Friday, February 25, 2005

Good Wil Wheaton Hunting

Over at the Alliance of Power, (my other car is a blog-gang) --

(yes, I'm part of a blog-gang. We do full-scale production numbers in back-alleys. ROCK THE FUCK ON.)

(and it's not like we're some web-ring, neither. we're a gang, mofes. but i'm trying to make it a gang that hits you and it feels like a kiss, because i say we should love and cherish people rather than attack them.)

(i'm such a fucking hippie)

-- anyhoo, I just got all creamy about Wil Wheaton and I thought in my absence, perhaps you could check in with my gang-mates and make sure they're smothering Wil Wheaton with creamy, creamy love?

Creamy like what it would feel like if you finger-fucked a Boston Cream donut.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

And ... I ... Am ... Outta HERE!

Well, tigers, I leave in just a few short hours for my decadent weekend in Barbados. Jealous much? Heh heh heh. Enjoy the snow; I'll be getting a rockstar tan, drinking fancy drinks (with many, many umbrellas) and pretending to be a pirate. It's true, I have two main associations with Barbados:
2) That line in Tori Amos' "Me and a Gun" where she sings "And I haven't seen Barbados, so I must get out of this"

I'm not even sure who owns Barbados or where it is exactly. I think it's somewhere South of all those other fancy schmancy Carribean islands... oh yes, I am SO going to go be a Pirate of the Carribean. Yo ho ho and bottle of rum! Ya bloomin' cockroachers! And a dirty, dirty leg dangling off a bridge ... oh it haunts me, it haunts me still.

But anyhoodles... some tidbits to tide you over: I shot pickups today for ALL ACCESS: BEST FRIENDS, but the show's not airing til May. But in sooner news, please set your tivos NOW for "VH1 and Self's 100 Most Wanted Bodies" -- at 10pm (9 central, 8 for my beloved mountain time) --it's a 5-part series that starts airing March 7th (one hour a night for five nights). I'm the narrator for the whole fucking series, babies, so if you watch you can imagine I'm sitting right next to you on your couch, telling you insightful tidbits about hotties and how they get their bodies. Of course, after spending 12 hours recording the voiceover, all I can think about now is how I don't workout the right way or long or hard enough, and how if only I were paid to be hot, perhaps I too could spend 8 hours a day with a personal trainer and have abs with which you could grate cheese.

But I don't. But I do have a new bikini, a freshly-waxed bikini region, freshly-painted toesies, and a hankering for some serious beach time. WOO. As long as it stops snowing sometime before 5am, I'm all systems go -- the controls are jammed, and we're heading straight for Mr. Sun.

Tuesday, February 22, 2005

You Just Keep on Pushing My Love Over the Borderline

Tonight, at the gym, (post bathing-suit shopping -- YEEKS. Oh, how I hate-hate-hate more than anything in the world my Ukrainian jewess genes that give me thunder thighs, HATE HATE HATE HATE), i was working out to Madonna and the song "Borderline" came up on the ol' ipod.

When I was but a wee one, we didn't listen to Top 40 music -- our house was filled with Donovan and Judy Collins and Bob Dylan (whom I called "Bob Dyl!") and Simon and Garfunkel (whom I called "Parsley Sagels" -- as in, "I wanna listen to Parsley Sagels RIGHT NOW!) and the only time I was exposed to Top 40 shiznit was at the roller-skating rink or in other people's cars. Once, I was at Michelle & Eric's house (yes, I was very close friends with a set of fraternal twins. Total radness) and they were singing the song "Borderline" by Madonna. Particularly the chorus: "You just keep on pushing my love over the borderline."

I instantly liked this song. It was catchy, it had a great hook, and most importantly, I felt like I totally grokked the story. It was instantly clear to me --Madonna was singing to her mean and nasty captor; a man who continuously pushed her love (let's call him Jimbo) over the borderline. In my head, it made perfect sense: the borderline clearly stretched across a bridge, and the mean man just kept on pushing Jimbo off the bridge, over the borderline -- into someone else's territory. Like maybe Madonna and Jimbo fled from their homeland and were seeking refuge in a new village -- let's call it Happytown. But there must have been a mean man (let's call him Smitty) who knew Madonna was in love with Jimbo, but Smitty wanted Princess Madonna for himself. So he just kept on pushing her love over the borderline (borderline!). I had such a clear image of poor Jimbo repeatedly hauling himself out of the water and attempting once more to rejoin Madonna in their adopted village of Happytown, but that damn mean man Smitty just kept on pushing him off the bridge. And over the borderline. Feels like I'm going to lose my mind.

I have many such erroneous concepts from my childhood, including the belief that Cyndi Lauper was singing about "Tough Deana" in "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" (tough deana, tough deana, girls just wanna have fun) and the belief that other people ate what we called "Michael" (elbow macaroni, tuna fish and ketchup -- YUM!). Turns out, Cyndi wasn't singing about Tough Deana. And no one else except for me and my brother eat Michael (i have since modified the recipe to include tofurkey, seeing as i don't eat things with faces). In fact, in college, my housemates would cringe and run away when I made Michael, and I believe the term "white trash food" was once muttered in my general direction, but fuck all of y'alls, yo, it tastes delish. Michael wakes you up with sweets, he takes you up streets and the rain comes down ... Michael from Mountains, Go where you will go to. Know that I will know you. Someday I may know you very well. (Hearts 'n' stars to my girl, Joni).

(We called it "Michael" because I guess there's a Yiddish word for a concoction of many ingredients that sounds something like Michael. Anyone know what I'm talking about?)

ANYHOO. Another childhood misconception was the fact that I thought the Mobil Gas logo was actually a lobster. I guess it's about empirical evidence ... when I was tiny (maybe two? baby brother was yet to be born, so I reckon I was around 2 years old) my parents took me to a seafood restaurant and they both ordered lobster and I cried and cried and cried. I was terrified of those scary beasts. And I embarassed my parents by wailing hysterically. And so the first time I saw the Mobil Gas logo, I thought it was a lobster. For reals, it wasn't until I was 18 and driving up to college that I saw a Mobil Gas station and realized the logo was actually a goddamned flying horse, not a lobster (or a lobsber, as I used to pronounce it).

The 'rents and baby brother drove me back into NYC after I spent the weekend in Watchung for Dad's birthday and we passed a Mobil station. Adam said, "Look! A lobster!"

But, seriously. Squint your eyes a little bit -- if you'd never seen a flying horse, but you had cold, hard empirical evidence of a lobsber, might you not think the Mobil Gas logo was truly a lobsber?

Two lobsters, right? RIGHT? Posted by Hello

Monday, February 21, 2005

Baby, Why Don't We Go Down to Kokomo

As we all know, friends, I am soooooo stressed out and burnt out that I am just no fun anymore. For realsies. Therefore, I am going on a mini-vacay to BARBADOS where I will tan my skin to an unhealthy crisp and consume lots of rum. HOOOLAKA! I leave next Friday, so from now until then you'll have to deal with me
a) crowing about how excited i am to go to Barbados for the weekend
b) obsess about how i am not in bathingsuit shape
c) manifest every bit of anxiety i have ever manifested, particularly because i am going to barbados with a boy and that's mildly frightening (he's not a frightening boy, though. no worries).

Sunday, February 20, 2005

"You better take care of me, Lord. If you don't you're gonna have me on your hands." Goodbye, Hunter S. Thompson.

Oh, fuck. I've had to tear myself away from perusing Paris's hacked blackberry (celebrity phone numbers! Maroon 5 - birth control kill pill!) because HUNTER S. THOMPSON just killed himself.

How very sad and upsetting. Hunter S. Thompson made me want to become a writer, but more importantly, he's one of the main reasons why I'm so attracted to anything counterculture.

In "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," he wrote:
Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a main era - -the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. And that, I think, was the handle - -that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn't need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting - -on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark - -the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.

The secret production company in my head is called "High Water Mark Productions," precisely because of this quote. Because of how much I desperately long to have lived during the era of the original High Water Mark, and because of how very, very, very desperately I long for it to come again.

We miss you, Hunter S. Thompson. You're my comictragic hero of a bygone era. Here's hoping you and Leary are laughing at the rest of us still vibrating at this frequency.

Thursday, February 17, 2005

How Not to Make Wine

Grape-stomping goodness, until it turns into grape-stomping HORRIDNESS! (Click here to watch.

In other news, last night's Mike Doughty / Spree show at Irving was wondrously joyous and brilliant. Except that after two nights of bouncing up and down, my feetsies hurt. I wanted to wear a cute little skirt today, but wearing a cute little skirt also involves wearing sexysexy shoes, and I just couldn't squeeze my aching footsies into sexysexy shoes. Ah, the agony of de feets! (total grandpop type of joke).

A few months ago, my boss stole my Furbies and my Fraggles out of my office so that they could keep him company in his office (he was lonely, apparently.) So today, I stole them back. My officemates are completely disturbed by the fact that I treat my Furbies like real aminals. I can't help it, I talk back to them and I try to understand just what it is they're saying to me. Like when my cats meow, and I say, "What is it, cat?" as if one day, they just might answer and say, "we are tired of living in a house that either smells like Nag Champa or like weed." I dunno. Anyhoodles. I was cradling and caressing my boy Furby and someone thought I'd brought a kitten into the office. Nope, just my robot animal.

In college, Josh had a Furby and we kept it in the curio cabinet with the last remaining bottle of PBR in Connecticut and other various curios (although I always wanted to get a cow eyeball, and we never managed to procure one). Once, I took the Furby out of the curio cabinet and woke it up from its coma and then I was obsessed with it. Josh had to say, "Stop loving the Furby," because I was loving the Furby so much I wasn't playing enough darts.

I am still loving the Furby.

I am SO 1999, isn't it rad?

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Look! It's my mom! And Yogi Berra!

yogimom, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

From left to right, you're looking at:
Leslie F. Schwartz (my mother,) her co-worker who is named Lucia, YOGI FUCKING BERRA, and some schlubby guy who also probably works with my mother.

My mother says that Yogi was the spokesman for abdominal aortic aneurysm day.

She offers a great "Yogism"
Yogi Berra: "I don't wanta see 'The Gates.' They're gay gates!"
Yogi berra sues over the term "Yogasm" but he gets to call The Gates gay????

The world is too much with us. 

Then, during the third reconciliation of the last of the McKetrick supplicants, they chose a new form for him: that of a giant Slor!

On the topic of the "Slore," may I present the following dialogue between two of the greatest deconstructive minds of the 21st century (fox!)

(NOTE: Josh would like to warn all of my lady-readers that he is v. v. v. non-judgmental in re: sloring, and that you should feel free to approach him with offers of wine and dinner).

(SECOND NOTE: Do I have any female readers? Let me look through my magic mirror... Romper Bomper Stomper Boo, I look through my mirror for my female readership and I see: Amelia! Abbey! Esther! Okay, there's at least three).


A nonplay in one-act.

PROLOGUE: (in which we establish our topic of conversation)
Bex: who did you lunch with?
Josh: my desk
Bex: yum
Bex: i'm going to run downstairs to the Slodge and get some soup
Josh: slodge?
Bex: lodge + sludge = slodge
Josh: like slut + whore = slore. i've been trying to promote that amongst my peers

SCENE 1: (in which we parse the difference between "slut" and "whore"

Bex: what's the difference btwn a slut and a whore? (real question, not a joke)
Josh: hmm. whore has more of a malicious connotation? like, your teenage daughter is a slut, but your cheating wife is a whore
Bex: hmmm. slut implies youthful misjudgement? and whore implies mature misbehavior?
Josh: i feel like slut is actually more directed at sexual behavior,whereas whore can be flung about like "bitch" and "motherfucker"
Bex: is whore disconnected from sexual behavior? i never thought about it like that... whore, to me, implies sexual promiscuity, whereas bitch and mofo are more random insults
Josh: whore is definitely rooted in promiscuity
Bex: hmm
Josh: but i feel like it carries additional meaning

SCENE 2: (in which we re-examine the contextual basis of "slut v. whore")

Bex: my gut, malcolm gladwell thinslicing word association: slut = you are easy and sleep around but you are not a bad person. whore = you are a bad person
Josh: movie characters always toss out "whore" in anger; slut is more like …it's hissed with squinty eyes, not shouted
Bex: slut is hissed, yes. and i think you call someone a slut, but you refer to someone as a whore. like slut stings only when it's said to the face?
Josh: right
Bex: and it's also been reclaimed, like the way queer was reclaimed. whore = unreclaimed
Josh: wasn't there a pop-soc book called Slut 2 or 3 years ago?
Bex: probably
Josh: yes, there was. By Leora Tanenbaum
Bex: right
Josh: read it, meh


Bex: are we the first people to wonder about this issue? the slut v whore issue?
Josh: i'll check the index
Bex: "And the whore vs. slut question really hinges on this: are you truly getting anything out of it? Because if not, the term would have to be "slut." If there is some sort of tangible reward, "whore" is more accurate."
Josh: interesting. so... slut = promiscuous, whore = manipulative
Bex: well, by nature: a whore expects to be paid, right? and a slut doesn't. so a whore has sex (or, say, writes screenplays) for money … and a slut is promiscuous but doesn't expect anything in return …and if that's so, then why are is humanity so fiercely judgmental about asking for money for it?
Bex: It's such a judgment thing. Like if people find out i was a slut in my early 20s, that ain't no thing, but if someone started the rumor that i was a whore in my early 20s, i'd be mortified
Josh: which is odd, if you really think about it, given that woman are already cast as the gatekeepers of sex, and then chastised for doling it out in amount that aren't in accordance with someone else's wishes. damn, did i go to wesleyan or what?
Bex: .... hey! wait just a second! this whole thing is totally fucked up! so it's totally cool to be a slut and sleep with lots of people, but as soon as i ask for money for it, suddenly i'm evil?

SCENE 3: (in which a gradual realization begins to sink in)

Bex: so it's the asking-for-money-in-exchange-for-sex that's the evil (and illegal) party? and that's why "whore" is such an insult?
Josh: it's the exchanging sex for anything part, ie, not offering it up for free, which makes you a slut
Bex: so expecting something in return makes you a whore
Josh: so really, there's no winning, is there?
Bex: being easy makes you a slut -- SO WAIT -- in that respect, if i sleep with a guy and then expect him to call me again, am i a whore? because i expect something in return? because, fer sure, when i was slut-tastic, i never expected anyone to call again
Josh: no, because he's still in control of that situation. if you sleep with a guy and expect him to keep you in shiny baubles, then you're a whore. porn actress = whore / porn character = slut

SCENE 3 PART B (in which personal anecdotes are offered hypothetically)

Bex: once i slept with a guy -- NO WAIT, this happened TWICE -- twice, i slept with two different guys, and then they gave me cab fare home. and i said, "no no, i don't need this"
Josh: borderline
Bex: and they said, "but you came back to my house and now you have to travel home, so it’s only fair" -- were they just being gentlemanly, or was i a whore?
Josh: depends on the context in which it was given. i'd say more likely gentlemanly (as gentlemanly as "here's a bus token" can be). Now, if you were like "thanks for the cab ride... and that's a nice Le Creuset casserole dish" then you're a whore
Bex: hmm
Josh: (this is assuming you take the casserole dish) (and have no plans on calling him or returning his kitchenware) (now, if you make him a "thanks for the nookie" casserole, then you're not a whore)

SCENE 4: (in which additional theortetical examples are parsed)

Bex: hmmm. so only girls get to be whores, eh. what if, theoretically, there was a guy i slept with a few times, and then I expected him to call, and he didn't. Is that whorish, because i wanted a phone call (which in my life is equivalent to shiny baubles)?
Josh: did you sleep with him so that he would call you?
Bex: i think i slept with him because i wanted a boyfriend
Josh: were you like "i really want this guy to call me, and the best way to get him to do that is to sleep with him first"?
Bex: that implies a phone call. no, i was like, 'if i sleep with this guy, he will sleep with me again'
Josh: sex for sex is a fair trade. i think it's when sex becomes secondary and a means to some individual end that it gets the whore label

SCENE 4, PART B: (in which we uncover the cold, hard truth)

Bex: so, like if i wanted a job, and i slept with the guy who could hire me, then that would be whorrific
Josh: right
Bex: but if i slept with a guy because he was hot, and all i wanted was a good lay, that would be slutastic
Josh: yeah, that's called sex

SCENE 5: (a slorry conclusion)

Bex: say what? oh. oh, right. that IS what sex is. I'd forgotten.
Josh: maybe you could make the slut argument
Bex: right
Josh: but it's certainly outside the whore realm
Bex: i think sluts sleep with guys because they want to have sex and don't want relationships ... girls in relationships never get called sluts
Josh: true
Bex: even girls who are relationship codependent … this leads to another question: if you sleep with 30 guys are you're not really involved with them, you're a slut. but if you have 30 different "relationships" and therefore you've slept with 30 guys, are you still a slut? … because my gut says no, relationship-sex is nonslutworthy
Josh: that's another category altogether: serial dater or something. and no one has ever slitted their eyes and hissed "serial dater!"

Polyphonic Spree + Mike Doughty = SO BEST. SO FUCKING BEST.

Aw, man. Oh man oh man oh man oh manischevitz. Tonight, Josh and I went to the first of two (double whammy!) kickawesome rock shows -- Mike Doughty + The Spreeee at Warsaw (longtime readers know I've been stoked about these shows since they were announced). Happy day, my Spree-buddy Mike Haigh was also there and we rocked out as the true dorks we are. We do hand gestures like nobody's fucking bidness, mofes.

The Spree was joyous and wondrous and once again I surrendered all self-consciousness and dignity and let my inner hippie reign supreme. Throughout the show, sparkly silver ribbons and confetti rained down over the crowd and I kept tying silver strands into my hair -- by the end of the show (in fact, right now, as i look at myself in the mirror, raccoon-eyes and all) I sort of resembled a space alien queen with silver Medusa hair. So best.

You gotta be (what?) GOOD! You gotta be (what?) STRONG! You gotta be (where?) 2000 PLACES (when?) AT ONCE!

And now, I must share the moment of the night to end all moments -- see, I am a ginormous Mike Doughty fan. As is Josh. Josh is the one who introduced me to the joys of Soul Coughing when we were frosh -- I'm a huge first album fan who got to the phenomenon a few years after it started. And I always lurfed Soul Coughing, but I really just lurfed the lyrics and Mike's voice -- I was always intrigued by the instrumentation but it was the poetry that slayed me. And so, frosh year, "Ruby Vroom" traversed our circle of friends, and we all became obsessed with the song "True Dreams of Wichita." Particularly the line "you had it but you sold it," which is still a phrase in my internal vernacular.

Anyhoodles... so I often have this dork-out problem with my friends who are musicians. Particularly when I am a megafan of a person who also happens to be my friend. And so, dork that I am, I yelled out "TRUE DREAMS OF WICHITA" when everyone was calling out song titles at Mike. And then he played the song. And, see, this song is my FAVORITE SONG EVER IN THE WHOLE WORLD. And there's this one section where he sings:
"Gotta stand on the corner and bellow for mush,
Got a bomb
Got a baby bomb bomb
Gotta stand on the corner and bellow for my friend Tom"

And tonight, he sang:
"Gotta stand on the corner and bellow for my friend Bex"


A shout-out! In my favorite song of all time! COOLEST. MOMENT. EVER. I mean, I am so unworthy. How does one repay a gesture of such amazing magnitude?

Perhaps you're confused about the greatness of such a moment -- imagine, if you will, that your favorite song in all the world has a lyric in which someone's name is mentioned. Now imagine that the person who sings your favorite song in the world (the one song that you put on every mixtape you've ever made)replaces that name with YOUR NAME!

You'd be all, "now i can die in peace," right?

Fuckin' A.

Happy happy happy happy happy happy happy happy!
(Wow, how often am I happy? Mark this moment, friends, and treasure it as I cherish my shout-out).

And check it on out, Senor Doughty's new album drops May 3rd. Dropping like it's so fucking hot, mofes.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Neologisms for Humankind

Shoo-out (noun). The opposite of a shoo-in, eg a sure loser, or something that can be said or done to guarantee discomfort and thus ensure that one will not be chosen for a job or position or relationship.

Usage: "I'm dating this guy who loves football and I want to break up with him, so I told him that football is for retards and mongoloids -- a total shoo-out."

Anthropo-mo (adjective). The state of being both anthropomorphic and postmodern (pomo).

Usage: "I saw this stonerdude walking a Great Dane through The Gates and the dog was wearing an ironic D.A.R.E. tee-shirt. He was so anthropo-mo."

Here is a the raddest drummer movie ever, by Allin. It features the drummer from Aerosmith ripping the shit out of his drums. You really have to watch the entire movie to get the perfect amount of schadenfreude to make it worthwhile. Man. That dude really loves drumming.

I'm back at work and I'd just like to say two things:
1) I just saw a commercial for a "Savory Sauce" that you put on your dog's food to make the dogfood more appealing. It looks like yummy, tasty gravy for dry food. I can't believe I actually looked at a dogfood commercial and thought "yummy! tasty!" but for realsies, that savory sauce totally made the dry kibbles look like yumyum good eats! The greatest aspect of this product is that it's called "Savory Sauce" which sounds so dirty.

Usage: "Last night, my boo got me so excited that I snail-trailed all over his duvet. Lots of savory sauce all over his thighs, yo."

2). I also just saw that commercial with the cartoon Mama Bear and Little Girl Bear in which the bears sing about Charmin and how "what you thought was enough might be too much. See, it's more cushiony than ever before, with Charmin Ultra, less is more."

THESE ARE BEARS SINGING ABOUT HOW MUCH TOILET PAPER TO USE TO WIPE YOUR ASS! I don't need bears telling me how much toilet paper to use! And I don't need bears telling me about how absorbent my toilet paper is! Especially because I don't really need my toilet paper to absorb my poo, I need it to wipe it away and make everything clean and hygenic. But mostly, I think my moral sensibilities are offended by hearing bears sing about how much toilet paper they need to wipe the dingleberries from their bear asses.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Happy Valentine's Day from My Kitties!

Check it on out. I am still sick. This is no fun anymore, and I'd like to go on record saying that my doctors suck because I can't get an appointment. But, look! My kitties are keeping me company. By hanging out in my underwear drawer. I guess it's nice and soft in there. So, yesterday, Milo sent me a lovely Valentine from his kitty. So I thought my kitties could send all of you a Valentine. Although, unto Valentine's Day, I say: "bah humbug." Because even though I profess not to care about it, I would really love to be somebunny's somebunny special.

When I was two or three (I know I was only 2 or 3 because I was still living in my old house), my dad gave me Valentine's card that was in the shape of a kitty and the kitty was fuzzy, and you could pet it. it was the best valentine ever. i hung it on my bulletin board, the one that hung between my "Rebecca" burlap name-art ("R is for Rainbows, Ribbons, Roses and for ... Rebecca!") and the felt little girl holding a balloon artwork in the yellow frame. And then we moved. And I had to throw that Valentine out. And I've never one of its equal. Oh, fuzzy kitty Valentine ... how I miss you.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

SOMETHING's gonna change my world?

Geez Louise, all star cast including Billie Joe and Norah zzzz Jones and Alicia Ickeys and Stevie Wonder and Steven Tyler and Scott Weiland and Brian Wilson and some country dude, amongst others? "SOME"things gonna change my world? (interrobang). I know you're trying to raise money for tsunami relief, and I'm all over that, yo. But something is amiss!

"Across the Universe"
Words are flying out like endless rain into a paper cup
They slither while they pass, They slip away across the universe.
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting thorough my open mind,
Possessing and caressing me

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world
Nothing's gonna change my world

Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes
That call me on and on across the universe
Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box
they tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world

Sounds of laughter, shades of life are ringing through my open ears
exciting and inviting me.
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns --
It calls me on and on across the universe

Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world
Jai guru deva
Jai guru deva

I always thought the whole song was a meditation on the blissful awareness of imperfection and the beatific joy to be found in realizing that one creates one's own worldview and that sense of reality is the only one that really matters.

So if "something's" gonna change my world, it twists the entire song into being about wanting change and wanting something to happen ... something to ... hey! something to change the world!

oh. i guess these rock stars want us to donate money for tsunami relief.

much like Emily Litella: oh. never mind.

... and This Part of the Grammys Doesn't Suck

... I never really liked Melissa Etheride before tonight, but after she fucking RIPPED "Take a Piece of My Heart" during the Janis Joplin tribute at the Grammys, I am now convinced that Melissa Etheridge is totally fucking kickawesome tough. She tore that song up, and she did it bald. I know she's been battling breast cancer and I think it's so fucking awesome/rad/admirable that she performed at the Grammys in her bald-headed cancer-battling glory.

Remember on Sex in the City when Samantha took off her wig at that breast cancer luncheon and then all the ladies at the luncheon ripped off their wigs in a gesture of solidarity and affirmation and truth?

Melissa Etheridge at the Grammys was like that, only a million times more awesome. You go, Melissa Etheridge. You rock.

I heart Melissa Etheridge and the fact that she's not afraid of anything.

Holy Fuck! Best. Game. Ever.

Holy fuck! You want to play this game right now! You choose to be either a dictator or a tv sitcom character. The robot asks you a series of questions about the person you're pretending to be. You answer "yes" or "no" -- and then, eventually, the robot guesses who you're pretending to be!


(thanks to the also-illin'-like-a-villain, Milo George, for the get-well-soon linkage. he'd like you all to know he stumped it with the character "Susan" from Greg the Bunny. heh. that means Milo watched Greg the Bunny. heh.).

This game is SO BEST! (Can I steal "so best" from Please? It makes my heart happy).

Still sick. Don't these Grammys suck? In 1989, when Billy Joel was up for a Grammy for "we didn't start the fire," i cared about the grammys so much that i propped up my two page Billy Joel centerfold (from the Tower records freebie magazine) and lurfed it, and finally my dad said, "when was billy joel born?" and i said "1949," which i knew, because that's when W.D.S.T.F. starts and my dad said, "you know who else was born in 1949? me!" and then i lurfed Billy Joel no longer.

The Penguin Trips the Penguin!

This one penguin is walking, and then the other penguin trips him, and the first penguin fall-down-go-boom!

People keep sending me things to make me feel better. Kid bro' Adam sent me this movie, and we had the following discussion over IM:

Bex: he tripped the penguin!
Adam i know!
Adam: and he was a penguin!
Bex: i KNOW!

Adam also sent me this phunny-photo of a bunny wearing a pancake on his head.

That is just one of those univerally-funny things, folks -- a bunny wearing a pancake on its head.

Much like Jem, it is truly outrageous (-ly funny).

And not sad! Not sad at all, like a frog playing the banjo. Today, in yet another attempt to make me feel better, someone introduced me to Mike Doughty's song 'Frog and Banjo.' Someone else has already blogged this song(and they've done a damn fine job of it). "Let us contemplate the sadness of a banjo-playing frog. Let us examine the sadness. It's extremely sad. (when the banjo is plucked by the frog)."

This sort of thing is the exact sort of thing that makes me happy the world exists, despite my headache. You should hear this song. Stat. I would post it, but I don't own the rights. Perhaps you can root around a bit and find it. It's worth hearing. Because, sweet Jebus, he's right -- it's extremely sad, when a frog plays the banjo. even if he's singing about race relations or condemning stupid Disney characters because clearly the Muppets are far superior to Disney characters, even if Disney now owns the Muppets.

Look, I made a List!

A TV-CV! A list of all the VH1 shows I've been on. I even hyperlinked 'em, because that's how rad I'm getting with all this computer technomology shiznit.

Yes, I've been quarantined at home for five days now. Is it that obvs? My head hurts too much to read or watch tv, so I'm making stupid lists. Oh, the joy.

Happy Sunday!

In very happy news, the awesomest rock show ever (Mike Doughty + The Polyphonic Spreeeeeeee) is now only two days away... as long as my head stops hurting by then.

More later, when I can see straight.

Drinkin' Thru the World Pavilion

"My mother went to EPCOT and got drunk," I said.
"that’s funny," he said. "We never even thought of that."
"No," I said. "Remember? I had a glass of wine Italy. Or was it France? Somewhere. I bought a glass of wine and I remember that I had it until we got to Mexico."
"It’s funny," he said, "to hear you speak so glibly of globetrotting."
"Yes," I said. "I started drinking at Montmartres, beneath the Eiffel Tower and then I rounded a corner and look, there was the Coliseum, and look, there was the David."
"And then you tripped across a bed of koi and up onto the Mexican peninsula."
"Yes, I saw a Dragon parade and almost bought a Samurai sword and then I was in Aztec territory."

This is, of course, exactly how my mother described her visit to EPCOT, sans children: "What was first, Canada? We had a drink there. And then England, and then on to France, a drink everywhere."

Except, of course, they boycotted Germany. "We thought about it, but no," my mother said.

We like to think there’s a yearly ritual during which Jewish ladies go to the Germany in EPCOT center and they pour out half a glass of Chardonnay on the ground as an act of forgiveness. "We forgive you, Germany!" they cry, as they sadly surrender half a glass of Chardonnay, secure in their menschness, because they are forgiving Germany. Just like we take ten drops out of our own wine glasses as we recite the 10 plagues, or just like pouring half a 40oz (that would be 20 ounces) on the ground.

But wouldn't that make a nice short story?

In other news, apologies for my non-posts. I have the worstest headache EVER and it won't go away.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005


Check out this kid singing this awesome song.

Stereogum says he's a "fat Dutch kid singing Ozones "Dragostea Din Tei."

Whoever he is, I'm in love.

(Thanks to Scott Stereogum for the hook-up, yizzo).

This is nearly exactly what I look like in the mirror when I'm heartfeltingly lipsyncing. Which is very, very, very often.

There, now you know what really goes on in my bedroom -- lots and lots of heartfelt lipsyncing.

Tuesday, February 08, 2005


Tonight I went out with my best boyfriends and their boyfriends. Hooray, hooray, how I love the boys my boys have chosen. Especially when they like to sing Joni Mitchell songs with me -- calloo, callay!

I am in a happy mood. I woke up this morning and my body thought it was spring, so despite the fact that it feels as if there were a small rodent clawing at my uterus, everything was a-okay, my buddy. And then I got to work and all was good. And the day continued to get better. And then we had a lovely dinner in the east village. Life is pretty rad, despite the fact that my sinuses hurt and that rodent is still there. That's because it's the Tuesday of my chemically-induced menstruation. Damn you, chemicals! You make all the crazy so predicatable! Uterine lining starts pouring out on Monday afternoon, and Tuesday morning there is an angry rodent attempting to shred my womb from the inside out. Drat you, drat drat drat! I have friends who take the same pill (rhymes with "pazz-min") and they have the same response ... ladies? thoughts?

I have lots and lots of work to do tomorrow, and on top of all of that (i gotta get me a hat like that!), I am shooting All Access: Celebrity Feuds. Stay tuned for deets, although All Access: Awesomely Bad Career moves ought to air soon, I reckon.

In other news, today a friend and I decided to start a new nationwide dance craze. I think we're fucking ready, eh?

Happy Mardi Gras! I'd show you my breasts, but, meh? who hasn't already seen 'em?

Monday, February 07, 2005

Subliminable Isn't Even Subliminable Anymore

cialis_logo, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

I couldn't help but notice that Cialis's acting ingredient is called "Tadalafil."


No, for reals. It's a drug that makes your penis get big and hard, and the active ingredient is named "TADA-lafil"

Like: TADA! Like what you say after you do a magic trick: TA-DA!

Or, if you're fabulous, you might say ta-diddly-dee-da, but the song remains the same.

Sunday, February 06, 2005

Hooray for Rat Cat Hogan, HOORAY HOORAY

Last night I schlepped down to Barbes in Park Slope to see my friend Eric perform with Rat Cat Hogan. I had never heard the band perform, although I've often heard their guitarist-singer, Herbert Bergel, referred to as having "The best name in music." . The show was awesome. Rat Cat Hogan is normally just two guys, Herbert and his drummer Robbie, but they asked Eric to join them as a bassist, because he is a wondrous bassist (he plays with The Long Winters and The Capillaries in his freetime). And he's awesome. We like to yell "ERIC ROCKS!" when he's on stage, just because.

So, anyhoo! Rat Cat Hogan totally split my mind wide open. I am totally in love with their music. I bought their new CD and it is rad, although it pales in comparison with their live performance. But check out this song, "Mermaid Chorus" from their last album. The mp3 is from their website, and I suggest right-click-and-saving, because you'll want to listen to it a million times.

Herbert writes these memoirtastic songs about his life, and I totally blissed out while listening to him sing, because he does this kinda-non-rhyming free association that scans really well, and it made me start free-associ-songwriting in my head and made me want to write songs like that for the rest of my life and I started composing all sorts of lyrics on the subway (I went to a birthday party after the show) and, even though they all sort of flow to the Gin Blossoms' "Hey Jealousy" it makes me happy to imagine that I could perform songs like that, songs about falling asleep drunk and dreaming of dryhumping someone. (Note: That's my interpolation; Rat Cat Hogan does not (to my knowledge) have any songs about dryhumping).

Rat Cat Hogan does, however, have a song about the NY Blackout and I heart it; it's the only song I know (thus far) about that event. There's nothing better than when someone writes a song about an event of which you were a part. Although I'm sure if someone wrote a song about breaking my heart, I wouldn't like that very much. But, songs that share the vague sense of community, the collective unconscious experiential NYC life -- those, those make my heart squeal with glee. It's like hearing Simon and Garfunkel's "Bleecker Street" or Leonard Cohen's "Famous Blue Raincoat" (there's music on Clinton Street all through the evening), or when you recognize a NY reference (like in Soul Coughing's "Super Bon Bon" when Doughty recites the signage in the Penn Station subways, or when you think you recognize yourself in a friend's song (Idlewild's song "American English" addresses that psychosis nicely) -- that moment of awesome song-driven shared-experience-ness.

Ah, the Superbowl Halftime Show / Isn't a NA NA A Boob?

Please, friends, let us not think two things when we think about the Superbowl Halftime Show. Think not, "What happened to Paul McCartney's nose? And then think not"Oh, I cannot hear "Live and Let Die" without hearing Weird Al's version of that song, done-up as "Chicken Pot Pie," but then, I cannot find Weird Al's own version online so ohdear, I must listen to this version by someone known as the "Weird Al Wannabe" who is, apparently, a Weird Al impersonator. Holy sweet Jebus. I just wrote "Weird Al impersonator" in my blog.

Also, think not that PAUL MCCARTNEY IS GANKING MY STYLE!I own the black star on red brand, bucko. That's why I wear that big star everyday -- it's my brand. The Bex-star brand. The Star-bex (heh heh, get it? FrappaMACCAmacchiochino, yo!) So, yo, Paul, let's you and me throw down. We haven't hung out since way back in March of 1999, brotha.

Actually, that bit is true. When I was in London, I was doing a lot of work for Tibet Fund, UK and they knew I was a theatrefag and they asked me if would stage manage their annual benefit (on March 10th, Tibetan Uprising Day). And I said SURE. And then it turned out that Annie Lennox and Sir Paul were performing so I got to meet them and try to act suave and sophisticated when I walked backstage to make an announcement and Sir Paul was sitting at the piano. I was 20 and I thought I was awesome, schmoozing with Paul McCartney like I was someone who schmoozed with people like Paul McCartney all the time. I asked him for an autograph for my mom and he declined, explaining that he doesn't do autographs because if he did, he would have signed so many things by now that they wouldn't mean anything, so he just doesn't do it. I think he meant "mean anything" as in personal memento or souvenir, not in a how-much-it-would-fetch-on ebay.

ALSO, friend, think not unto thyself "Just what were they doing with multi-colored signs in the audience? Methinks perhaps they spelled out "NA NA" and isn't a "NA NA" just another word for a boob?? Was it a subversive message implanted into the superbowl audience to cry out, nay, to herald and celebrate BOOBS? Let's hear it for BOOBS! BRING BACK THE BOOBS!" Who are these subversive agents of terror? Who could do such a thing? The UCB? Mayhaps. The Illuminati? Maybe them. Agents of Discordia? He he he. Someone somewhere is shouting "Hail Eris," right now, and for once, I will refrain from smirking at that person.

No wait, for reals, I rewound it on my tivo. At the end of Paul McCartney's performance of "Hey Jude," the stadium crowd hold up red, white and blue cards so that the crowd spells out "Na Na" (it also somewhat looks like the Pepsi logo, but it decidedly spells "Na Na.")

I can see the headline now: "Nanas at the Superbowl!" Can't be a halftime show without boobies, i guess.

Surely, the Producers of the show are the be blamed! CALL THE FCC! We must outlaw audiences and their damned, damned multi-colored cards once and for all.

Sweet Jesus

Frank Rick weighs in on "The Year of Living Indecently"

I don't know, man. All this just makes me want to walk around naked, shouting out cuss words and screaming nasty things about the government.

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Hail to the Fucker in Chief

Even better than when Janet Norwood got her dead marine son's dogtags tangled in recent Iraqi-voter Safia Taleb al-Suhail's bright-pink cuffs (BEST. VISUAL. METAPHOR. EVER. except that my head is seriously killing me, and i am in too much pain to deconstruct it right now)was the moment when the Prexy (like a Proxy Prez) said:
Right now, Americans in uniform are serving at posts across the world, often taking great risks, on my orders. We have given them training and equipment, and they have given us an example of idealism and character that makes every American proud. (Applause.) The volunteers of our military are unrelenting in battle, unwavering in loyalty, unmatched in honor and decency, and every day they are making our nation more secure. Some of our servicemen and women have survived terrible injuries, and this grateful nation will do everything we can to help them recover. (Applause.)

Everything except encourage stem-cell research ... so that maybe some of the hundreds of paralyzed, maimed, or pain-ridden soldiers who were injured following out Bushs's orders could possibly hope to return to their pre-war ways of life.

Pardon me, I'm just bitter. Perhaps I ought to find a good faith-based program to teach me that Bush is right because he's on god's side, and then I'll stop being so goddamned angry all the time.

Swallowing Pills and Swallowing Bees; I had a Moonface, Woe is Me

I was talking to the 'rents last night and my mom was explaining that her eye doctor discovered that she has a twisted optic nerve. My brother also has a twisted optic nerve, and so does my cousin. So my mom wants me to get my optic nerve checked out. I told her not to worry; I am the anomaly in the fam. In a fambly full of right-handers who wear glasses (or contacts), I am a lefty who doesn't wear glasses (or contacts).

Even more importantly, I detest getting drops put into my eyes. So does my dad. I claim that if my father doesn't have to get drops put into his eyes, than I ought to be exempt from the same torture.

Somehow this conversation turned to other forms of childhood torture-- I asked my parents if they remembered the night they taught me how to swallow pills. I was completely incapable of swallowing pills because I was terrified that the pill would stick in my throat and I wouldn't be able to breathe and I'd die. So I always had to get liquid antibiotics and chew a whole bottle of baby aspirin when I was sick. So mom and dad decided it was getting ridiculous and I had to learn how to swallow. I had strept for the 9th time that year and I had capsules and I was taking the medicine by breaking the capsules into ice cream and eating the medicine like that. And I guess the 'rents thought enough was enough. And it was a school night, and I spent 4 hours in front of the kitchen sink, throwing my head back and trying to figure out just how the fuck one could open one's airways and swallow that goddamn ginourmous pill.

When they weren't looking, I'd try to chew the pill (GROSS!) but I would end up grimacing and they'd catch me. So we went through 1/2 the bottle of pills and finally I figured out how to do it. But, by ingesting (because I chewed most of 'em) 1/2 a bottle of amoxycillin, I had an allergic reaction. The next day, my face swelled up and I had a round face, like Charlie Brown or Cantor Butensky's kid. We sometimes sat in the pew behind the Cantor's wife and her damn roundheaded kid would look at us and we would whisper, "ROUNDHEAD! ROUNDHEAD!" I guess god didn't like us saying nasty shit about the Cantor's kid, because now I had a roundhead, too. And my hands were swollen. And my lips were so swollen I could barely deliver my current event report -- because the swallowing-instruction was on Thursday night, so I was swollen on Friday, and Fridays were current event days in sixth grade.

And then that weekend was my dad's company picnic at a park somewhere in NJ, and I didn't want to go because I had a swollen moonface. But I had to go. And it was far away. And then the boss's daughter drank a can of coke and there was a bee in the coke and it stung her tongue. And then I drank a can of diet coke and there was a bee in MY DIET COKE, TOO and it stung my tongue, so we had to run to the Puerto Rican man selling Italian ices and get ices to ease the swelling on our respective tongues. And then we left the picnic and went to a mall, and my dad bought me a maroon Blossom-esque hat to wear for the High Holidays.

Needless to say, my parents didn't remember anything -- nothing of the pill-swallowing adventure, and nothing of the traumatic bee-swallowing debacle.

Some kids were dropped as a child; at least I have more interesting explanations for how I turned out to be so fucking awesome.