The Kugel Kook-Off from last night's Kosher Show

From left to right: Mr. JewSA, Ms. JewSA, jew-whore.

Manstack

I wrote, and will be directing, a promo entitled "Manstack."

I just want you all to know, so you can start getting excited now.

Also, because I want credit for the term "manstack." A tall stack of men (like, duh).

Manstack, manstack, manstack.

Gawkered!

Holy sweet Jebus! The show I'm doing tonight is Gawkered!

At long last, I finally feel sweet, sweet justification for the media-whore that I am.

And, guess who is my faviest-raviest person in the whole entire world right now? Yo diggity.

Coming Soon to Hot Topic

Thanksgiving at the White House

(Photo of awesomeness by my buddypal Matt)

Speaking of Thanksgiving at the White House, my boo and I were watching the news on Thanksgiving whilst preparing to go out for a decidedly non-traditional non-holiday dinner, and Ann Curry was filling in for Brian Williams and NBC news was clearly operating with a skeleton crew. At the top of the program, Ann Curry was talking about holiday shopping while they showed images of drinking and driving behind her. TEEHEE! Admittedly, holiday shopping is a lot easier when you have three bloody mary's in your tummy tum tum, but it was obvious that they were using the b-roll for the "Drinking and Driving" segment behind the "Black Friday" piece. It was at the very least mildly amusing.

But the very bestest part was right before a commercial break, Ann said, "Up next, a look at Thanksgiving in one of the worst places in the world ..." and then, they cut to a graphic of the menu from "Thanksgiving Dinner at the White House."

One of the worst places in the world? You know it. Big ups to the universe for enabling that slip-up -- and thank you, Ann Curry, for being the conduit.

A Reason Why I am Totally Awesome

See that pretty brown donkey? Right next to my head?

Just after my boo took this photo, that donkey bit me.

Here is a list of the injuries incurred whilst on vacation:
1) burnt by fire coral
2) bitten by donkey
3) fell on top of a nice Dutch lady while attempting to disembark from boat

Clearly, being bitten by a donkey is the most awesome thing in the whole world. Because, do you know anyone else who was bitten by a donkey? YOU DO NOT.

Thus, I am awesome.

Back from Bonaire

WOOHOO!

KOSHER-STYLE COUNTY FAIR

Hey tigers: I'm back, and I'm hosting a show tomorrow night. Tomorrow = Wednesday, 11/29. It's from 8-9:30, so you can tivo Top Model and watch later on.

The 14th Street Y Presents
KOSHER-STYLE COUNTY FAIR
One Cup Exploration, A Dash of Cook-off, One Tablespoon Sideshow and a Pinch of Taste Temptations!

Showcasing artists and performers who will creatively explore themes of food and kashrut, or keeping kosher. From Kosher Sword Swallowing to Kosher Naked Sushi; from the first NYC Amateur Kosher Hot Dog Eating Championship to Confessions of an Israeli Hummus Addict.

Featuring Undine Brod, Andy Horwitz, KinkyJews, Carl Kissin, Leah Koenig, Ellen Levitt, Adam Rinn, Anna Stevenson and more.

Bring your bib and fat pants, Heeb Magazine's Food Issue, an all-you-can-eat extravaganza will be available, www.heebmagazine.com. Plus, a kugel cook-off contest judged by "Mr. & Ms. JewSA" 2006, Noam Dolgin and Ariel Woah!

Hosted by the delicious Bex Schwartz with spicy jams by Adira Amram.

Wednesday, November 29
7PM Reception/8PM Show, $8
The 14th Street Y (344 East 14th Street @ 1st Avenue), www.14StreetY.org
RSVP to Alyssa_Abrahamson@14StreetY.org

And Away I Go!

Friends, Romans, Countrymen: I'm going to the Carribean on a long overdue, much needed vacation with my boo. DON'T WORRY -- I won't be scuba diving, lest my sinuses explode. But I hope that I'll come back unburnt (both my brain and my skin).

Top Model, I'll miss you! And Balactica, too! And all my darling blogsters.

See you next week! Have a happy Thanksgiving (go go go tofurkey!) and a happy High School Reunion (I ain't going!)
xxxooo,
bex

Look, Honey, It's My New "Aquapet!"

Who doesn't find to find this Aquapet under her Christmas tree? Hours of, ahem, stimulation! BWA HA HA HA.
I am both oddly aroused and disturbed at the same time. But, man! Dora's got BAWLS!

Oh No! My Poor, Poor Toe!

So, I'm going on the late, great over-postponed vacation of 06 in LESS THAN A WEEK, and I'm oh-so-excited. And I have so very many errands to before we leave (as in: buying a bathing suit that won't fall off and expose my breasts to the coral, the ever-important bikini wax, fixing my godawful feets, etc.) so I decided to get a pedicure today to save time during the week.

See, I have horrible feet. HORRIBLE. I barely have little toes at all, they're just useless nubbins of multiple-broken dweezils. And my second-to-littlest toes curl under. And my big toes are always calloused. So I try to diguise they're uglyness by keeping my toenails (the little bits of toenails I actually have) painted a vibrant shade of red. So that people will focus on the fuck-me red nail polish instead of the icky toes.

See? Like so:


But the careful observer will note a large bandage wrapped around my left big toe. And that's because when the pedicure woman was scrape scrape scraping off the callous on my big toe, she scraped a hole right into my foot. And it won't stop bleeding. And it hurts like a motherfucker. So I'm wondering if one can use the elliptical machine with just one foot.

There's no actual point to this post other than the fact that I'm bitching about my toe injury -- pain for beauty! Or, at least, pain for disguising-the-ugly-in-attempts-to-get-a-modicum-of-beauty.

Pedicure accidents are apparently quite common. And we all remember when Paula Abdul had to keep her arm in a sling because of a manicure incident. So, dear readers, all I can suggest is ask your pedicure woman if she's ever used the callous-scrapy-blade before. My pedicure woman was an apparent first-timer. And now I am gushing blood, not from my ladyflower, but from my toe. If only they made toe tampons. Le grand sigh, indeed.

My Favorite Mondegreen

Yes, that's right, punk, I said MONDEGREEN, and I do hope you'll start using this word, too.

Right. So, when I was a kid, my parents did what any logical ex-hippies would do and raised me up on a steady diet of folk music and Free to Be You & Me. It totally worked, of course, as I am now a left-of-left progressive liberal who protests the war and dresses my cat in an apron. During these lovely formative years, as my constant readers know, I had every single possible speech impediment known to man. Due to my inability to speak correctly, and also possibly because I was stupid, I referred to my favorite musicians by my own private pet names. I called Bob Dylan "Bob Dyl," which totally makes sense. It's like a nickname for the world's coolest uncle. But I also referred to my favorite singers as "Parsley Sagels."

"Parsley Sagels," for those of you who don't speak 2-year-old, referred to Simon & Garfunkel. Because I really, really, really liked the song "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme," and if you're stupid, or two years old, or just really RILLY awesome, you just might abbreviate those lyrics to "Parsley Sagels." And so I did.

And if I ever launch a successful folk singing career, I guarantee that I will record under the name Parsley Sagels.

So, my house was often filled with the mellifluous sounds of Bob Dylan or Buffy St. Marie or Judy Collins and, quite often, Donovan. Because my little brother and I were TOTALLY obsessed with Donovan. We loved his music with all our little hearts and souls even though we had absofuckinglutely no idea what he was singing about.

And we each had our favorite song. I think I really loved "Wear Your Love Like Heaven" and we would sing "Dramamine, dramamine" instead of "that I may, that I may" and we thought it was simply hi-larious. And I definitely knew that we were being silly.

But my brother's favorite song was "Mellow Yellow." And his mondegreen was that he TOTALLY heard Donovan singing "Quite right, slave."

As in:
[Refrain:]
They call me mellow yellow
(Quite right, slave)
They call me mellow yellow
(Quite right, slave)
They call me mellow yellow

As if Donovan were singing, in his dainty twee British accent, to his slave. As if the scene went like this:

INT: A lavishly decorated, opulent throne room. DONOVAN sits atop a purple throne, dressed in flowing silk robes and scarves. A large HOOKAH rests at his feet.

DONOVAN: Step forward, slave.

A small, malnourished boy steps out of the shadows. His eyes widen as he stares at Donovan, the fairy folk king.

SLAVE: (stammering) Y-y-yes, Sir?

DONOVAN: Slave! Come here where I can see your face.

The SLAVE approaches DONOVAN. DONOVAN thrusts his hand under the boy's chin and turns his face upwards. DONOVAN licks a finger and wipes a smudge off the boy's cheek. The boy is embarrassed but slightly thrilled to be on the receiving end of so much attention from such an amazing being.

SLAVE: Thank you, sir.

DONOVAN: Slave! They call me ... "Mellow Yellow."

SLAVE: "Mellow yellow," sir?

DONOVAN: Quite right!

SLAVE: Really, sir? They call you "Mellow Yellow?"

DONOVAN: Quite right!

SLAVE: But ... but, sir, you don't really seem the type who'd be called "Mellow Yellow." I mean, sure, you do seem laid back, and, admittedly, you do look a bit jaundiced, but I'm finding it hard to believe that a man such as you could actually be called something as glib as "Mellow Yellow."

DONOVAN rises in ire, extending his arms so his robes billow out in all directions. His eyes whirl madly around in his head as pulls himself up to his full height. He is ferocious, like a shiny demon.

DONOVAN: I told you, you measly, meager excuse for a human being, that they call me "Mellow Yellow."

DONOVAN blasts fireballs from his fingers. The SLAVE is engulfed in flames and beats himself with a large palm frond to extinguish the fire. Finally, he emerges, smoldering and charred. He can barely see out of the burnt slits that were once his eyes, but he shuffles forward and prostrates himself on the ground in front of DONOVAN's throne.

SLAVE: They call you "Mellow Yellow."

DONOVAN: Quite right, slave.

and ... SCENE.

An Open Letter to Lost

Dear Lost:
Admittedly, you are no Next Top Model, nor are you Battlestar Galactica. However, in a television season that has offered potentially awesome shows that kind of suck (ahem, Studio 60), shows with wonderful concepts but gutterbutt awful writing (I'm looking at you, Heroes), and a show about post-apocalyptic-ness that I wanted to love but couldn't even make it through the pilot (suck it, Jericho), you're still worth watching.

I mean, honestly, I love this bidness with the Others so much, I don't even care what's going on back at the beach with what's-his-face hobbit and the blondie with the possibly Satanic kid.

But, honestly, Lost - I defended you all last season even when you were almost painfully bad. I held out while I was waiting for you to kill off Michelle Rodriguez (seriously: worst. character. ever, although Monique from this cycle of Top Model came close) and I even refrained from mouth-barfing when Shannon got shot after acting on her jungle fever (get it?). But I'm kind of over it, Lost.

Firstly: you call that a cliffhanger? I can sum it up in one word, and that word is: meh.

Secondly: I can't believe you would stoop so low as to invoke that old horror movie cliche about if you fuck, then you die. I mean, really? Sawyer and Kate shag and then you're threatening to kill one of them? That's so Halloween/ Friday the 13th / Nightmare on Elm Street / Scream / Scary Movie 6. And also: they got out of their cages and instead of bolting, they shagged? So now Kate's totally got Ana Lucia's genital warts because you just *know* Sawyer was barebacking with both of them? Ewww.

Also, hey, Kate, so you know: cervical cancer? It's caused by a virus. That same virus that's living in those genital warts you got from Sawyer's penis, which got them from Ana Lucia's vagina. I know you're stranded on some island somewhere, so maybe you haven't seen those commercials. They keep telling me to tell someone, so I'm telling you.

ANYHOOZINSKIS.

Thirdly, Lost: what the fuck?
What the fuck about:
* The four-toed statue
* Miss Clugh
* All the kids the Others took?
* the grungy barefoot ninja walking others?
* The horse?
* The afore-mentioned possibly satanic kid?
* The bird that cried Hurley's name?
* If the Others are on a whole DIFFERENT island, how did:
A: Goodwin and Ethan Rom get to the other island so quickly?
B: How did the Others get Jack and Kate and Sawyer and Hurley to their island?
C: Why are the Others barefoot ninja walking all over the other island?
D: Why did they take Rousseau's kid, but never bother Rousseau?
E: Did the Others know about Clancy Brown?


You know, really truly, Lost, I want to love you but you make it so damn hard.

With fondness, although if you think you detect a note of coldness, you are correct,
Bex

To cite Celine Dion: A New Day Has Come

We got the senate, we got the senate!



I baked blue state cupcakes! With sprinkles! For a birfday, but also the celebrate the dawning of a new age - HUZZAH! Are you watching this shit go down? Did you see that General on the Coop condemning the military's actions in Iraq? Holy shiznit, it's really happening.

Also, Anchal went home which is equally as delightful.

Oh, The Rapture, The Rapture

How awesome?
FUCKING AWESOME, yo.

It's a Great Big Beautiful Tomorrow

Today, friends, is truly a great, big, beautiful tomorrow. CNN just projected that Montana went Dem, and Rummy's gone, and it's looking good for Virginia. HOT CHA CHA.

Now approaching: Walt Disney's carousel of progress!

Some Thoughts Unto The Shoehorn

I'm not one for observational humor. You'll rarely encounter a "Didjou ever notice" on my blog. And yet, because I've had the same conversation with many different people, I finally want to share it with you:

Whither the shoehorn?

I have never actually purchased a shoehorn, but over the years I've found myself in possession of quite a few fine speciments.

Even as a little kid, I remember these custom shoehorns (well, not THESE exact custom shoehorns, but reasonable facsimiles thereof) languishing in bathroom drawers. Sometimes they came tucked alongside coupons in the mail, and sometimes they were from the podiatrist who fixed my pigeon toes. Sometimes they even came from the store where we bought my special orthopedic saddle shoes. And sometimes, I think, they were from hotels in Atlantic City where my dad went on business trips occasionally. They'd turn up in the linen closet, or in the cabinet under the sink, or sometimes at the bottom of the coat closet, as if one of us had just tossed the shoehorn in with the boots, in hopes that someday one of us might find it necessary to use a shoehorn, and we would be grateful that another member of the family had thoughtfully put a shoehorn right where we needed it -- buried under three-sizes-too-small snow boots and a bunch of mittens without mates.

Sometimes, shoe horns are very, very long.

These longer shoehorns, much like their shorter counterparts, are to be used for the same purpose:

To horn the foot into the shoe. Clearly. I imagine in olden days, shoes were tighter and one had to pull the back of the shoe back, so one could wodge one's foot into one's shoe.

But, like, do you buy shoes if they don't fit?

(Answer: admittedly, yes. But they were bright red and non leather and I didn't know they'd prohibit me from walking)

Back to the point at hand: I have never used a shoehorn. I don't believe anyone in my life has ever used a shoehorn.

And yet, even right now, in my this-is-the-drawer where-you-keep-the-safety-pins -and-the-pirate-eye-patch -and-the-teeshirt-cincher-from-the-90s -- I have a shoehorn. It came from a Wakey Wakey pack when I flew Virgin, and even though I didn't need to keep it, I kept it, because I'll hoard anything that's free (see: my ridiculous assortment of shampoos and body lotions from every hotel I've ever stayed in with awesome toiletries -- because you never know when you're going away for the weekend and need to bring shampoo and body lotion!) But I have never needed a shoehorn. Even after a cross-atlantic flight.

Do you have a shoehorn around? You do! Even if it's still in the outside pocket of your rolly bag where you stuck it there as you were checking out of your hotel because, hell, what if you needed a shoehorn?

It's like shoehorns are the wannabe superheroes, swooping in to rescue unfortunate soles (ha!) from evil shoes that are too tight.

And yet, like oh so many superheroes of yesteryear such as Captain Aging Gracefully and The Super Telephone Cord De-Tangler, their work here is done and they are now obsolete. Shoehorns, I wish we could retire you to the great superhero Hall of Justice in the sky.

And sometimes, shoe horns trying to evade retirement disguise themselves as shoes! SNEAKY TRICKSY SHOEHORNS!

Vote Smart!

YO PEOPLE.

I mean, who ISN'T psyched about the midterm midtacular? I love love love watching election returns, almost as much as I love watching campaign ads. And I REALLY adore watching campaign ads, so. Do the math.

Anyway. You have to vote tomorrow, but don't vote stupid.
Vote smart. All you have to do is go to Project Vote Smart and enter your 9-digit ZIPpy code. Don't know your full 9-digit zip code? Go here. And learn about who's running in your districts and for whom you ought to vote.

And then VOTE, godsdamnit (Balactica reference, sorry).

Because remember: if you don't vote, you can't complain.

All You've Ever Wanted To Know About My TV CV But Were Afraid to Ask

Hi, it's me. Pop culture pundit at your services. Check out my updated list of tv schtuff, and hire me for more. I'd also make a great wacky neighbor in a sitcom.

A Goosey Night Tale of Wonder

Longtime readers will recall my previous tales of embarrassing teenage loserdom, so I'd like to share a tale of just exactly how AWESOME I was when I was in high school.

Goosey night, 1995. (In New Jersey, we called it "Goosey Night," but I know other people call it "Mischief Night" or "The Night Before Halloween When All Hell Breaks Loose"). My best friend Laurie and I had secretly conspired to go out and misbehave. We weren't bad girls (at ALL! at all!) but I think I recall a conversation that went something like this:

Int: Laurie's bedroom. Becky and Laurie lie on their tummies, sketching tributes to R.E.M. with a set of colored pencils. A bowl of pretzels and Corn Pops sits on the carpet (this was in the pre-anti-carb phase. Back then, we avoided fat at all costs, so low-fat anything was fair game).

BECKY: Wanna hear something kinda dumb?

LAURIE: Sure.

BECKY: You know what I love? I love waking up on Halloween and looking outside and seeing who got toilet papered.

LAURIE: Yeah!

BECKY: And then I love walking to school and seeing all the toilet paper everywhere! And when it rains and there are just wet clumps of toilet paper all over the place? Awesome!

LAURIE: Maybe we should go out on Goosey Night.

BECKY: No! We couldn't! But ... I bet it's real fun to toilet paper someone's house!

LAURIE: We should do it!

BECKY: Ohmigosh, no way! WAIT! Let's be hardcore! Let's totally do it.

And so, on Goosey Night, Laurie came over to my house. And my mom always bought toilet paper in bulk at BJ's, so we grabbed a few rolls and set out to do some damage. We passed a friend's house and pondered toilet papering it, but we didn't want her parents to get mad at us. We passed another friend's house and debated wrapping their tree in toilet paper -- but what if someone saw us? And yelled at us? That was too much for us to take. We went to our old elementary school and thought about toilet papering the playground -- but what if a kid tripped and fell on the toilet paper the next day? We'd feel horrible!

We walked around for another half hour or so, but then it started getting cold. So we walked back to my house.

"Hey," I said. "My parents are inside watching Seinfeld and I bet they won't notice if we toilet paper the tree!"

Laurie was hesitant, but I threw a roll of toilet paper up and over a branch of the twin maple trees that used to stand on what used to be my front lawn. And, ohmigosh, it was CRAZY fun. Laurie joined in. Smothering our giggles, we draped the trees with toilet paper. Lots and lots of toilet paper. It was more fun than anything I'd ever imagined. And we were *so* artistic! It was truly a work of toilet papering art.

The next morning, my mom looked out the window and said, "Hey, we got toilet papered!"

I snickered.

My mom said, "Did you guys toilet paper your own house?"

I just snickered again.

My mom said, "You did, didn't you?"

I admitted that yes, we had toilet papered our own house. And I thought that was totally awesome. Because if we had toilet papered anyone else's house, they would have been mad and yelled at us! So, by toilet papering my house, we could misbehave without really misbehaving.

It made perfect sense to me.

Last year, I told this story to my boyfriend. And he snickered. Apparently, it is very, very lame to toilet paper one's own house.

But, personally, I thought, and still think, that it was TOTALLY AWESOME.