Monday, January 31, 2005
What the heche happened to little Joey Cramer? He bonded with Max (as voiced by Peewee Herman -- I never knew) on the Flight of the Navigator and then he was in Stone Fox and then he disappeared! Where? To his native Vancouver, where he came into this world on August 23, 1973? Did he really decide that he needed to risk molecular vaporization and try to return to Fort Lauderdale 1978?
We watched (dur) Flight of the Navigator last night, and realized that, in the day, it was SO SCARY that little David Freeman lost 8 years of his life (he falls into a ditch in 1978 and wakes up in 1986... where did he go? the fucking aliens were pumping his head full of starcharts, yo.) ... anyway ... so it's now been a longer temporal gap since Flight of the Navigator came out, than the one that David goes through in the movie. Awesome.
And so, of course, we wanted to know what happened to little Joey Cramer? Did he grow up gay (we faintly suspect as much)? Does he shun his acting past? Is he still buddies with Sarah Jessica Parker? We just don't know.
But I'd really love to find out. To that end, I have written a catchy tune that will hopefully become a worldwide hit, like "We Are the World" or "Do They Know It's Christmas." Just sing along to Aerosmith's "Love in an Elevator" and you're all set.
"Flight of the Navigator" (to the tune of "Love in an Elevator")
Walkin' through the woods with my brother (whoa)
Fell into a fuckin' ditch (oh yeah)
A flyin' saucer scooped me up, man (whoa)
It's gonna be a fuckin' bitch (oh yeah)
But where we gonna go?
Phaelon, in outerspace!
Then we'll come back 8 years later and
They'll stick us in that NASA place
Flight of the Navigator
Ain't growin' up, I ain't goin' down
Flight of the Navigator
Ain't growin' up, I been flyin' round
Sarah Jessica's my intern (whoa)
RALF is gonna set me free (whoa yeah)
Max is finally gonna learn now
The Navigator -- he is me!
But where did Joey go?
Where's the Navigator now?
I really want to know!
So come on, Joey -- take your bow!
Flight of the Navigator
Ain't growin' up, I ain't goin' down
Flight of the Navigator
Ain't growin' up, I been flyin' round
In the air, in the air, honey one more time
Now it ain't fair
Flight of the Navigator
Ain't growin' up, I'll be flyin' round
(JOEY CRAMER! LET US KNOW YOU'RE OKAY!)
Sunday, January 30, 2005
SO! To celebrate our big ol' project, the lovely Tina took us to dinner at BED. Yes, we ate dinner in bed. Seven of us in a kingsize tempurpedic bed. Hanging out with everyone was awesome, but BED left a bit to be desired. They serve really fancy-schmancy food, like architectually arranged tuna, which is kinda antithetical to eating in bed. They give you lap pillows and then trays on which to balance your food, but really, when you think about eating in bed, don't you just want comfort food? None of your tuna sculptures, just give me a big bowl of oatmeal to balance on my belly. Regardless, the evening was lovely and we drank many fancy cocktails that have dirty bed-related names: "The Wet Spot" and "Satin Sheets" and "Pussy Galore," etc. A little how very, really.
I went to find the ladies' room at one point and I passed by the elevator (you have to take a private elevator up to the restaurant) and the elevator boys (Who were unfortunately costumed to look like those offensive statues they have in suburbia, where the little black man holding a lantern statues wears that red suits) and they were a buzz that someone big was about to show up at the nightclub downstairs.
Elevator Man 1: "It's someone 'Nor' something -- Norah Jones?"
Elevator Man 2: "No, she was there last week. It's 'Nor' ... Nor... Noriega?"
Bex: Manuel Noriega is going to the nightclub downstairs?
Elevator Man 2: Yeah, Noriega, that's it.
Bex: Wait, THE Noriega, the pockmarked Panamanian dictator is hanging out HERE?"
Elevator Man 1: No, he's a rapper.
And then I realized they were probably talking about N.O.R.E., whom I believe to be a rapper. Not a Panamanian dictator. But for a brief, shining moment, I thought I might just get the chance to ask him what he thought about all the Guns 'n' Roses our army blasted at him all those years ago.
Bex: So, Manny, tell me -- you really liked 'Welcome to the Jungle,' didn't you?
Noriega: Si. Slash is a guitar virtuoso.
Bex: So you weren't really leaving your compound to flee the noise?
Noriega: Ha ha ha! No, no. My girlfriend needed tampons and she asked me to go get some.
Bex: Now it all makes so much sense.
Noriega: Glad I could clear that up. Hey, can I try a sip of your Pussy Galore?
Anyhoo. Tina called us all fancy cars and I went home, happily to finally get good night's sleep. And I woke up with the worst.stomachpains.ever. The last time my tummy felt like that was the dreaded poultry-contamination campylobacter adventure of 2002. I spent the day writhing in pain and reading magazines. And then I was mostly better by last night so Josh and I went out for macrobiotic food and then met up with Tina and Amanda at Scott's birthday party. On the way to the party, we discussed zeitgeist movies and how generations get their names and how when the Gen Xers start having babies they will be called "The Baby Xoomers" and how we hate that we're supposedly part of the "cusp" between gen X and gen Y and how that's just dumb, and how they better find a more-apt name for Gen Y because it's just redundant and unoriginal.
And then we discussed how Katie Couric's "friends with benefits" theory may be nothing more than hogwash, because we don't know anyone who's actually made that sort of nonrelationship-booty work, and how perhaps it's just a myth. Can anyone disprove that friends-with-benefits is really just the new red-M&Ms-are-made-with-rat-blood?
Friday, January 28, 2005
Note: that's a spoon ON my nose, not a spoon for up my nose (cue the Frank Zappa!). I have a large and incharge nose (that's why they used to call me "Becky Bignose" when I was younger, which is also why I have tremendously low self-esteem when it comes to my appearance, which is also why I wear a lot of glitter: if I dazzle you with sparklies, then perhaps you won't focus on my nose. And yes, they also called me "The Wizard of Schnozz." Oh, how the childhood taunts still sting, which is yet another reason why this is the only time I will ever post a photo of my profile (because a spoon is covering most of the yuck).)
ANYHOODLES! Look -- a mini photo essay! I'm hanging a spoon on my nose, and you can clearly see that my pal Craig is astounded by my magical spoon-on-nose abilities. It's pretty obvs that in the first photo, Craig is thinking "HOLY SWEET JESUS! Bex is doing something CRAZY! I am both aghast and possibly concerned about this situation!" and then in the 2nd photo, he's thinking "Sweeeeeet."
My awesome friend Clif (he's Clif with only one 'F' -- leave off the last "F" for "Freakin' Fantastic") took these photos. Longtime readers will remember F reakin' Fantastic Clif as my cohort in rooftop skinny dipping last summer. Apparently, the story of our rooftop radness has become the stuff of Soho House urban legend, and for the record, there was no hanky-panky in the swimming pool, just good clean illegal nudity.
Anyhoo. The restaurant at which the spoon was hung was pretty spiffy and featured a design decor that incorporated both an indoor miniriver in a trough! (whoa oh oh oh oh -- hanging trough!) and slats.
Slats are meant to be hearted.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
'kay -- dORK ALERT! I was reading through TWOP's section on I Love the 90s Part Deux because I like to know what the people think about the channel. It's mildly helpful in knowing who the masses love, because then I can use the people they heart in my promos and that makes the masses happy. Anyhoo.
So one person writes: "I about wet my pants when that guy (Name, anyone?) said that women can't be in the army because they can't live in a ditch for 30 days because they get infections." FOR THE RECORD: "that guy" is Newt fucking Gingrich. Oh, the kids. How clueless they are. The same person goes on to say, "Flava Flav needs to get the fuck off my tv, now. Who the hell is he? Just some random shiny man pulled off the street? I'd never even heard of him until the strange love commercials. " FOR THE RECORD: you're a fucking tool. I don't care if you're 12 years old, google "Flavor Flav" if you're unsure of who he is, don't just go blasting your ignorance across the interweb. Tool.
FOR THE RECORD, PART DEUX: Tonight, I have learned that teenagers are dumb fucks who have a lot more sex than I do.
Katie:“Oral sex is the new third base? YIKES!”
When was it NOT third base? Hasn’t it always been first base = French kissing, 2nd base = bosom feeling (sloppy 2nd = mouth on bosom) 3rd base is something involving genitalia (oral or manual) and a homerun is scoring? If a homerun has always been a homerun, did Katie grow in bizarre land when 3rd base was hand-holding and then all of a sudden some dude stuck his penis in her bagima? Like, “Stick your finger in my ear, stick your finger in my belly button” (beat) “Wait, that’s not my belly button!” “Heh, that’s not my finger.”
Blonde chick “TV is all sex … even the commercials. It’s like less clothes is better on tv.” BLAME THE MOTHERFUCKING SPONSORS, YO.
Gay black dude disses rappers who call a girl a ho. You go, girl.
Katie: “When we come back, a discussion about those two dreaded words: ‘oral sex.’” Uh … Is there any teen out there who dreads those words? (Except for me, when I was a teen. Because I was an inexperienced prude).
Speaking of sponsors, we get: Juicy Juice (heh heh. My bagima is full of juicy juices). GE Healthcare, part of GE, parent company of NBC/Universal who release LOTS OF MOVIES about teen sex., “You gotta touch it” – Purel germ killer (also functions as a nicely warming lube) who’s slogan is: “You can touch … then Purel.” So give your boo a handjob, girlz, and then use Purel. Germ-free!
Katie reveals that a ground-breaking survey of 1000 teens proves that 1 in 8 teens have had oral sex and 13% have had intercourse. Whoa. You go, kidz.
Breaking news: teens have oral sex to avoid having intercourse. Because, clearly, grownups never do that. Especially not when they’re between waxes.
And, according to 15-year-old Sable, “oral sex is sex.” You hear that, Bubba? Actually, it’s all Clinton’s fault. “If the President can do it, we can do it.” AWESOME. “It made it easier to talk about it on tv which made it easier to talk about it music.” BLAME THE MUSICIANS! I always knew rock music was the devil’s music; it’s no longer about worshipping Satan and killing your parents, apparently it’s all about cunnilingus and fellatio.
“Promiscuous guys, labeled playas or man-hos, are not held as accountable for their behavior.” KATIE COURIC JUST SAID “MAN-HOS” ON TV!
Tomorrow – hell freezes over.
Did you know that teens engage in relationships called "friends with benefits" ??? Damn, those kids move fast. I never even fathomed that term until I heard Alanis sing "You're my best friend -- best friend with benefits." And, as far as I've observed, going from best friends to friends-with-benefits is nothing but bad news. Fuck you, Alanis. Or, as I like to call her: "Lannie." Fuck you, Lannie.
Ack. Too tired to keep watching. Must. Go. Sleepy bye-bye.
10:25pm. Seacrest, out!
UPDATE: Milo writes to say: Huh. I blogged about a fairly disturbing Web site this afternoon that presents oral sex as strictly between a man and woman, and that fellatio ends with the woman coughing the semen onto a pillow. Also, rimming is now considering oral sex and biting is the number-one danger to men during fellatio. Your Lannie went down on Dave "Uncle Joey" Coulier in a theater and later wrote a song referencing it. Coincidence? I think not.
Totally not a coincidence. Personally: I've never felt this healthy before. (heh).
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Hey, all! I'm killer-diller tired; we're in the midst of post-pro on our campaign and it's going well, albeit time-intensive.
Alas, my brain is waaaaay too dry for me to be funny right now, but I sure do 'ppreciate all the lovely lovenotes from my beloved readers. Keep those cards 'n' letters coming!
It's an all-grrrl fest in the Black History Month universe and tomorrow we're all going to wear pink. I own very little pink clothing, mostly because pink clashes with my hair, but I'm going to try my durnedest to find something that works. If all else fails, I'm sure I have several shades of pink lipstick somewhere. If only we weren't all taking birth control pills; I bet our cycles would synchronize and then we'd all eat chocolate at the same time.
And, hey! How about that big fat liar, Condoleeza Rice? If you anagram her name, you get:
Liar, Concede (Zoe!) I think that's a hint: Liar, concede now! Remember what happened to Zoe Baird? Remember? Clinton tried to appoint that particular Zoe as Attorney General and she withdrew her nomination because she (much like Senor Kerik) employed two undocumented immigrants in her home. As cabana boys. Just kidding. Anyhoo. Take heed, Condi!
Concede, Condi, concede!
Monday, January 24, 2005
Sunday, January 23, 2005
I'm a mega fan of whatevs.org, the website that coins pop culture neologisms faster than even me. And I envy it (the writer) for that.
I am ferociously tired - we spent Friday and Saturday shooting our campaign for Black History Month. I'm super excited about it. I co-directed with the incomparable Amanda, and together we are "Schwavey." Schwavey Gravy! And now we go into super post-production, so I might disappear for a little while.
On a small side note, i tivo'ed this week's SNL because I like Paul Gimatti and it fucking rocked my world. I laughed out loud several times -- zug? But, man! That variety show skit? Pushed all my love buttons. And Fred Armisen as the giant looking-straight-into-camera kitty? AWESOME.
Don't forget to watch "Wacky Families" tomorrow! And right before I dived into post-pro, I'm shooting the next installment of "Most Shocking" -- this one's about Paris. Oh, boy. I intend to drop as many Mulveyan-gaze-theory references as possible.
Friday, January 21, 2005
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Why am I crying? Find out next Tuesday, Jan 25 on "NOVA ScienceNow" --
8 pm on PBS
These are not reasons why I am crying:
1) my dog, "Hey You," just got run over by an ice cream truck
2) my best friend moved away
3) i lost a special crayon
4) spilled milk
You'll just have to watch to figure out what bizarre and intruiging circumstances could cause me to weep with such dramatic abandon.
And, hey, while you're busy programming your tivo -- watch All Access: Awesomely Wacky Families, Monday, January 24th at 10pm. (9 central, 8 everlovin' Mountain).
... and so, it's late, and we're crunching, because we're *this* close to launching into super mega production on our black history month campaign, and things are tense and stressy ... and then I get this email from my big boss (he's not big, but he's the muckiest mucky muck in my dept):
"I think you need some peanutbutter and jelly."
And he enclosed this link.
I saw this a few years ago, but he was right -- this is exactly what I needed to see RIGHT THIS MOMENT.
i have laughed so hard that I have wept off my mascara.
Peanut butter jelly with a baseball bat.
I am going to leave soon and attempt to pry my jaw open, possibly with a spoon. With a lever, I can move the world. And I've got 50 ways to love my lever.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
So I have the sinus-headache to end all sinus-headaches and so after the gym tonight, we vegged out in front of the t-vision and watched the 4 hour Scifi Battlestar Galactica, in preparation to start watching the actual series. HOLY SHIT. Did you WATCH THAT MOFE? It was so good. So so so so good. Granted, I am a scifi DORK (I prefer the term riot nrrrrrd) and I'm happy there's something on tv worth watching -- "Lost" has lost its way, "24" is poop this season, and I'm beginning to think I've seen all the CSIs worth watching. Their formula of "Something trendy goes awry" is starting to weary me. Ooooh, a foam club. Oooooh, s&M. Oooooh, lip venom.
Speaking of lip venom, I heart it. Josh and I were discussing it today and it's made of stuff like ginger, and apparently ingestion of lots of ginger can cause urethra discomfort. Which means it's safe to wear lip venom and then do other things to a person, "other" meaning south of the equator action, but your venomous lips won't do any urethric damage (unless you forcefeed crystallized ginger to your boo.) (which wouldn't be such a bad thing, i reckon. i lurf ginger). And who would steal your crystalized ginger? A very important question.
Anyhoo. I think a good CSI plot would be if lip venom (which gives you bee-stung lips) actually had bee toxins in it. Because then, if you were a trained assasin, you could kiss someone (or do some below the belt espionage) and if that person were allergic he or she would go into anaphylactic shock. Like Macaulay Culkin in "my girl." He's not wearing his glasses! Oh look, my mood ring turned blue. Flesh all amesh, and all that.
But, back to Battlestar Galactica! Watch the miniseries, post haste! It kicks serious butt.
Monday, January 17, 2005
"Most bizarre among the plans was one for the development of an "aphrodisiac" chemical weapon that would make enemy soldiers sexually irresistible to each other. Provoking widespread homosexual behaviour among troops would cause a "distasteful but completely non-lethal" blow to morale, the proposal says."
Um. Is this not the most offensive thing EVER? I know the Pentagon is all about "Don't ask / don't tell" but to state that widespread gayness would cause a blow to morale? As in, morale would be sucked off?
Oh man, if we could just end war by blowing morale, how sweet would that be?
Anyhoo. I think droppin' the gay bomb is the greatest kind of attack anyway. Many episodes of Grindhouse used to feature moments in which Jonny McGovern turned all of us gay, and we all ended up making out instead of fighting. We were lovers, not fighters! And it was lovely. And there were no enraged wasps or angry rats.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
My biggest question is: now that there are female transformers, why are there plotlines about romance and flirtation and jealousy? Why would male robots only develop romantic feelings when female 'bots joined the fray? I don't think robots would have sexual predatory/territorial feeling about other robots -- for one, I'd assume they wouldn't mate-for-life because they're robots and wait, they don't have to mate. It's not like you only get a baby robot when a boyrobot fucks a girlrobot, and why would they need to fuck anyway; surely all that grinding metal is not good for one's exoskeleton, and wouldn't robot-sex be more about triggering the pleasure nodes rather than actual insert-tab-A-into-slot-B humping? But I'd assume they just, whoomp, create new robots-- there's no intrauterine gestation or anything and thus no need for sexually derived recombination of genetic elements. because they don't have genes. anyway. i was stumped -- why did the boy robots only start feeling those 'love' feelings when the chick robots showed up? because if there were a cartoon about gay boy Transformers, i'd be watching the fuck out of that shit.
Anyway! So there's this Cheetah-robot Transformer named "Cheetor" (or something) and he's about to join in this fight between the good guys and a bad semi-dinobot that Megatron (the bad guy leader) created by inserting some robot parts into a real dinosaur, and the bad semi-dinobot is terrorizing the good guys and Cheetor shows up and yells, "I'm gonna add some hot Cheetor pepper and spice up the action!" And I thought -- damn skippy. I am SO going to start saying that.
And speaking of spicing up the action, I have been involved in waaaaay too many convos recently about a certain former lady wrestler's 3-inch clitoris. Yes, it's true. That's what steroids to your clitoris, ladies -- if you don't want a mini-penis, stay away from the 'roids. And so, because I have probably logged a good three hours discussing said (neologism alert!) penoris, it's here. Learn about it in context here, in a review of the porn movie in which it appears.
Last night's discussion of said appendage launched both a sidebar on the porn "freaky dicks" and about the need to level the playing field -- we were talking about (i'm going to be heteronormative here, sorry) how dudes look at chicks and they see the total package, but chicks have to wait until they reach a hand down the boxers and find out what kind of sea monster is lurking below the surface. And how that's just sorta unfair. Like if I'm at the beach in a bikini, it's all out there for anyone to see, thunder thighs and all. But dudes keep it a personal secret until they whip it out. We were talking about a standup I saw on tv when I was a kid who said that women's breasts should pop out when they got aroused -- so like you're at the beach, flat as a board, and a stud walks by and your breasts go kapow, kapow, and suddenly you have two breasts for all the world to see. Or, as my roomie just pointed out, I guess all us ladies have the opportunity to grow a penis whenever we want -- we could rock the 'roids. Boys can take steroids and shrivel up their penises, but they can't grow vaginas. But us chicks can take steroids and grow mini-dicks. Chicks with mini-dicks! And then we'd get the corner offices and the big bucks.
Hey! My buddy and pal Mike came over to play yesterday because he was in the 'hood and he took a photo of our Jesus/Mary optical illusion. We have a lot of psychedelic Jesus-y stuff around the house because it appeals to our ironichipsterkitsch weltanshaung. I just like that in our universe, Jesus is kitsch. Ha. Ha ha. Hey, look, in our universe, these things have ironic quirkyness: elementary school posters from 1960s about eating right and washing carefully; one of those moving-waterfall pictures often found in chinese restaurants; a vast collection of coffeemate bottles stripped of their labels so they're blank and vaguely android-like; Jesus.
Noah just talked to his mother and she and his stepfather are doing their annual check of their emergency go-bag -- it's stocked with flares and water and pills and iodine and tents and food and all that stuff. Which is hi-larious, because they live in Arizona, 15 miles away from the nation's second largest missile silo. As in, when the big one comes, so too goes Arizona. It's the same reason why we don't have an emergency anti-apocalypse go-bag -- we live in NYC. When the nukes hit, so too goes New York City. If we were all in bumblefuck Ottawa, I'd say sure -- pack that go-bag and maybe you can stick it out in the nuclear winter. But, living in NYC, which is certainly on the 'primary target' list, there's not much to worry about. Siren, flash of light, and then the undiscovered country. It actually makes it easier to sleep at night if you think about it this way.
La la la. The cute-boy-in-my-life is now in calimafornia. sniffle, sniffle. Oh! And to answer some questions from readers:
1). Yes, I am from Glen Rock, NJ. Perhaps you knew me by my previous name, which was "Becky." Let us speak no further of that name, although I'll happily try to be funny about my high school days. Remind me to tell ya'll about the defenestration of Westwood someday.
2). Greetings and salutations to Todd. He's one of those real-life bloggers and he's neat.
3). D, reggae
And to tie this all up, although I surely have strayed from the 5-paragraph essay format -- speaking of depression, the reason I saw "Freaky Dicks" was that I was really depressed once (as in: non-repressed depressed. And hung up on something. So I was totally obsessed non-repressed depressed. But I was stressed. And poorly dressed. A poorly dressed, stressed, totally obsessed non-repressed depressed person) and my friend Faceboy said, "I'm sorry you're depressed. Why don't you come over to my house and we'll watch "Freaky Dicks" and I thought, "You're the type of person out with whom I like to hang." I miss those days, back when we were doing "Wrong Fag To Fuck With" and, despite the depression, all was right with the world. But not with those freaky dicks!
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Anyone see the new trailer for that DeNiro / Dakota movie called "Hide and Seek" -- it ends with Dakota doing the scary/eerie/warning thing, "Come out, come out wherever you are."
It's just like Brittany Murphy at the of the trailer for "Don't Say a Word," when she does the scary/eerie/warning thing, "I'll never tell."
Don't you think Brittany's just spitting mad -- not only did Dakota upstage her throughout the entire piece of poo "Uptown Girls," which sucked, except for little Dakota being a snoot, BUT -- Dakota got the catchphrase/scary/girl thing like 15 years earlier than she did.
It takes years -- YEARS -- to generate a pop culture catchphrase like that, that'll bounce around comedy clubs and late night talk shows for a week or two, and Dakota has upstaged Brittany yet again.
Heh, heh. Awesome.
In other news, I shot pickups today for "Awesomely Bad Career Moves" and attempted to be funny, despite being so feverishly damp that the sound guy had to keep gaff taping the mic to my bod. Or maybe he just liked tickling my stomach. ooooooooh! No fair.
C'est vrai, I am illin' worse than Jakob Dylan, and Noah (my roomie) is sick, too. He's uber-sick; I went to work today but he was so sick he stayed home again and that's sayin' sumpin. Our cats are so confused why we're spending all our time in bed. In our respective beds, don't be silly.
And yes, I'm not in LA. I spent the day looking at headshots, trying to find real people to be our campaign for Black History Month. Stop with the fake headshots, people. Show me who you really are and not what you look like with the right lighting and two hours of makeup. Besides, real people look REAL, not like plastic androids. Please stop becoming androids -- stay real, yo, stay real.
I had dinner with Jay and Devra and it was sumptuous and energizing. How I love those cats, love 'em, love 'em, love 'em. But now my head, she is a-pounding, so I must take some NyQuil and have vivid and terrifying dreams. Again.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Oh boy. Rumors abound that David Lynch will re-release "Fire Walk With Me" for the collectors' edition of the DVD, with 17 deleted scenes. Hoooray, hooray.
I hope these rumors are true, like the rumors that Jennifer Garner is growing a mini-Aflack in her womb. Heh. Ben Affleck really ought to change his name to Aflac, seeing as he clearly has no qualms altering his very life for money (see the whole J. Lo incident, circa 2002).
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
1) Weird Al Yankovic was a paragon of wit, even if sometimes I didn't actually know the songs he was parodying (it was years before I realized that "King of Suede" was actually a parody of a real song called "King of Pain" and damnit if I didn't know which version I liked better) and I wrote countless song parodies of my own, hoping that someday I could be the next Weird Al -- I even dressed up as him for Halloween that year, with my dad's hawaiian shirt and eye-glasses, a stick-on mustache and an Annie wig that looked close enough to Al's own hairstyle
2) I was deeply, desperately in love with Micky Dolenz, from the Monkees. Nickelodeon was running the Monkees on during its after-school programming daypart, and my brother and I watched two episodes a night, religiously. We knew all the words to their songs and would often perform Last Train to Clarksville or Daydream Believer (which my brother always called "Sleepy Jean") in our living room, much to our parents' amusement. We even got my uncle's old vinyl Monkees albums out of storage in my grandparents' basement and we haunted our local video store until they special-ordered "Head" for us. I remember marching up to the counter and demanding, "How come you have "Hair" but no "Head" ???" and when it finally came in, we watched it with glee even though we had absolutely no idea what was going on. I loved the Monkees more than anything, wanted to live their life of madcap rock&roll punnery, and I wanted to marry Micky Dolenz.
So, that summer, we were all eating dinner one night. Adam and I were home from daycamp, tanned and chlorinated, and we were probably drinking lemonade because that's what you do in the summer. My dad said, "If you could go to one concert, if there were to be your DREAM concert, who would it be?" And I said, "WEIRD AL YANKOVIC AND THE MONKEES!" And my parents exchanged a glance and my mom said, "Guess who's playing at Great Adventure? Weird Al Yankovic and the Monkees!" It was like the Great Adventure Concert Series Gods looked into my little 8-year-old brain and created the ideal concert, just for me.
So we went to Great Adventure for the first time, and everyone was walking around wearing Monkees' tee-shirts (they were at the height of their renaissance) and my dad gathered us together and said, "Everyone's here for the Monkees. But Weird Al -- I think he's our family's guy. We're a Weird Al family."
We went on rides and ate junk food and Adam probably threw up and finally it was time for the show and sweet jesus, it was incredible. Weird Al played hit hits and brought out dancing Mr. Potato Heads and it was wondrous and joyous. And then, the Monkees came out (minus Mike Nesmith, on whom I was soon to develop an even-more-rapturous crush than my crush on Micky) and they sang and faux-played intstruments and Davy even came out wearing a dress for one number. Rapture.
Later that afternoon, we were walking through the park and my dad said Hi to someone. "Who was that?" demanded my mom. "Weird Al," said my dad. Zug??? So we ran after him and shook his hand and he signed stuff for us and then I sang him two of my parodies: "Stop in the name of lunch! Before I break your eggs, sunny-side-over" and one other one and by then a crowd had amassed and we sneaked off, and I vowed I would never wash my hands again.
BUT ANYWAY! So I am sick in bed with yet another buggy and Josh IM'ed me today with a nugget of joy so breathtakingly exciting that I thought surely he was joshing (heh) with me, trying to make me feel better. Could it possibly be that the Musician Booking Gods like me? Have I appeased them by going to so many shows over the years that I've lost track of who opened for whom and when? Have I been such a good little concert-goer that they're appreciating my devotion, like when God finally allowed Abraham to knock up Sarah so they could have their own little boy?
It appears so.
HOLY FUCKING SHIT. If my dad were to say, "Bex, if you could have one dream concert, who would it be?" I would say "MIKE DOUGHTY AND THE POLYPHONIC SPREE!"
Ask and ye shall receive, apparently. Musical joy at Irving Plaza and at Warsaw. In February, just when we most need that kind of awesomeness. And Warsaw is so close to my house, it means I can host a joy-gathering before and after the show.
OH BOY OH BOY OH BOY!
Mike Doughty! He's my number one 2004 album dude! And my fave dancing partner! And my fave fellow soup-devotee! HOLY HOT DAMN! HOLY HOT DAMN A REENAROONIE! And The Polyphonic Spree! My fave way to shake myself up and suspend my cynicism and experience communal joy and unison happiness! You can take your cult-insinuations and shove 'em, mac, because I think the human brain longs for the primitive sense of joy found in unison hand gestures and singalongs. There is no happiness like the happiness I feel at a Spree show, when I can suspend my hipster veneer of cynicism and over-it-ness and rock it the fuck out like the true hippie I am.
Oh joy, oh rapture, oh joyous rapture and rapturous joy.
Also, I am no longer going to LA tomorrow. Sorry, New York, you've got me for the two weeks I promised I'd disappear. But, no -- I'll be here. And for the time being, I'm being here in bed with (yet again) unchicken soup and cold medicine.
Sunday, January 09, 2005
Friday, January 07, 2005
Josh and I went to the new Barramundi tonight, and it's way more off the beaten path than the old Barramundi but equally as rad. We talked about love and sex and life and music and reflected on our two fave songs from frosh year of college - "True Dreams of Wichita" and "Janine" and how they're just the best. Once, Josh dropped acid and actually stepped inside that album and I believe him. Oh, how many mastubatory fantasies have taken place to that soundtrack, and oh, how wonderful. We also talked about the Pixies - I can't listen to them without singing aloud to Kim's parts -- a few nights ago, on the G home, I was listening to them, and i couldn't help but sing "this monkey's gone to heaven" out loud and some guy on the train was like, "woo, the pixies, woo!" it was awesome.
remember being so afraid of letting anyone touch you south of the equator? those days were kind of awesome in their innocence, and their implied lack of pressure/commitment. Ah, those were the days, indeed. I remember shying away, physically, from anyone who's hands ventured down there, and those days were easy indeed. Giving but not taking, as it were. These days are clearly much more exciting, but still, there was something awesome about those days of innocence and fear.
Anyway. My brain hurts and I'm sure none of this makes sense because I can no longer make sense because I have twisted and wrenched and milked my brain out of any sense-making capabilities. And tomorrow is Friday and I'm auditioning to host a new show on a new channel, so wish me hearts and stars.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
John: Gay aliens? Isn't that a Ridley Scott picture?
Bex: I think it's what he's got planned for the next one. Alien 5 - They're All Gay.
John: Sigourney Weaver was pretty gay in the first one.
Bex: In 7th grade, I took acting lessons with my friend Amy. And one exercise was to bring in a product from home and do a commercial about it. Amy brought in a cereal called "SW Grahams." And our teacher was asking her questions about it.
Teacher: SW Grahams. That's an interesting name for a cereal.
Amy: We named it after my uncle. His initials are S.W.
Teacher: Who's your uncle?
Amy: Um. Sigourney Weaver. She looks like a man so we call her our uncle.
(and ... scene).
In the same acting class, I pretended to be Audrey Horne modeling a new Sweater that I'd bought at Horne's department store. I strutted in, to the rich tones of Angelo Badalamenti's "Audrey's Dance" and tried to be sexy, but I didn't know how to do it back then. Also, I was the farthest thing in the world from sexy. Sigh. But I was head-over-heels obsessed with Twin Peaks and madly madly madly in love with Agent Cooper. Special Agent Cooper. Very special, indeed. Oh, Kyle Maclachlan. A tiny piece of my preteen heart still belongs to you. And the owls are still not what they seem.
Anyhoo! Hey! Friday night, The Neon Thrills are rocking the Merc. Come on out and dance with us. They're totally kicking ass, Pop Matters ranked 'em ABOVE the beastie boys for having one of the best albums of 2004 and they're rad. So, let me exhort you just like Bob (Bob from Bob's Discount Furniture, not SCARY BOB from Twin Peaks) used to: COME ON DOWN!
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee eeeeeeeeeeeeeee
(bars and tone, bars and tone, bars and tone!)
Monday, January 03, 2005
So a couple of days ago, I was discussing forming a band called The Fuck Truck (and our first album shall be titled: The Fuck Truck is An Analogy for Depression). I haven't been in a band in a long time. I have little-to-no musical ability, but I like to think that what I lack in talent, I make up for in heart. Lots and lots and lots of heart. And, seeing as earnestness is the new irony, I think it just might be time to be in a band again.
In high school, I was briefly in a band called the Gravy Beehive Hedgehogs, thus named because Jimmy's fambly is from England and they had hedgehods all over the house. Jimmy was our drummer and we practiced in his basement. The band consisted of all the awesome people from our high school's drama group -- they were all self-described 'dirty longhairs' and I adored every single one of them. Extreme schoolgirl infatuation, to the point where I would be late for band class in 9th grade because I'd take the long route to get there, just so I could cut through the courtyard where these guys smoked Marlboros in between classes. (Two years later, they'd banish smokers off school property, so they gathered on the street near the track, instead.) Anyway, so we mostly played covers of King Missile songs and I was supposed to learn how to play "Astronomy Domine" on my flute, but we broke up before we ever hit the stage at Glenstock.
In college, I was never in a band, but my housemates had lofty plans to perform Mr. Big's "To Be With You" in front of the campus center on bass and drums.
When I first moved to NYC, I was the go-go dancer and human incarnation of Janet Vodka (a mischievous rock sprite who dressed only in saran wrap), in the band Janet Vodka. You can see the mayhem here. And then I played bass in the comedy-grrrl band Hot Little Pieces of Ass with Shauna Lane and Jessica Delfino. They were the hot ones, but at least I certainly had ass.
And now I am bandless. And I think the time has come. Because if I'm not going to become a rock star in 2005 (The year of kickawesomeness), when will it happen? Shockin' awesome, man. Shockin' awesome.
So I spent the majority of this Sunday lying around like a lox. It was awesome. I don't think I've ever been so relaxed (or loxxed) in my entire life. AWESOME. Total sweet awesomeness. At one point, I said, "Look at me, lying around like a lox." And then I couldn't remember where that came from. I was thinking from a Woody Allen bit in Without Feathers or something, but I couldn't quite grasp it. So I put the little librarian in the back of my brain (the one who goes looking through all the layers of memories and information whenever you think you know something but can't remember it. he's the one who shoves the little nugget up into the front part of your brain at 4am so you endup sitting upright in bed screaming, "Roy Dawson was the smarmy host of Family Feud!" Or "Avogadro's equation!" or you finally remember the fifth verse to American Pie, even though you'd stopped thinking about trying to remember these things.)
Anyhoo! So because i'm an obsessive virgo, i figured out where LYING LIKE A LOX comes from. it's from a transcript of an early SNL faux commercial for Puppy Uppers and Doggy Downers. In the shooting script, it says "[Jill is visiting Joy, whose dog is lying like a lox on the living room floor. Joy throws a ball at the dog, but he just stares at it as it rolls by.] "
and, in this particular SNL book I have (from the early 80s,) one of the other writers has underlined 'lying like a lox' and written in "expression courtesy of F. Schuster."
Back in the dizzay, I pored copiously over this SNL book because i thought (and still do, actually) that a lot of the handwritten comments in it are hi-larious. And I guess "lying like a lox" stuck in my head. And then I decided to cross-reference "F. Schuster" in my brain and realized it must be Frank Schuster, who is the father of Rosie Schuster, an early SNL writer. Frank Schuster is also 1/2 of the legendary comedy team "Wayne and Schuster" and Frank Shuster was a total mentor to one of my heroes, Michael O'Donoghue (another early SNL guy, aka "Mr. Mike." aka a TOTAL FUCKING genius) and that i'd read about Frank Schuster in a Mr. Mike biography (by Dennis Perrin, it's called "Mr. Mike" and worth reading, fuck yeah).
and so! it's clearly MUCH COOLER than if it were just from a woody allen movie.
And then everyone got run over by a truck. (Thanks, Mr. Mike!)
In other news, STOP THE FUCKING PRESSES, my boy Jay Golon (aka "Fucking Einstein") is blogging.
In still other news, 2005 continues to be absolutely, completely, 100% kickawesome.
Saturday, January 01, 2005
HOORAY! HAPPY DAY! CALOO CALLAY!
And todays it's downright tropical outside and as soon as I finish these scripts, I am so going to go get a pedicure because sometimes I need to let my inner princess out.