i gots some junk in my trunk, yo.

17. WHICH DO YOU PREFER, SUSHI OR HAMBURGER? sushi (veggie only) 

18. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE ICE CREAM? fat free fro-yo, please! but, if i'm evil, i like Chubby Hubby (peanutbutterfilled pretzels in peanut butter ice cream)
 
19 DO YOU BELIEVE IN LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT? No, because I think love is probably something that evolves out of lust or a deep fondness. i fall in lust at first sight often, and i easily fall into really intense deep crushes, but i've never been in love.

I've never been in love, nor have I ever been to me. HE HE HE.
 
20. WHAT WOULD BE YOUR DREAM JOB? Writer-director-producer-star of a really smart and sassy tv show that would change the world

 21. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE MEAL? mexican food (with tofu meat products)

22. WHAT ARE YOUR TWO FAVORITE MOVIES? "City of Lost Children" and "TOYS"

23. WHAT'S THE MOST ENJOYABLE THING YOU WILL DO TODAY?  talk to Kelly about her wedding / indulge in naughty sexual fantasies (NOT AT THE SAME TIME)
 
24.. WHAT'S YOUR FAVORITE HOLIDAY? Halloween

25. IF YOU COULD HAVE JUST TWO HOURS TO YOURSELF, WHAT WOULD YOU DO WITH YOUR TIME?  i'll be at the gym for two hours. but beyond that, i'd like to read for a while and get a backrub

26. FAVORITE SOUND?  boys singing plaintive songs with clever lyrics

PA University, Class 0f 2005

So, we have a new crop of PAs starting, and Kelly assigned everyone special "classes" to teach them -- exciting things like "How to use the Library" and "Making Dubs" and "Addlotting the Spotmasters"

(Sound up: Cue the Bad Company: Feel like makin' dubs with you!)

Anyhoo. I don't have to teach a class because I'm sooooo very important (ha), so I chimed in thusly:
 
I'd just like to add that I'm offering a credit-optional tutorial this semester entitled "Balinesian Folk Dance and the Sociological Implications of Climactic Change on the Micronesian Economy: A Strategic Assesment of Pop Culture and Nonheteronormative Norms Vis-a-Vis the Global Village in a Triage Society" in the Anthropology Department. Please deliver (via carrier pigeon) a 2000 word essay outlining your desires to enroll in this seminar; I will post a list of accepted students on my office door no later than 5am on Monday morning.
 
In the unlikely event that an accepted student fails to submit the requisite prequisites, I will release spaces one at a time as they become available. Please remember that you need your faculty adviser's signature during the Red Drop/Add Period; please see your Dean once Black Drop/Add begins. Note: a previous knowledge of Mulveyan gaze theory, Derrida's position on semiotics in a neocultural world, and satisfactory completion Organic Chemistry 201 (or higher) are required.

OH NO!

Oh NO! It's a major mega crisis in the VH1 world! Denise Richards has filed for divorce from Charlie Sheen! And the Denise Richards segment in VH1 and Self's 100 Most Wanted Bodies mentions their happy marriage! OH NO! Quelle catastrophe! I have to go run off to an emergency v/o session to read new lines and rectify the situation.

I love traumas in my industry. They're oh-so-silly, and their silliness makes them awesome.

So, as the lowly voiceover artist, I have to wait until the producers rewrite the segment and book me some time in v/o booth. So, until I hear from them, I'm running around yelling "PANIC! PANIC! CRISIS! CRISIS!" and holding on to large piece of furniture to prevent myself from falling over in a crisis-induced swoon.

About four years ago, at my old job, the guy who brought mail to our floor was a hottie patottie named Kurt. During the holiday season, I was in our floor's mailroom flipping through my boss's copy of Variety, and Kurt came in with a package for someone named Stacey. He said, "Hey, where's Stacey? I have a package for her!" And I said, "Stacey's in Ohio, teching in our new show." And Kurt said, "What should I do with this package?" and he handed me the box. In big letters on the side of the box, it said, "PERISHABLE! Must be opened immediately!"

I said, "Kurt, what will we do? This is perishable and must be opened immediately, but Stacey is in Ohio and can't open it now! And if we open it, it's mail fraud! What ever shall we do?" And Kurt said, "There's only one thing for us to do: PANIC."

And so we panicked. We ran in circles around the office, screaming and yelling and tearing at our hair until we exhausted ourselves and collapsed, spent, in front of the Tommy pinball machine.

It was a luscious day.

I am panicking in re: Denise and Charlie to a lesser degree, but on the inside I'm running around in circles. It's less fun without Kurt.

You're Air Jamaica Me CRAZY

So, as you've noticed, I'm back from Barbados. It took 20 hours to get home from Barbados (and then I had to rush to a v/o session to do pickups for the Most Wanted Bodies show -- don't forget, it's every night next week at 10pm) so I am exhausted. So I'll write about the mini-vacay tomorrow.

(It took 20 hours because I booked my flight pretty last-minute so the cheapest way to get home was to fly Air Jamaica from Barbados to St. Lucia, then xfter to a flight to Grenada that would eventually get to JFK. When I got to St. Lucia, they were like, "Uhoh, nobody told you when you checked-in at Barbados? Your flight has been delayed until 10pm tonight." I was like -- zug? 10 hours to kill at the teensy tiny St. Lucia airport? I went to the Air Jamaica counter to see what was up. It was full up angry NY couples who had been staying at Sandals. They were so angry. I was like, WOO, now I get to see St. Lucia. So they put as all in taxis and sent us to this teeny tiny hotel to wait out the day. I overheard a nice man talking about going to the beach, so I asked if I could join the mission. And so I adopted a very wonderful fambly from Connecticut (or else, they adopted me), and we all went to the beach together and I got sun burnt while they swam, and then we drank rum drinks and went back to the hotel and used our meal vouchers together, and everything was fine and good, and then we went back to the airport and waited another 2 hours to get on the plane and I met a nice man from Atlanta who was trying to visit his girlfriend in Grenada (Grenada? Who are the good guys? Who are the bad guys?) and then we finally landed at JFK early this morning.

But the Barbados part of the vacation? Totally swell. That's what we'll be rockin' about tomorrow.

Let us Look Back to June 8, 1991...

batmitzvahfam, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

So the NOVA ScienceNOW awesome people are coming over tomorrow evening so we can shoot some pop culture/scifi stuff for them to use. In my segment, I talk about how my dad and I used to watch science fiction movies when I was a kid, so the nice NOVA people asked me to dig up a photo of us together when I was younger. The rents' scanned and sent this one to me - it's the evening party after my bat mitzvah celebration earlier that day, on the morning of June 8, 1991. We had a party that night in the backyard and people stood on the deck and drank wine and we had a photographer (Robert Klein, who was both deaf and on the Board of Education) and my whole extended family was there and all our close friends, and it was a lovely suburban NJ evening, and of course, there were
fireflies.

So, left to right: Mom, Dad, Becky (aged 12 years and 9 months) and kid brother Adam, who was just about to turn 10.

I was in seventth grade and the orthodontist had just taken off my braces (so the bat mitavah photos would be pretty). I teased my hair to make it look curly for the party. I listened to Top 40 music on Z-100 and had an inante ability for being the 100th caller, so I won lots of CDs and tickets to events and shows 'n' stuff. I asked for a CD player and suggested that I liked (and thusly received)
1). REM's new album (Out of Time)
2). The Who (they gave me Who's Next)
3). Rod Stewart (I have no idea why. I got "Greatest Hits")
When I went shopping, days later, for my first CDs to buy my myself, I bought REM's "Document" and Led Zepellin's "ZoSo" album. I thought I was cool. I wanted, more than anything, to grow up and become an actress. My friend Amy and I took acting classes with Paul Perez and Janine at "Drama For Life." I got a C in gym because I failed volleyball. During the PSAT's, we had a break and were playing Limbo in Mr. Troy's Physical Science classroom. My breasts got stuck on the limbo pole, and I happened to be wearing my Twin Peaks teeshirt, so this one boy Todd called me "Twin Peaks" for a while. I was madly in love with Agent Dale Cooper. I used to wear, in the winter, green shorts over black spandex. I pegged my jeans. I cuffed my socks. I had a collection of slap bracelets.

But, mostly, I was the most awesome little dorky mcdork dork EVER.