Monday, November 29, 2004


Aight, tigers, I'm off for LA LA Land tomorrow, and I guarantee that I'll come back threatening to move there (which is what happens every single time I go). Oh, to be in LA. As Randy Newman sings,
From the South Bay to the Valley
From the West Side to the East Side
Everybody's very happy
'Cause the sun is shining all the time
Looks like another perfect day ... I love LA (we love it!)

We're going to rock the Big in 04 show, where I am determined to befriend the cast of Arrested Development. Jason Bateman, you will be mine. Wish me luck.

So, if I don't post over the next few days, I'm either
a) not connected to the internets
b) too supremely busy to write
c) maxin' and relaxin' with Green Day on their tour bus. Heh.

California, here I come!

The Man Who Loved Michigan

michiganlover, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

All this cartooning bidness has made me nostalgia for the one cartoon I ever drew, painstakingly recreated here using photoshop. My mouse is a hand-me-down from my right-handed roomie, so KABLAM, I did this with my right hand. I know, I know -- time to quit the ol' day job, right?

I lied. As a kid I drew a cartoon wherein a chief of police sat at his desk in front of all these Wanted posters -- Frank Perdue and Colonel Sanders and Mrs. Paul. Because the chief of police was a CHICKEN! He even had a picture of his chicken-wife lovingly displayed on his desk. He was a CHICKEN!

Caught in the Internets

Wowzers! So the fabu cartoonist (who is apparently named Randy. Hi, Randy!)who drew the awesomely rad VH1-diss comic below linked to me somewhere and now I'm getting lots of visitors! Hi, Visitors!

If you shove the clothes off the red chair, there's a place for you to sit. It's all clean, I promise. And just fling the bras on the floor, that's where they usually end up.

Would you like a beverage? A snack? Some animal crackers, perhaps?

What shall we do together? Listen to some music? Listen to an embarassing song by me? Exchange foot rubs? Talk about quantum causality? SOUNDS GREAT!

I'm just going to go slip into something more comfortable, by which I mean I'm signing off to enjoy some more soup. I heart soup. And soup hearts my blocked sinii.

As a wannabe who's desperate for airtime ...

vh1comic, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

My brother Adam sent me to this website called "Something Positive", by R.K. Milholland. Today's comic is all about something very near and dear to me -- the vee's pop culture programming. This cartoon is funny because it's true, and the pain is a good kind of pain, like when you finally pull out a really loose tooth or when someone massages the knot out of your neck. As a promo producer, I'm happy that the two characters are watching the channel - ratings, woo! As a wannabe who's desperate for airtime, I'd like to say that although I am not even almost famous, I am still happy to be me. Like the more humanely proportioned Barbie-manque: happy to be me. albeit desperate for airtime. also desperate for some snuggles.

If I could be your cameraphone ...

nasdaq, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

I went out to get some vegan soup for lunch, and lo and behold, our Big in 04 snark was up on the big ol' jumbotron. This is part of a triptych about the year's most important choices:
Mary Kate or Ashley?
Jenna or Barbara?
Ashlee or Jessica?

There are three other versions, all of which touch on similarly hard-hitting topics.

Ah, yes. Here at VH1 we utilize jumbotrons to bring you the issues that matter.

(I took this photo with my cameraphone. I heart my cameraphone).

Upcoming Bexness

Woohoo! A brief blert of self-promotion:

Watch me on Awesomely Bad Songs of 2004 this Saturday, December 4th at 9:30pm on VH1!
Watch me on Britney Spears' Most Shocking Moments on Sunday December 19th (time TBD) on VH1!

And check it on out, we made the Village Voice's Holiday Preview. Check out their feature "Naughty and Nice -- Freaky Fun that Will Have you Feeling Festive.". They say:

Nothing is sacred at Heeb Storytelling, Heeb magazine's popular series where cabaret meets Catskills in seven-minute true-ish tales told by some damn funny Jews. The anti-silent-night show features original stories by Daily Show writer Eric Drysdale, VH1 DJ Bex Schwartz, humorist Peter Hyman, Michael "Soybomb" Portnoy, comedian Dana Kletter, literary rock stars One Ring Zero and more. What, you'd rather be stringing popcorn?
December 22 at 7, Joe's Pub, 425 Lafayette Street, 212.539.8778,

(Although I'm not a DJ, but I sometimes dream about playing one on tv. A VJ, I believe they would call that. Except we don't really show videos, so we don't have any VJs.)

(It would just be sooooo nice to be called a VJ because if one calls someone a VJ, it kinda sounds like one is calling that person a vagina.)

(You know how DJs are always trying to come up with the hottest DJ names? Like DJ Salinger or DJ Sweatpants or DJ Tanner or DJ Flash or DJ Syzygy? I would really like to be the first person to rock a VJ name. VJ Vagina.)

("Yo, yo, this is VJ Vagina kickin' it live from the VH1 Big in 04 Awards! Stick around for that Maroon 5 video, the one where the lead singer has sex with his skinny girlfriend and the other band members don't get to have sex but instead must cavort amidst fake trees. Yeah, boyee! I'm VJ Vagina and I'm keepin' it real.")

Sunday, November 28, 2004

Uploading With Impunity

Hooray Hooray, Calloo Callay! My pal Allin taught me how metaphorically to fish today (as opposed to giving me a soy fish for one day). Now I know how to upload both with glee and with impunity.

So I thought I'd share just a few things.

Every year, I write little thirty-second songs for the "Big in ..." show we do over there at the Vee. It started with Big in 02, so this is my third year making these puppies. We want each song to remind you of a big song from the year, without actually being a direct parody/ripoff. I write 'em, Irv Johnson from Chameleon Sound Design makes 'em, and different animators create the visual components. So I thought I'd post this year's tracks -- I know that Poppa Viacom owns them, but I FIRMLY ACKNOWLEDGE THAT VIACOM OWNS THIS AND ALL MY INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY AND I AM POSTING THEM ONLY TO DISSEMINATE THE PROMOTIONAL ABILITY OF THE SONGS AND NOT FOR COMMERCIAL GAINS.
So. This one's called "Hey Big in 04" and it's inspired by the Black Eyed Peas' "Hey Mama."
And this one is called "Pieces of 04" and it's loosely based on Ashlee Simpson's "Pieces of Me."

And finally, for today's piece de resistance and also piece de damn fine cherry pie, I'd like to dig something out of the ol' collegiate treasure trove. When I was senior in college, I wrote and directed this massive theatre piece. I worked extensively with my sound designer, Timmy Jones. on creating this whole soundscape. One night, we were sitting in the Cafe discussing possible directions in which to go. I had a green apple sitting on the table, and we started riffing about how we couldn't think of any songs about apples. So we decided to make some. Timmy, and me, and our friend Greg, went to Timmy's dorm room and we set out some rules:
1) We put the apple on Tim's turntable so we could be inspired by its rotations
2) We set the timer for two minutes -- everyone was to have two minutes to write lyrics about the green apple
2.5) We only had two minutes to write -- no scribbling after the alarm went off
3) Then we'd read the lyrics and make music to go along with 'em.

So, Tim wrote a hiphop-y thing and Greg wrote an indie drum'n'bass song and I wrote something that i thought Laurie Anderson (if dirty) might write. I was thick in my Laurie Anderson phase back then. So we made songs out of everyone's lyrics. And so, I present in public (for the first time since we played it for the entire cast and crew of my show, 'Einstein Dreaming'), "Little Green Apples."

It's dated, fer sure. These lyrics were written in 1999, so they're not necessarily 'fresh' but I think they make a nice period piece of what it was like back then. Both for the world and for me. And keep in mind that the lyrics were written, spontaneously, in a grand total of two minutes. So they're rough. Anyhoo, that's me on lead vocals. Timmy on keyboard and sampling. And Greg on Germanic background vox.

Behold the uber-apple: "Little Green Apples."

And, yes, it's intentionally pretentious. 'Tentionally 'tentious. Written with wannabe-avant-garde tongue lodged firmly in cheek.

Hey, anyone else want to get together and write songs? They don't have to be about apples, but i do like it when they're dirty.

Does He Like Butter Tarts?

I just learned how to post exciting things. And thus, I'd like to share with all of you my love for the joy known as Kidz Bop. Perhaps you've seen the late-night commercials when you were stoned or otherwise blurry -- it's little children singing contemporary Top 40 songs. Suggestive lyrics and all. It's truly horrifyingly terrific. Fantastically icky. I'm quite partial to the kiddies' version of "Wherever You Will Go" by the Calling, but I'd like to share this particular track, because it embodies all that is Kidz Bop bizarro-world.

"Steal my Sunshine," originally by Len, as performed by children. Children who beg you not to steal their sunshine.

Please don't steal their sunshine.

Mmm, Sunday Morning Pop Tarts

Good morning, sunshine! I've been awake since forEVUH because there was a small tv crisis early this morning and my phone rang at an unholy hour. And so, I got out of bed and fed the kitties and starting playing with my 'puter. (That means 'computer,' not 'cooter,' you perv). Thus. I am wide away and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and happily choreographing performance routines to pop songs.

You should see me do this interpretative chair-dance over-emote thing to "Pieces of Me." It thrills me to the core of my being. Imagine like the chairdance part of Flashdance (when she's getting wet - the Splashdance bit) but more about raw emotion and serious mugging than about a wet tee-shirt. there's a lot of hair tossing and head-rolling involved, though. Oooh. I just had a really great idea for a burlesque routine.

I have a serious soft soft for overly emotive teeny pop songs. For a really long time, I was obsessed with Britney's song "Everytime" -- that's the video where she almost drowns/commits suicide in the bathtub but Dorff saves her -- and I was superfine with that obsession. I got home early from the gym one night and the kids on my street were playing it on a boombox outside my kitchen window, and I was hooked. It's like the 2nd most-played song on this here 'puter (second only to that Rome Wasn't Built in a Day song I posted about a few weeks ago). And I am now mildly ashamed about how much I like that Kelly Clarkson song "Breakaway." The girly side of me just kvells and makes me want to wear a tiara and a tutu. I mean, come on! That song is fucking awesome. "Grew up in a small town ...dreaming of what could be and if I'd be happy..." AWESOME. I know it's horribly trite and it's by an American Idol but it's like the new "Total Eclipse of the Heart" -- let me belt out my girl-power (not the grrrrrl-power, but the tutu-wearing girl power) and hear me mewl.


It's nice to be mewling. Not like the infant mewling and puking in the nurse's arms, but instead the lover, sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad.

Chaka kahn! Gratuitous Shakespeare reference!

Anyway. So I've been reveling in awesome songs. For, like, h-o-u-r-s now. And I would like to say I think I've discovered the perfect song, and I would write about this song even if this blog weren't mutually linked by the person who wrote it. It's called "The Only Answer" and you can listen to it on the artist's website by clicking here.

I mean, holy shit. HOLY SHIT. Doesn't that just fill you with the best sensation ever? I mean, like I hear that song and all of a sudden it's warm and sunny and I'm like running up this beautiful hill to look out on a colorful village nestled in the foothills. And then, just as I am twirling around atop this hill, much like that rascally nun, Maria, I stop, with an ache in my heart, thinking of a boy I loved once who's gone. But then I start twirling again -- here's to the future! I have listened to this song 12 times in a row already. And I can't stop. It's the folky guitar combined with organ phenomenon -- I have a major soft spot, it's so soft it's like plasmatic -- for folky guitar + organ.

Anyway. This song kicks serious ass, yo.

And Mike Doughty's new stuff come out December 7th -- a day that will live in a newer kind of infamy. You can order it here (and you ought to do so). For those who may have downloaded his tracks earlier, Mike is offering amnesty via Oooh, towels.

Saturday, November 27, 2004

@Fanmail? From a Flounder?

My parents always say that: Fanmail? From a flounder?

I didn't get fanmail. Someone (someone without the balls or ovaries to reveal his or her name) signed my guestbook:
bex sucks [11/26/04, 10:53 PM] writes:
you are not funny AND you are ugly. i hate you. stop trying to be funny.
For the record, I never claimed I was anything but ugly. I'd just like to think that I have at least mildly interesting hair, which I feel certain must elevate me to at least a skooch above ugly.

Wow, someone hates me! Well, hater, I'd just like to say: I love you, because I love everyone and I'm sorry your heart is two sizes too small. Hugs and kisses, hata!

Yikes! Something SCARY just happened. I opened my window to let my room cool down and all of a sudden, Klaus-the-kitty was outside on the fire escape! I grabbed his tail and hauled him back inside. Somehow, my screen window was open all the way! And I know it was locked before I left, because I never open the screen, because I'm scared that the kitties will jump outside and then all will be lost. So SOMEONE opened my screen! It was either
A) my landlords, who needed to get onto the roof for some reason, but why would they open our apartment when we are not home if they could just climb up the fire escape from their window!
B) a burglar who came into the house but did not take or touch a single thing!
C) An intruder who came it to make a mental blueprint so he can break back in and do mean and nefarious things to me -- I saw this exact story on CSI, I swear!
D) Magical gnomes who came to fix our shoes!
E) The Dreamblower guy from that Roald Dahl book!
F) A crazy intruder who came into the house to make a mental blueprint so he can break back in and do mean and nefarious things -- I saw this exact story on SVU, I swear!


Ride 'em, Cowgirl

Adam and I went to this country-western bar last night in the middle of NJ, and my superpal Justin (who coincidentally grew up in Watchung)met us there. We went on a Friday night because the 'rents go there all the time to eat dinner, and they'd noticed that Friday is ROCK night, and they know how I feel about the rock. Sadly, Country Line Dancing is Saturday night, so I missed partaking. But we did go for ROCK night, and the place was truly frightening -- as Justin put it, it was a bastion of red state-itude. The Rock was less that inspiring, but I did get to ride a mechanical bull for the very first time in my life. It was less sexy than I'd imagined -- you got to hang on to the bull with one hand, but in the other hand you had to clutch this garage-door-opener (ostensibly to tell the Operator you were still hanging on; if you let go of the button he'd stop the bull's bucking.) Before I got on, the Bull Operator said, "I'm not trying to hit on you, but it's just like sex: hang on and enjoy the ride." And then he told me to lean forwards when the bull's butt came up and lean backwards when the bull's head rose. It was not that easy. I fell off, twice, and was horribly disappointed in my lack of bull-riding skills, because I'd envisioned myself as quite the cowgirl, because I know how to hang on and enjoy the ride. So, alas, I was not a great bull-rider. But my inner thighs hurt today.

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Kickin' out the Fambly Jams here in Watchung

Yuppity yuppers, I'm here at the rents' new condo in Watchung, (Dirty Jerz). The jury is still out -- is "Watchung" the Law & Order noise, or is "Watchung" what the Beatles are singing in "Come Together" ? It seems to work both ways: The elite forces of the Special Victims Unit (WATCHUNG) vs. (WATCHUNG) doodle-y doo doo, Here come ol' flat-top.

We had a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn't be beat (hooray for vegetables) and there were no (overt) fambly fights this year. Hip hip hooray! Just the usual passive aggressive sniping and snippity-ness. And neurotic Jewhavior, but that comes with the territory.

I'm being anti-social by horking my dad's laptop so this is a short entry. All I ask, friends, is that you spend this Thanksgiving evening thinking about joining the Alice's Restaurant movement and walking into the draft office and singing, "You can get anything you want at Alice's Restaurant" so maybe they'll think you're crazy or a faggot or perhaps (hopefully) part of the movement. The Alice's Restaurant movement, which represents basically everything I've ever idealized about the 60s -- except for littering. I'm not so into the littering. But, everything else.

So, enjoy your time on the group W bench, alongside the father-rapists and the murderers. That's what friends are for, after all.

Enjoy all your over-the-rivering and through-the-woodsing and fambly-or-friends time. I've got to go rock some pilates to make up for that extra helping of acorn squash.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Thankity Thank Thank Thankity Thank Thanks

You know the "Thumpety thump thump" part of the Frosty the Snowman song? That's how you ought to sing this post's title -- thankity thank thank, thankity thank thank, look at Frosty go...

We are knee-deep in the hooplah of the grunt work part of our job -- versioning 8 "Big in 04" spots starring Matt Walsh and Ian Roberts. So, let's go around the room and discuss for what we are thankful.

Let's start with Karl. Karl is thankful for a midwinter's surfing trip to Costa Rica. He will go there and see monkeys and sloths (but he can't bring me a sloth because it's illegal to import wild animals into Amerika.) Smuggle a sloth, Karl! Smuggle it all the way home, nestled beneath your shirt and let its slothwarmth fill you with love and joy. Let it nibble your man-nipples and titilate your innermost excitements. And then bring it to me so I can cuddle with it, because I bet a real-live sloth is a lot like one of those full-body pillows you can get at Bed, Bath and Beyond. I reckon the sloth would fall into the "Beyond" category, which is definitely the best aspect of the store. I like to go and look for spacejunk and meteors and comets and the souls of long-departed relatives -- all the things one might want from Beyond. Karl is also thankful that he worked a double last week so now he has extra moolah for his trip.

Kelly's turn. Scott (Kelly's pre-husband) interjects to say that Kelly is thankful that she got engaged this year, and yet Kelly remains suspiciously silent. In fact, just last night it became apparent that both Scott and I adore spicy food whereas Kelly is not so fond of the spice. Mayhaps I ought to marry Scott -- Kelly says we could do a reality show called "My Big Fat Obnoxious Writing Partner Who Stole My Fiancee." I would be the big fat obnoxious one, seeing as she has the pre-husband. Oh! This just in! Kelly LOVES Kiehl's samples because they are FREE and Kelly will love anything if it's free, even if it's a piece of poo. A FREE piece of Poo? Send it to the Kelster! Bring it on, yo. Kelly's fave word is "gratis." Kelly is also thankful for Starwich, our very most preferred new sandwich place. Yum! They make sandwiches with MONK CHEESE! Not, as you might think, cheese made of out of monks, but rather, cheese made by monks. And the secret ingredient is monk smegma. MONK CHEESE! MONK CHEESE! Kelly is also thankful for puppies and kitties -- nay, all baby animals. Babimals. Kelly is thankful that Scott is going to become a gourmet cook and apparently he's practicing and cooking and cheffing. He's such an effing cool chef! He does some effing cheffing! And he makes a mean pork chop. Heh. Scott makes a mean pork chop -- that sounds dirty.

Kelly would like you all to know that she is not thankful for the stupid fucks at Who Wants to be a Millionaire who denied them the chance to be on Who Wants to be a Millioniare, Couples edition. They were going to win a million dollars to pay for their wedding and I was going to be their lifeline, but, alas, the selection committee is apparently made of stupid fucks. STUPID FUCKS!

Kelly is also thankful that she is not a turkey. Except she is a turkey, but not a turkey you'd eat. Unless you like to eat blonde women. Then perhaps she would be that kind of turkey. Gobble gobble!

If the Hamburglar were a turkey, he would go: "Robble robble! Gobble gobble!"

If the Hamburglar were a turkey who liked telescopes, he would go "Robble robble! Gobble gobble! Hubble Hubble!"

Let's ask Scott, the afore-mentioned pre-husband! Scott, what are you thankful for? "I'm thankful for the World Champion Patriots" (not the missile or the people with the guns, but the football team. And who coaches that football team? Some dude who went to my college. AWESOME!) Scott is also thankful for the World Champion Red Sox. Scott apparently likes the Boston sports. Scott is also thankful for the Bowdoin College ECAC division champs -- i think that's a hockey reference. Kelly says, "If you actually start caring about hockey I will punch you in the face." And then Scott says, "I am thankful Kelly said yes. I would have been embarassed otherwise."

Scott Harrison, ladies and gentlemen, and his Big in 04 thanks list.

Oh dear. I am the last person in the room to go. So. Every year at the Fleisher fambly T-giving, we have to around the table and say what we're thankful for. About 8 years ago, my dad said, "Latex." I, too, am thankful for latex. It keeps the kids disease-free, doncha know. I am also thankful for extra-firm tofu, sparkly eye makeup, non-leather boots, and the sloth that Karl will smuggle to me. I am thankful for all my friends who love me despite my birth-control-pill-induced tumultuous mood swings and despite Oscar (my neurosis). I am thankful that even though I keep announcing that I am over the whole dating thing, I somehow keep this little flame of romantic hope that makes me think that someday I will have a cuddlebuddy who will love me even before I've straightened my hair in the morning. I'm thankful for my fambly, who somehow tolerate me in all my insanity. I'm thankful I'm going to LA next week. I'm thankful for my fave elliptical machine at the gym. And most of all, I am thankful that I don't have crabs.


the "Like a Virgin" mystery continues

So, Otis tells me that people continue to download my "Like A Virgin" wretched/retching-ness at astonishing rates. But no one knows from whence the hits come -- anyone know what's up? Did someone send out this link as part of their email list? Either as a "listen to this mangle" or else perhaps as a "wow, this girl, can really moan?"

It's true, I can moan. Like a fucking champ, yo. Just ask any of the dudes with whom I've been. Yeeks.

Anyhoo. I just had a lovely T-giving feast of Indian food (what??? not THOSE Indians? dang!) with my NY fambly of superfriends. I adore them so much. Awesome. We had a long talk about the disappearance of Mountain Time from our promos -- I personally think those states went red because they were fed up with being constantly confused about what time to watch tv. Because us blue staters in Hollywood and NY constantly make promos that ignore them, so they were like, "Fuck ya'll tv-makers, we hate being ignored and we hate being confused about tune-in times, so we're fucking voting for Bush just to smite you, so nyah nyah."

Oh, Mountain Time. How I want to save you.

I'm actually stoked for the T-giving this year -- my cuz Meredith and her hubby have a babee, so we're gathering at my aunt's house instead of at The Worst Restaurant In the World (tm) at which we've eaten faux T-giving for the past several years. Awesome. Even though it's only a segment of my extended fambly, my nuclear fambly will all be there (mom, dad, bex and adam) so that'll be nice.

So I'll be in the Dirty Jerz for a few days, and then back to the 'Point to feed the kitties because my roomie is in Amsterdam. OH YEAH (thus spake Kool-aid Man!) -- the hizzouse to mysizzelf. That means I can watch lots of CSI and L&O SVU, and, most importantly, I can run around in my skivvies. Anyone want to come over and indulge in Risky Business underwear-dancing avec moi? It's so fucking on, mofes.

Oh, and feel free to spend your Tofurkey day with VH1's "Awesomely Bad Thanksgiving" -- I'm in "Awesomely Badder Girls," on Thursday 11/25 at 3:30 EST, 2:30 central, 1:30 Mountain Time. I shot this puppy back in August, but I think it's a semi-rad show.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

We have killed Mountain Time

Oh, lo, ask not for whom the bell tolls, because the bell tolls for Mountain Time.

I have a mild obsession with Mountain Time, because when I was a child, promo spots always included Mountain Time -- "Don't miss the next episode of Diff'rent Strokes, at 3pm, 2pm central, 1pm Mountain Time."

As a kid, i thought Mountain Time sounded so incredibly awesome. Like, because people who live atop Mountains are so high in the sky that their time flows at a different rate than those of us who were living in suburban, flat New Jersey. I knew enough about Relativity and the twin paradox (and because my dad and I watched "Flight of The Navigator," which also dealt with the relative-passing-of-time issue (remember that movie? the stuff that dreams are made of? yo diggety, no doubt) to know that for people who are very far away, time flows at a different rate, relative to an observer on Earth.

Anyhoo. So I thought that people who lived on top of Mountains had their own time zone and I dreamed of someday perhaps living among them and watching cartoons two hours earlier. There's a story in Alan Lightman's "Einstein's Dreams" about a world in which time passes slower at higher altitudes so everyone seeks the highest heights to prevent time from flying by too quickly -- the higher one lives, the slower life progresses, so life can be treasured and savored and cherished to the fullest.

Ah, "cherish." Like in "Stranger in a Strange Land." I cherish you, reader.

(and when I wrote 'passing of time" it reminded me of my fave song, "This Must be the Place" -- and you're standing here beside me. i love the passing of time.)

Annnnnnnyhoodles... And then, one day, Mountain Time disappeared. Promos ended with "3/2 central." In fact, in my line of work, I deal with this on a daily basis, tagging spots for vh1 shows with "tonight at 9/8 central." But I never, ever throw to Mountain time -- EXCEPT when I'm doing :60 radio spots that will air in that elusive time zone.

And today, I was all set to tag these spots for Big in 04 (which airs Sunday December 5th at 9/8C) as Sunday at 7 (just for those radio-listeners in Mountain Time) and then I got the phone call:

"Kill Mountain Time."

(We didn't buy any ad time in Mountain Time, thus there was no reason to tag spots for those upper-altitude slow pokes).

But, I kind of felt a little gasp of despair, a slow exhalation of sadness, because I have been to London and I've been to France but I've never been to Mountain Time (nor have I ever been to me) and now I have killed Mountain Time. I have slain it, dead.

Alas, Mountain Time. I barely knew ye.

What's the Frequency, Kenneth?

Alas and alack, Dan Rather is retiring from his anchor position. I lurf him -- he's the one who safely got me through my y2k anxiety attack, as he and i sludged through the wee hours of January 1st, EST. It was 12am in Fiji and like 4am in New Jersey, but together, Dan and I went the distance and watched the Pacific Islanders celebrate as, thankfully, the Russian missile silos apparently remained intact. And then I watched New Year's come to several other time zones and finally went to sleep, content and smug that we weren't going to bite the big one, nuclear stylez.

I'm sorry about that whole 60 Minutes debacle, Dan. But you'll always be my number one news guy.

And now, my favorite lyric from "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" ::
"Richard says 'withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy.'"

(Richard apparently being Richard Linklater, who directed, among other movies, one my very favoritest [Waking Life -- i know, i'm pretentious. you can suck it, clit-style.]

Anyhoo. And so, Dan Rather, I say unto you:
Withdrawal in disgust is not the same as apathy.
I wish those documents had been real and Bush lost the election, but at least you were attempting to fight the good fight. Do not go gently into that good night, Dan Rather.

Like A Really Off-Tempo Virgin

So, friends, the wonderful Otis Ball , of the Super Karaoke Fun TIme Band, informs me that his website is receiving an inordinate amount of traffic because my horrific rendition of "Like of Virgin" has been downloaded 400 times in the past week. Who's doing that, yo?

Here's some backstory:
Last Valentine's Day, our friend Kee (a loyal FMU listener) sent an email about this call-in Karaoke show on wFMU, wherein one could call in and sing a karaoke song LIVE on the radio. Now, I am not just a slut for attention, but I am also a karaoke dreamer and, as I was all alone last Valentine's Day because I thought I was dating this dude but apparently I was only really dating him in my head. Anyhoo, so it was a Saturday night and I was ostensibly working on my screenplay for my screenwriting class but really I was feeling sorry for myself that it was yet another February 14th and I was all by myself. And I emailed Otis and he said to call it at 9:15ish and then I'd be singin', live, on the radio. Ooooh! My first singing-on-the-radio! But, the weirdest thing happened -- when I started singing, the music dropped out. So I couldn't hear the band at all. So I was totally faking it. When I stopped singing, the band would come back over my phone, but as soon as I started making noise they dropped away again. So.

If you'd like to hear me mangle Madonna, rock this website and click on "Like a Virgin." It's probably not safe for work or for polite company.

Breaking news: Otis sent me a Direct Link of Bex Caterwauling badgoodoness to the song. Click at will, but don't say you haven't been warned.

Oh, How Much Fun to be a Jew

Listen! It's Hey Ya, if Outkast were Jewish and wanted to sing a song about Hanukah!

Thank my dad for the forward, yo. He's a mad rad dad.

Today was the antithesis of a roughie-toughie. I might go so far as to call it a smoothie-woothie -- no crises, no feugos, nothin' but net, as they used to say in that ol' Nike spot. A hearty schwoo was felt by all.

And then I spent the evening having sober heartfelt conversation with a new friend who's quite simply one of the raddest people on this planet. I can't remember the last time I let all my walls down enough to speak truthfully and plainly without the intoxicating effects of too much tequila or wine. Usually, my dreggiest dregs only come up at the end of the evening and nobody remembers them the next morning -- tonight was a much-needed change of pace. Not only that, but I learned a new word that I intend to use several times a day and on as much t-vision as I possibly can. Are we ready, class?

The word of the day is: "mofe." As in, "I sprained my ankle and it fucking hurts like a MOFE!"

And the lesson of the day is: it is awesome to spend lots of time on a swingset with an awwwwwesome person, and it is even more awesome not to attack/kiss said person and then worry about whether said person will ever return one's phone calls. By repressing one's desire-to-kiss, one perhaps gains great strides in the development of intrapersonal relationships. As the Lady Alanis once sang, "You live, you learn." And then she sang all this goopy business about never-feeling-this-healthy-before, that gives me a quickening when I'm in the right mood. But then, of course, she also sang, "It's a black fly in your chardonnay."

Q: Hey, what's that black fly doing in your chardonnay?
A: The backstroke.

Monday, November 22, 2004

'Mo Self Promo, Please

more ovaltine, please!
more emeraldine sneeze!
This is the cereal that's shot from guns! BOOM.
And this is where I let you know for which shows you ought to be looking on your Teeeevo. I don't know when they're airing because I don't even know what day it is, but please know that someday, soon, coming to a t-vision near you, watch me (please,) in:
All Access: Britney Spears' 20 Most Shocking Moments
All Access: 20 Wacky Celeb Families
Awesomely Bad Songs of 2004
Awesomely Bad #1 Songs Ever
40 Most Shocking Hair Moments of 2004

I'm a wee bit punchy. I couldn't sleep at all last night, and every time I drifted off, I would wake up an hour later with my jaw all clenched and painful. When I was in high school and my jaw would get bad, I used to suck on jawbreakers. And then in college when it would get really bad, I'd smoke a cigarette. And now I'm chewing on pens. Oral fixation? No doubt. Incredibly painful TMJ? You bet. And yet, it feels so much better when there's something in my mouth. Which means I often find myself in the situation of asking if anyone has anything I can suck on.

Hey, sexy? Got anything I can suck on?

I'm like a walking set-up, just insert punchline: HERE.

bump, set, spike, yo.

Sunday, November 21, 2004

With Six You Get Eggroll ...

With Six You Get Eggroll, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

With two, baloney!!!!!

FUCKMYCOCKS PART DEUX -- aren't those HP spots just so fucking rad? Nice use of the technology available, agency! And phantasmically wonderous choice of song (confidential to Adam: It's "Picture Book," by the Kinks (also performed by the Young Fresh Fellows).

I missed it???? (interrobang)

Sweet Mary mother of Jesus, and Sweet Joseph, cuckolded-by-God-husband-to-Mary and father of Jesus -- apparently, National Make Out Day was Friday and I missed it? FUCKMYCOCK, I despair, I despair. And to think, I was out and about Thursday night apres-midnight and could've at least attempted to start it off right, but noooooo, and then Friday I came home and collapsed, without kissing anyone. Tarnation (instant breakfast). I'm receiving conflicting reports, but it was either last Friday (11/19) or the Friday before that (11/12).

Alas and alack, I missed nationally sanctioning making out.

I would like to propose a raindate for those of us who missed out on the fun -- let's just extend it to a whole week, shall we? Starting right here, right now -- I hereby declare this upcoming week to be National Make Out or At Least Cuddle week.

I mean, in the holiday spirit and all.

Holy fucking AWESOMENESS. Go see "Primer" post haste!

Please go see "Primer," please please please, so we can talk about it.

I had a very productive weekend involving working out, cleaning my house, getting errands done (new bra! woo!) and generally attempting to get my life in order. After successfully battling entropy for the weekend, I decided that I would reward myself by going to see Primer (which is only playing in NY at the Village East Cinemas -- take note!)

HOLY SHIT. It's the best mindfuck movie I've ever seen. It's also the only movie that successfully rocks the paradox of time-travel. It's so good. Soooooooooo good. I don't think anyone else in the theatre grokked it -- afterwards, everyone was turning to his or her partner and say "Huh?" As a solo moviegoer, I had no one to turn to, but that was okay. I held my own hand the whole time. It was lovely. If only I could sling an arm over my own shoulder, I'd be psyched.

Here's a helpful hint -- it's Primer prounced pry-mer, not prih-mer. Like in sci-fi books about alternate realities and ultraluminar travel? Earth (our Earth) is Earth prime. Like that.

Basically, when the movie really kicks into super high mindfuck gear, I experienced this sensation, this frisson that I like to call "the quickening." The quickening is this feeling I get when I'm experiencing so infinitely pleasureful that it feels like my heart is too large for its socket within my ribcage and it feels like its expanding and expanding and expanding. This often happens when I listen to particular songs: "I've Been High" and "Country Feedback," by REM, or "Mimi" by the Long Winters, or "Janine" or "Looks" by Mike Doughty, or "Disarm" by the Smashing Pumpkins. When it happens musically, it usually relates to a specific musical progression and often a swelling of an organ-line behind guitar. Am and Em chords tend to trigger it. It also happens when I watch movies ("City of Lost Children") or experience a bleshing moment of theatre (like during everything by the Improbable Theatre Company, or "House" by Richard Maxwell.)

"Bleshing" is a word coined by the Blue Man people to indicate the moment when the action on stage and the thoughts of the audience intertwine complicitly. It happens at the end of Blue Man when all the toilet paper happens, and it's something I strived for back in college when I was rewriting and directing "Offending the Audience."

Anyhoo. Back to the quickening: and it happens when I stumble across an idea or a realization that fits perfectly. The quickening happens when I read of new developments in string theory or nanotech. It happens when I see someone I love. It happens when things strike my funny fancy, like when Dana Carvey does his 'chopping brocolli' number or when the tortoise in "Three Amigos" goes, "Goodnight, Ned!"

Other Quickening moments:
* In Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind, when Clementine and the Jim Carrey character are making love under the blankets and Clementine tells the story about her ugly doll that she wanted to be beautiful and asks if she, herself, is ugly
* When Baby confronts Johnny in his bunkhouse
* The piano bridge of the Doors' song Crystal Ship
* the last, instrumental minute of Minus 5's "great news around you"
* The theme music and opening credits of Twin Peaks
* the part about the man who's going to make it rain in "fool on the hill"
* in Toys, when Robin Williams and Joan Cusack have on these virtual realities that make them feel like they're on a roller coaster
* Sinead's "The Last Day of Our Acquaintance"
* Chris in the Morning Stevens' philosophical interludes from Northern Exposure
* When I haven't listened to Leonard Cohen in a while, and then I wrap myself in his lyrics
* the song "American English" by Idlewild
* when my friends do things at the peak of their abilities and they're happy
* when someone to whom I'm attracted plays with my hair and/or rubs my neck. HOOOeeee. magic spot, yo.

Anyhoo. When do you go to see Primer, please pay careful attention to the voiceover, because there's an essential tidbit of information that is delivered in approximately 2 seconds of v/o, and if you miss it, you're lost.

Saturday, November 20, 2004

"I'm alive, and being alive is fantastic!"

Yes, so it's Saturday night and everyone's staying in, here at Chez Bex 'n' Noah. I've heard it said that staying in is the new going out, and I think I believe it. Truth be told, I'm still recovering from my bout with ickyness earlier in the week, and Noah has a new video game, so, hey. Why leave the house? And so we decided to watch us some netflix.

We started with a movie called "Equilibrium" that neither of us had ever heard of, but it stars Christian Bale and Noah's had a thing for Christian Bale since the days of the Last Emperor. (Incidentally, I always confuse the Last Emperor with Empire of the Sun; i think the former stars Xtian Bale while the latter features a scene in which a doctor sniffs at the poo of a young emperor. I could be totally mistaken). "Equilibrium" also stars Sean Bean, who apparently has only one character he can play (and that character be: Boromir). The movie was described as a futuristic sci-fi thing, and we like futuristic sci-fi around these parts, so even when the DVD splash page featured two men in floor-length vinyl coats a la The Matrix, and even when the prologue scene was just a whole semenwad of faux-Matrix, we were willing to try it out. We lurf the Matrix.

But, boo hiss! It was a movie about a 1984-esque totalitarian state, in which a force of highly trained soldiers and policemen enforced the policy of eradicating "everything that causes man to hate man," which, apparently, is art. The premise was that the fascist regime was intent on outlawing all emotion, because emotion would lead to hatred and then to war (and these tigers had already survived WWIII and they knew that a WWIV was a bad idea, so they wanted to eliminate war via eliminating hatred via eliminating emotion. They were 'feeling police,' rather than thought police. (Cue the Zappa: who are the brain police?)

Thing is, there's just no point in envisioning an emotionless future like that. It's surely going to be a lot more like the future of Brave New World, in which the population is sedated and subdued by pharmaceutical means. Soma quells anxiety and boredom and fear and rebellion and individual thought. In the Brave New World, the opiate of the people is literally an opiate. Soma numbs and soma soothes. Soma (and hypnopaedia) keep the caste system functioning, the industrial complex complexing and the people complacent and content. And, man, after spending last Sunday in front of the tv, I can tell you that Soma is here, friends. Doesn't it sometimes seem like EVERYONE you know is taking fucking brain pills?

Because they make it seem like everything necessitates taking brain pills! Are you sad, angry, sleepy, sleepless, fat, skinny, embarassed, exhibitionistic, horny, frigid? (interrobang). Take a brain pill. (Or a peepee pill, because apparently real men take peepee pills.) I saw so many commercials that I swear were targeted just at me: "Do you find yourself gripped with the irrational fear that we are using too much electricity which will result in a simultaneous global blackout and the entire civilization will collapse and a rogue terrorist will unleash a horrible biological weapon and/or the weapons silos will dysfunction bombs will go off and nuke the globe? Then this pill is for you!" or "Do you constantly find yourself crushing on dudes who can never possibly be your boyfriend? Take this pill!" And, for a brief moment, I was like: i should take these pills and be happy. Why ought I not to be happy? Other people are happy. I could take those pills and then everything would be perfect.

Baaaaaaa, baaaaa -- and then I bleated all the wall to the slaughterhouse. Baaa baaa baaa. I shook it off. Baaaa, baaaaa. I'd rather be the black sheep. Three bags full.

Anyhoo. I digress. So we watched 7 minutes of Equilcrapium and then turned it off, and moved on to the next dvd: The 7 Faces of Dr. Lao, starring Tony Randall as the 7 faces of Dr. Lao. It was a kinda doofy, overt, parable; a morality tale set in the ol' west and featuring offensive faux-Asian accents. And Dr. Lao taught a small town an important lesson about conscience and pride, and he did with a magical magical circus. And when a small boy wants to run off with the circus, Dr. Lao teaches us an even more valuable lesson:
The whole world is a circus if you know how to look at it. The way the sun goes down when you're tired, comes up when you want to be on the move. That's real magic. The way a leaf grows. The song of the birds. The way the desert looks at night, with the moon embracing it. Oh, my boy, that's... that's circus enough for anyone. Every time you watch a rainbow and feel wonder in your heart. Every time you pick up a handful of dust, and see not the dust, but a mystery, a marvel, there in your hand. Every time you stop and think, "I'm alive, and being alive is fantastic!" Every time such a thing happens, you're part of the Circus of Dr. Lao.

Naturally, we snorted and scoffed and tossed our heads and kicked our heels during this speech. But I would just like to say -- don't be soothed. Because being alive is fantastic.

Friday, November 19, 2004

Beth el Torito

So we've been working 4-evuh on the next phase of the Big in 04 campaign and we've had an awful lot of late-night mania around these parts. The other day, I was teaching Kelly the "There's always someone Jewish" song which features a verse that goes like this:
"Some Jews wear hats, and some Jews wear sombreros,
And some wear k’fiahs to keep out the sun.
Some Jews live on rice, and some live on potatoes,
Or waffles, falafels, or hamburger buns."

And Kelly said, "Jews don't wear sombreros; there aren't any Jews in Mexico."

And so we googled Mexican Jews and found at least four of them, including, apparently, my friend Ricky Powell, the photographer. So at least four Jews wear sombreros. Damn skippy.

Meanwhile, our editor, Keith, doesn't like Mexican food because he doesn't like it when his food is mushy. and Mexican food is often mushy and squooshed together.

So we've been taunting him by announcing that our celebratory wrap dinner is going to be Mexican food. Mexican Jewish food:
Gefilte fish burritos
Matzah nachos
Latke enchiladas
Black bean and matzah ball soup

Now that's what I'm rockin' about.

Oh my goss!

So, using my handy-dandy blog-visitor tracking system, i've noticed that somebunny special from the National Institute of Health has stopped by several times, to which i say: my head hurts a bit, can you do anything about that?

Toga party tonight at Chashama for Andrew Hammer's gallery of photos! Who's coming? I've never been to a real-live toga party and I am quite excited. TOGA! I hope John Belushi smashes someone's guitar.

And You Can Stand on the Arms of the Williamsburg Bridge, Crying, "Hey Man, Well this is Babylon"

We worked all day and then partied all night. I got tipsy and emotional and told my friend Louis all about the saga and the heartbreak of the past few days. I want to relay, but I'll do it it fable form:

Once there was a beautiful, magical kitten named Princess Pixie Pickles. She was a blue kitten and she was sparkly and fun and everyone loved her. Pixie loved a boy who was a Musician. She fell, madly, deeply in love, and refused to let any other boy near her while she was love with her bard. Many years passed, and Pixie continued to love her bard. The Musician never told Pixie that she was special or that he loved her, yet Pixie loved him oh-so-much. And suddenly, the Musician married another beautiful princess and yet Pixie coped. Her wounds hurt, but they healed. Although the Musician claimed that his love for Pixie ought not to be thwarted by the conventional social mores of such things as marriage, Pixie held fast to her resistance policy, clinging tenaciously to ethic values.

The Musician called Pixie and professed his undying love and devotion. Pixie thought of Joni Mitchell's love songs and crumpled beneath his adoration. He created an elaborate scenario in which they could be together in the magical land of Spain. Pixie was actually considering flying to this magical country, especially because she was SO very excited about the fact that somebunny actually loved her. But then the Musician realized that he was being completely fucking insane and that Pixie was really only something he could endulge on the side. Simultaneously, Pixie absorbed and realized and grokked the same teleological circumstances. She forced herself to disengage, yet she cried about the loss. Pixie has decided to stop trying; she has resolved to put other goals above all else. After all, she saw a crappy movie starring Renee Zelweger that advocated the pro-female position of "Down With Love." She says, "fuck love, i'd rather be bigger than the pain." and thusly, she is. down with love.

Down with love! But up with interest rates!

The title of this post comes from one of my most favoritest songs in the world, and I was a drunken rough beast slouching towards Greenpoint in a cab, all I wanted to do was jump out of the cab and stand on the arms of the Williamsburg bridge and shout "HEY MAN! THIS IS BABYLON!" but I didn't.


Thursday, November 18, 2004

Tootie food! Tootie food!

Ah, the shopping lists are the windows to the soul.

Specials thanks to The Grocery List Collection for providing Schwohnson with a much-needed release of giddyness this evening. After a lengthy discussion about the virtues of growing up and believing in Santa Claus and the despair of knowing Santa's never coming to one's house, we were still knee deep in the hooplah and the workload was showing no sign of decreasing.

By which I mean: we were ass-out with a schoolbus approaching.

Luckily, we started perusing grocery lists, and much to our delight, we found these two to be the winners.

Let us parse:

The writers of Tootie Food have apparently just obtained a kitten. Thus, they need a disposable litter box, and some kitten chow. Now, I think they already have a doggie named "Tootie," thus they clearly need some Tootie food (in addition to the newly-needed kitty chow). And to amuse their new kitten, they're buying a birdfood stick to feed the birds outside. And, they're going to be so busy with the kitten that they won't have time to make proper meals -- they're going to subsist on toaster scrambles and coffee drinks.

But, mostly I just like to say: TOOTIE FOOD! TOOTIE FOOD!

List #2
Here, we have an emphatic shopper. He's GOT that tomoa soup, damn it. And sweet Jesus, he finally got that much-coveted SPRAY. And the oil, thank goodess for the oil. What's left -- meat and eggs, two important staples for the non-Vegan. And French Toast -- i didn't even know one could buy premade French Toast! But, clearly, one can! And he's going to, oh yes, he is SO buying French Toast! And pudding. Who doesn't love pudding? Nobody doesn't love pudding (much like Sara Lee). Pudding is nectar of the gods. Creamy ambrosia to save us all. And finally, in the only brand-loyal entry, he's getting a Swiffer. Changing the way Amerika cleans floors! A Swiffer! So easy to use! No messy cleanup! Just dispose its head! No dirty water! More solid waste! Household products are so easy to use, you just throw 'em out when you're done! Woo!

Schwoo. I am spent.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Bush Appoints Newest Cabinet Member

bushturkey, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

As Prexy Bush continues to fill the missing positions in his Cabinet, he welcomes his new Attorney General to the White House.

Condi hearts Bush

Condi hearts Bush, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

Every picture tells a story, don't it?

In other, even more agitating news, did ya'll catch this phenomenally disturbing article in today's NYT? As we all know, I have a massive anxiety-disorder concerning nuclear weapons and the fact that Russia is developing a "New Nuclear Weapon to Surpass Others" makes me shake. Firstly, because the very nature of nuclear weapons and their inherent annihilation (the end of existence/awareness being the 'unthinkable' in the 'thinking the unthinkable' meme) basically means that it doesn't really matter how big your fucking bomb is, because to use nuclear weapons is to destroy the entire worlds (due to international relations-style game theory and all). Secondly -- I thought everyone read Jonathan Schell's "The Fate of the Earth" and wised up? Oh, I forget. We have a President who thinks his invisible friend named "God" tells him what to do.

In lighter news... Speaking of ballistic missiles --
Ladies, have you ever sneezed out a tampon?

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Ack Ack Ack

It appears as if someone has inserted a long thin sword through my temples and into my brain because i have the worst headache ever aroo! Josh and I attempted to go to the Heeb party but it was jammed with jews and my migraine was stronger than the desire to mix and mingle. For reals, it was worse than the drink-line at the mtv x-mas party. Two people recognized me outside the bar and that made me happy, but then we went into 11 (i was actually, albeit briefly, at 11's opening night party, and we declared way back then that it sucked) and it was wall-to-wall Heebs. after attempting to penetrate their jew-cy depths, we were thwarted and retreated. Josh said he thought they were on to him -- after all, as he said, he did slap a picture of his messiah on the back of their magazine and call it a new religion (comparative religion major, GO!)-- but I think it was just too much for the two of us, seeing as we prefer shooting electronic deer to actual socialization with anyone other than ourselves.

We, did, however, have a long and thoughtful discussion on the uses of mind-altering substances (josh was having a caiparinha and i was sipping a mojito) and the intentions thereof ... we both fall into the Alternative-Reality-Allows-for-the-Silencing-of-the-Constant-Anxious-Interior-Monologue-Thus-One-May-Allow-Oneself-to-Relax-and-Not-Feel-Guilty-About-Having-Fun camp, as oppsed to the seeking-great-new-heights or the numb-out-the-world or the bored-with-life camps. anyway. I have all these Great New Thoughts about these topics, but, I kid you not, my brain is about to split open and hurl grey matter all over my keyboard and my HappyHappyHappy sunlamp and the einstein/quanta illustration hanging over my desk, so i have to go lie down and put cold things on my eyes and think about lovely things like baby pandas.

ouch ouch ouch aroo!

Tikun Olam (or some other Hebrew phrase that surely must mean at least a little bit of what I intend it to mean)

... I'm going for a "full-circle" or "ourobouros" type of sensation here. My 2nd year at Camp Ramah (aka Jew Camp, to my longterm listeners), I had an awesome counselor named Esther (about whom I've written previously) who's totally stickin' it to the man as the voice of the NYC single Jewess. Esther (who was named Esther long before Madonna named herself Esther) is a proud-Jew, whereas I am much more of a self-loathing-Jew, and I admire her excessively for sticking true to the ol' Ramah ro-meh-mooooing type of spirit. Anyhoo. So Esther blogged about my blog in an entry called "Camper Gone Wild." It made me happy and I wanted to share. Plus, she called me a diva. Teehee, teehee.

Say It Ain't So-o-o-o-o

Bush picks Rice to succeed Powell - Nov 16, 2004

Well, nail me to a cross.

Monday, November 15, 2004

I see your Schwartz is as big as mine

The battle's heating up.

I just got the physical hard copy of the new Heeb -- I'll scan the Schwartz page and post it tomorrow -- hiiiiiilarious.

who's going to the Heeb release party? If i'm all better -- see you there.

The Bad Girl Jew

// so today's been largely about the whole Heeb thing. It's funny, to be back out there as a Jew -- I mean, I can never lay low as a Jew because of the whole schnozz and general outlook on life (neuroses schmeuroses), but there was a time when I was on stage all the time talking about being a jew, a jewish girl, specifically a bad jewish girl. I've heard of a comedy series here in NY called "Nice Jewish Girls Gone Bad" but I've never been to one of their events -- I'm assuming the premise is roughly the same -- the whole isn't-it-shocking-to-you-that-I-am-a-nice-jewish-girl-but-i-am-really-naughty-and-nasty. for some reason, that concept seems to be the basis for lots of performance art -- you'll see a lot more of that issue on stages across Manhattan than you'll see oooh-look-i-am-Episcopalian-and-i-am-a-bad-girl or even wow-i'm-so-bad-and-i-am-also-a-Lutheran.

A friend emailed me describing how he longed after Jewesses when he was in college, but that as he (and the ladies) got older (closer to marrying age), the Jewesses only wanted to date Jewish dudes so he was out of the running. And I know a lot of people up there on the Upper West Side who rock that j-date shit, and I know Jews who will only date other Jews, no matter what. I ain't like that. Religion doesn't matter to me, as long as you don't really have one. I'm not so into the Faith, if you catch my drift, although I'm okay with a general sense of anti-entropic-higher-order thing, if one likes that sort of idea.

And luckily, I don't really have parental pressure on the whole relationship jew-must-go-on tip. My parents, I believe, would be happy if I were to have a boyfriend at all, let alone if he were a Jew. Just as long as he's not into, like, making my whole family play sports, then we'll all get along fine.

Anyway. My e-conversation about jewesses got me to thinking about the whole thing again -- why is it so hard to name a Jewish sex symbol?

I will ask that again so that you can grok its deeper meaning:

Okay, Okay, I'll give you Jon Stewart, and Sarah Silverman, and Zach Braff and maybe even Adam (maroon 5 yawn) Levine. But that's it? And there's only one sexy Jewish chick? okay, we can add in sarah jessica parker (although i say 'ew') but we are not considering Madonna. I can't think of any sexy Jewesses in pop culture from my childhood and adolescence and I'm hard-pressed to find them now -- when we look to popular culture and the cult-of-personality to find our role models of the sexualized gaze, who do we see? skinny hipped, tiny nosed non-Jews. Where are the ladies with the hips? The thighs? The hair? They're not on the screen -- they're not celluloid idols (ha, more like cellulite idols, she quips wittily, like she was trained), so they're like the anti-idealized-Barbie and therefore the notion of the sexy-Jew becomes appealing to anti-establishment sorts of people.

So I actually wrote about this phenomenon a few years ago in an article for, but then they went bankrupt and it never came out.

Thus, for the first time ever, I present:

Bex on the Bad Girl Jew:

So it’s three a.m. and I’m drunk. The TV is on; the remote is on my belly and I’m looking for eye candy. I come to my favorite channel – the free almost-porn station that broadcasts snippets of “dirty” programming interspersed with hours and hours of “Escort” commercials. There’s the blonde lesbian nipple-licking, the lick-the-boot Dom/Sub thing, and then … there it is. Just one of dozens of the “Asian Beauties” commercials, offering entrance into the most lovely and delicate of Forbidden Temples.
I hate these commercials. It’s not that Asian women aren’t beautiful – of course they are – but I hate the fetishization of an entire race. It’s not that I’m so self-righteous and holier-than-thou. I’m just jealous.
As of now, there’s no advertised and glamourized fetish of what appears to be a lust-inducing icon arousing men across the nation – the Bad Girl Jew. The Bad Girl Jew is Monica Lewinsky, proudly performing oral sex on a goyische President. The Bad Girl Jew is Lindsey Vuolo, the first openly Jewish Playmate. The Bad Girl Jew is talking to you at a bar on the Upper West Side and damn if she doesn’t look juicy. Those mothering hips, that luscious bosom – the Bad Girl Jew comes with conditions: the breasts are real, but so is the nose.

Everything you ever wanted to know about Jews and Sex but were afraid to ask …

The Bad Girl Jew phenomenon stems from the cultural and religious aspects of the Judaic approaches to sex. Shana, a twenty-three year old who prefers the label “naughty,” notes, “I was only told that I had to date Jewish boys. At camp, I was encouraged to fool around – as long as the boy was Jewish. Oh, and if I slept with a non-Jewish man, I wouldn’t be able to marry a cohen [High Priest].” Whereas Catholic school girls are instructed that sex is a sin, that lust is an offence, that unpure acts lead to damnation, Jewish girls learn that sex is a mitzvah -- a commandment (just as long as he goes to Hebrew School). [Update: "Shana" married a really neat Jewish guy named "Todd" last August.]

The Torah maintains that sex is only permissible between a husband and a wife, yet the halacha [Jewish Law] allows a couple to meet “at least once” before the wedding to ensure that they find each other physically attractive. The Talmud and Torah indicate that sex exists not just for procreation, but also for pleasure and for reinforcing the marital commitment. According to the Law, sex should only be enjoyed in a moment of happiness. (Sex must be blissful -- couples who are either drunk or arguing may not fornicate). “Selfish sex” (ignoring one’s partners passion) is illegal, as is using sex as a weapon (withholding or forcing intercourse to punish or manipulate a spouse). Throughout Judaic teachings, sex is portrayed as a joyous act of love – couples are actually encouraged to have sex whenever conception is impossible (e.g. during pregnancy or menopause). Furthermore, the law permits birth control (as long as a husband and wife follow the guidelines to be fruitful and multiply, producing at least one son and one daughter).

The Joy-of-Sex ideal is only partly responsible for the Bad Girl Jew phenomenon. The Talmud clearly states that sex is the woman’s right. The man is compelled by law to have sex with his wife regularly and to ensure that sex is always mutually pleasurable. A woman should not have to ask for sex – the man is instructed to watch for signs that his lover is randy and to satisfy her sexual needs. In fact, sex is one of a woman’s three basic rights: food, clothing, and fucking. To this degree, a man is not permitted to abstain from sex or to travel away from home for too long, thus leaving his wife alone and horny. Additionally, if a husband continues to ignore his wife’s sexual needs, the wife has absolute permission to divorce his sorry ass. It doesn’t matter whether a young Jewess spends her afternoons at Bat Mitzvah lessons or at the Gap – somewhere within the collective unconscious of Jewish culture lies the implicit encouragement for girls to be unashamed of their sexuality and desires. Not every girl becomes a Bad Girl Jew, but those who do are gleefully taking full advantage of their God-given rights.

The Yin-Yang of the Bad Girl Jew

Bad Girl Jews carry the intriguing psychological baggage of sexual un-repression combined with the stereotypically (yet true) Jewish neurosis. A Bad Girl Jew will fuck you on your first date, but she’ll call you every night for a month. A B.G.J. will fellate you for over an hour rather than admit she’s a failure. A B.G.J. will perform any number of sexual favors, but she expects to be complimented and thanked profusely. A B.G.J. is your sexual fantasy wrapped up in your worst nightmare – a high-maintenance, mildly obsessive nympho.

Bad Girl Jews are at once irresistible and annoying. The wild and luscious hair looks fantastic after hours with a blow-dryer or the right curl-enhancing product; that same mane is frightening after a day in the rain. That cleavage and those hips look great in jeans and a tee-shirt, but woe be unto you if your B.G.J tries on a button-down dress. The husky voice sounds amazing when she’s whispering into your ear, but you’ll be reaching for the Advil if she’s PMS-ing and shrill and nasal and hysterical. Bad Girl Jews are also notoriously intellectual – a B.G.J. will seduce you with her deconstructive insights into universal truths, but then she’ll psychoanalyze your collection of Transformers and your willy will wilt like a non-kosher hot dog.

A Bad Girl Jew offers a wild ride, but you’ve got to be prepared to hang on tight and adjust the lap strap. A B.G.J will lick your ear in a crowded elevator. She’ll linger just a little too long when she kisses your buddies goodnight. She’ll introduce you to her parents as “the man I’m fucking.” A Bad Girl Jew is rebelling against everything she thinks her the world. She will do everything within her power to prove that she is not a JAP from the suburbs. She’d do anything to prove that she’s not bourgeois. She’ll take your stereotypes and shred them, all the while longing for you to at least offer to pay for dinner. A Bad Girl Jew will get a tattoo and then laugh nervously as she boasts, “My mom hates this.”

oh. i think I actually never ended this article. but now the NyQuil has kicked in and I fear the keyboard will once again turn into pebbles. I must away to bed.

Heeb Magazine's Battle of the Schwartzes heats up -- I'm a Big League Jew

Heeb Magazine: Battle of the Schwartzes

Lookyloo, I'm battling for Schwartz domination.

The new edition of Heeb magazine is out, and whomp, there I am -- pitted against Elaine Schwartz. Vote for me! Vote for me! I have a boa! Vote for me! I must trounce that schoolteacher's ass.

Just think -- this time, you can vote and maybe not feel like all-is-lost when the results come in. A vote for Bex is a vote for the blue states! Although I'm sure the other Schwartz is also blue. Jews tend to go blue.

I'm a Jew with the Flu who votes Blue!

Speaking of... I am still sickypoo and it sucks. Even watching tivo'ed episodes of CSI: Miami isn't making me feel better, and if Horatio can't penetrate my ickyness, then all is lost.

My friend Adam tells me that they now make Theraflu in dissolve-able strip form -- like those Listerine strips, but for the flu instead of fresh-breath. I can't wait til they make tequila strips -- all the buzz, none of the fuzz, yo.

Sunday, November 14, 2004

Ah, Friendster messages from strangers

I have the flu, fo' reals, and my right hip isn't working right (damn you, lyme disease!) and we just watched Saved, which mostly sucked, and I need to do laundry but I can't move and I feel like poo. That being said, please enjoy one of the creepiest messages I've ever received via Friendster:
it's my first try here ... i am [name withheld]..i am from Paris...i am a cute looking male.. I am in vaccations here for one month...and i met so many people in that city..but today it's really cold i stayed home...So here is my cell [phone number withheld -- note: it was a 917 number. do visiting Parisians have 917 prefixes?]... my english is not perfect, so just smile, and don't be to fast talking on the phone ... I really like your picture .... And i know you can be lovely surprizz if you're enought open minded to call me...
I love
- seduction
- discretion
- smiles
- women legs, and heels
- the condoms
- chocolate
- complicity
- no taboo
- my family and friends back home
-and me right now, writting to someone
that i don't know..and to be honest, i did a lots of sexy things in my life, but i never met anyone from internet.

For the record, {Name Withheld}, i, too, love the condoms.

I LOVE THE CONDOMS! They're my fave band, ever.

Saturday, November 13, 2004

I Heart Matt Walsh and Ian Roberts

The shoot today was long and somewhat tense but pretty damn awesome. Matt and Ian did this fantabulous improv (in character as news anchors Lance Bottoms and Stryker Carlise, respectively) that made me laugh so hard I cried all my mascara off. They're rad. Coming soon to a times square jumbotron near you, and coming sooner (With audio) to a vh1 near you.

That's what i'm rocking about, 4-evuh.

The bad news is that i am sick as a dog. This SUCKS. Suckety suckfest 3k.

Speaking of which, Kelly and I saw Andre 3000 in Mark Jacobs while we were taking a cab home. He was frozen in the doorway, watching something on a wall screen. He was completely still -- Kelly thought he was a Mme. Tussaud's dummy. A dapper dummy! He was oh-so-sharply-dressed. We were excited -- an a-list celeb spotting! Hoorah, hoorah.

And now will take to my bed with a box of tissues and some tylenol cold. Send unchicken soup my way!

Friday, November 12, 2004

How The Somewhat Mighty Have ...

Wow. Howard Fenster, the guy who used to be the weird sidekick on the ol' Jon Stewart show on mtv? (the one i was supposed to be on, talking backwards, but then they cancelled the show?) He works at my gym now. Whoa.

Thursday, November 11, 2004

Swampety Swamp Swamp

Hey --
I apologize for the lack of soul-bearing / snark-making posts. We are SWAMPED in work. Happy news, however -- we're shooting the awesome Matt Walsh and Ian Roberts this Saturday for an upcoming promo campaign for Big in 04. If you're like-aged to me, then you remember them from their awwwwwwesome Upright Citizens' Brigade series on Comedy Central (and by 'awesome,' i mean 'definitely the first season'). You may also recognize Matt from Old School and the Daily Show and a zillion other things, and Ian portrayed the legendary Sparky "Spirit Fingers" in Bring It On. Despite the fact that we're working on the weekend, it should be pretty fucking rad.

Now THAT's what I'm rocking about.

I was walking home and Tom Petty came up on the ol' ipod -- would it be completely horrifically in bad taste to release a parody of "Even The Losers" called "Even Fallujah" ???

Baby, Even Fallujah ... gets lucky sometimes.

It just scans oh-so-well, yo. And I mean 'lucky' in a purely ironical sense, of course.

Heh. "Ironical." Heh heh.

Now that's what i'm ROCKING about.

Here's my latest fun game: get into the elevator with your ipod earbuds firmly lodged in your eardrums, and nod your head rhymically like you're listening to the hardest Lil Jon piece of crunk -- but, really, you're listening to "Goodnight Saigon" by Billy Joel!

I find this activity to be endlessly entertaining.

And now, today was yet again a roughie-toughie. I must go tuck myself. Into bed.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Once and for all, Ladies: Dr. Hager is ALREADY on the Food and Drug Administration's (FDA) Reproductive Health Drugs Advisory Committee.

Perhaps you've received the email about President Bush's plan to select Dr. W. David Hager to the FDA's Reproductive Health Drugs Advisory Committee. The email is scary; it's about how Hager's this total prolife Jesusfreak fundamentalist (true) who doesn't prescribe birthcontrol to unmarried women (true -- Time confirmed it) and who wants to revoke RU-486's prescription status. All of this SUCKS. But, ladies, please -- this email is OLD.

Dr. Hager was appointed to the committee in December 2002. In fact, he was just re-appointed this past June. He's ON THE FUCKING COMMITTEE already, people. Yes, it really fucking sucks. But sending on that email -- forwarding a petititon to the whitehouse asking Bush not to appoint Hager -- just makes us look stupid.

Check your facts, yo. I highly recommend snopes for all your urban-legend fact-checking needs.

Nasa Cat, Nasa Cat, I Love You, Yes I Do

Check out this video of a kittycat in the vomit comet (the plane that flies parabolae to create weightlessness, simulating what it's like in space). Watch as they hurl the kitty against the wall! Gasp as the kitty freaks out! Marvel as the kitty lands on its feet!

And also, please take note that NASA seems to like women astronautesses who have black curly hair, Crista McAuliffe style.

A Modest Proposal

Can we please ask Tom Hanks to just stop with that i-am-pretending-to-be-a-grand-ol'-fella-from-what-i-imagine-the-1940s-sounded-like voice?


Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Let the eagle fucking soar

John Ashcroft's next career -- rock god. Coming soon to VH1.


Ashcroft and Evans are officially the first members of Bush's cabinet to resign.

Life could be looking up ... unless they appoint David Duke to fill Ashcroft's position.

"All you fascists are bound to lose" -- Woody Goothrie, via Billy Bragg.

Hip hip hip hooray.

Monday, November 08, 2004

Pepsi what?

Pepsi Holiday Spice -- I say, I say: whuuut?

I saw a spot today for Pepsi Holiday Spice, which I can only imagine tastes much like a Captain Morgan and Coke. I went to see my friend Michael Cerveris and his band rock out at Tonic once, and a guy at the bar asked for a "Captain and Coke." I'd never heard anyone order a rum and coke like that and I was utterly impressed with pirate-tude.

Arrrrgh, mateys, we be drinkin' Pepsi Spice this whole holiday season, I say unto you. Arrrrgh.

Speaking of spots, i lurf that Canon is using "Let the River Run" in their current campaign. "Let the River Run" is the best song to sing at full volume if you should find yourself depressed. I encourage each and every one of you to commit.

Pepsi Holiday Spice. Puh-leaze. It's bad enough that drinking Diet Coke with Lime makes your brain go, "Hmmm, this tastes like a gin and tonic except it's not." The brain-addlement that's sure to ensue from drinking Pepsi Spice (PepSpice?) might just be the key to guarantee distraction from post-election despair.

Either that, or lots of sex. I'll take what I can get. Bring on the Diet Pepspice, hooray!

"And most of all I'm scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I'm with you"

So I watched Dirty Dancing on Sunday, which is my most-fave guilty pleasure movie, the one I want to hate myself for adoring oh-so-much (i don't like it when i girl-out; i feel like it's a side of me that's better kept on the deep deep deep inside). But, i'm here to come clean: Dirty Dancing just might be my favorite movie.

Here's why:
Baby is an awkward-looking jewish girl who suffers from both a semitic nose and a lack of self-esteem pertaining to her sexyness and attractiveness. She's self-confident about her intelligence -- she's bound both for Mt. Holyoke and for glory, because she plans on joining the peace corp. And she totally idolizes her father, whom she believes to be the most righteous guy ever -- esepecially in contrast to her snotty sister and vapid mother. And she learns to unlock her hips and move her ass -- first, by crashing the staff kids' dirty dance party by carrying a watermelon, and then shocking the staff kids (and herself) by learning the intricate Mambo choreography to protect Penny and to save Johhny Castle. And, man! As Johnny teaches her how to dance, she gets sexier and sexier. She learns the art of seduction. She dresses skimpily. She realizes that she's awesome. And through it all, she stands up for that in what she believes, even when she must disappoint her beloved daddy.

Awkward Jewish girl learns to dance, figures out that she's sexy, falls in mutual love with the stunningly strong-armed and rugged man of her dreams (who can dance like a motherfucker!) and generally becomes a fantastically self-empowered paragon of excellence.

not to mention, she tells the guy that she's in love with him and then they dance, topless.

Oh, please. Could someone please sweep me into his arms and slow dance with me? And then can we lipsync Silvia and Mickey to each other?

And maybe we should go to a lake or a river. Because the best place to practice lifts is in the water.

i lost my frog

i lost my frog

i felt compelled to add a little sumpin sumpin to the saga of hopkin greenfrog.

him name is hopkin greenfrog

ps. i'll find my frog

fucking genius, along the 'all your base are belong to us' phenom --
someone found a note reading:
if I looking for frog
him name is hopkin green frog
i lost my frog
329 -3228
Love, Terry
P.S. I'll find my frog
Who took my frog
Who found my frog
2012 15th Ave. S

and then webbies worked their magic.

"him name is hopkin" = makes me tingly.

Sunday, November 07, 2004

It's The End of The World as We Know It ... And I Feel Kinda Meh

So I went to see REM at MSG last Thursday with my awesome friend Gary. Other people wrote about it at the Murmurs message board, so you can rock that for details if you really want 'em. Blah blah, they opened with It's the End of the World As We Know It and Stipe took his pants down during the encore songs, but mostly I was in a state of REM-induced ecstasy and Gary kept providing champagne and it was a little bit blissfully blurry.

And then we went to afterparty which was actually at the restaurant thing (?) at MSG and it was sucky and I talked to Scott and he said that he and Ken would be at a bar downtown, so Gary and I went down there instead. Although I had enough time to once again surrender my dignity to Mike Mills and to go "BLuuuuurgh, Anderson Cooper, thanks for being part of vh1's Big in 04, blurrrrgh." And then Gary and I went downtown and ran into Eugene, who's also buddies with Scott, and I became inordinately inebriated in an attempt to pretend I was living in happier times and I am pretty sure I humiliated myself. And I know I had funny marks on my neck on Friday.

Yeah. So, then. Friday was pretty hard to handle, and poor Kristin had to deal with me getting excessively giddy (as I am wont to do when I'm overwhelmed) and I fell into nearly-hysterical puddles of giggles throughout the day about the following subjects:
Once, Kristin and I were working on a spot and I started talking about my childhood speech impediments. I had all of them (couldn't handle R's or L's), basically, but a unique and almost endearing feature was my inability to pronounce initial 's' sounds and my consequential behavior: i just pretended they weren't there. So "I smell smoke" became "I 'mell 'moke!" And, "Look, a snake!" became "Wook, a 'nake!" I had to spend a lot of time playing "Repeat," in which I had to attempt to repeat and pronouce words correctly, and I apparently used to spend car-rides drawing my parkahood around my head and singing, "Oh my goss, I hiding in me hood!"

Now, to this day, I really like putting things on my head, a habit that I imagine dates back to the hood hiding era. But, more importantly, I'd like to introduce the world to the phrase "Oh my goss." Just say it out loud. Doesn't that feel awesome? Kristin and I were saying it in little girl voices, and then we worked it into our regular conversation, but then our editor Ray said it ... and Ray's "Oh my goss" was transplendent goodness.

{I also used to call cartoons 'raccoons,' and an oft-recited fambly tale concerns my anger at the television when we couldn't find the 'raccoon raccoon' (a cartoon about raccoons, natch) that I wanted to watch, and I became quite livid).

Okay, so I stupidly studied French in high school because I thought it would come in handy for my eventual philosophy major (Whoops) and so I took French even though most of my classmates took Spanish (which would have been a far wiser choice.) And my 8th grade French class was in the same classroom as a Spanish class that immediately preceded it, and everyday I'd sit in French class as Mme Salzman erased the Spanish on the board, and the board would always say something like "Pagina 16."
And so one day in Algebra, I asked a Spanish-studying friend if it was embarassing to always ask the Senora about the "Paginas" (rhymes with vaginas.) And they all laughed and laughed and laughed.
Que paginas (rhymes with vaginas)?

(In college, my friend Eric used to like to order Oranginas (rhymes with vaginas) at WesWings).

Last week, I described a particularly bad day as a "roughie-toughie." I'd really like people to start using that expression, if you please.
I'd also like to advocate use of the expressions:
"Now that's what I'm rockin' about" (courtesy of Mike)
"I like the cut of his jibe" (courtesy of Kelly)

(furthermore, for all you engineers and editors who refer to the need to finish at a particular time as having a 'hard out' {as in, "we can't work late, I've got a hard out at 6"} I'd like you, from this point forward, to refer to this particular circumstances as having a 'raging hard out.' Please. It would really amuse me to no end>
Friday night, despite near-exhaustion, I went to Hammermania's gallery opening at Chashama (217 East 42, between 2nd and 3rd). The exhibition is pretty neat and you can see me hanging on the wall in a really cool multiple exposure that Andrew shot. And you can buy me for a lot of money. The photo thereof, that is. I'm pretty cheap.

And then we (me and josh 'n' the gang) went to Julep where we met up with some awesome ol' college buddies (greg and parr and nate)and tried to break the high score of the bar's erotic photohunt, but to no avail. a man told me I was hot and then slipped me his business card by using the maitre d' handshake. it was rather fucking entertaining, at the time, and we amused ourselves by slipping each other the dude's business card all night.

Saturday, Aaron and Claire came over and we went to see Sideways, which made me feel very old and grownup and existentially depressed, and it also really made me want a motherfucking glass of wine.

Today I watched Dirty Dancing, on which I will write an exegesis either tonight or tomorrow. And I had dinner with Manz, whom I haven't seen in far too long.

And hey, I'm listening to my old Bare Naked Ladies albums (just the first three, then I stopped liking 'em). I like the nostalgic rush that songs like "Brian Wilson" give me.

I want to Dirty Dance with the staff kids so fucking bad, it slays me.

Saturday, November 06, 2004

Rome Wasn't Built in a Day

The Mountain Goats will make you sing along, goddamnit.

(Thanks to the of mirror eye for the mp3).

This was the last song of The Mountain Goats' incredible set and I think it's just lovely. And also, there is very little that I love more than a singalong hootenanny.

In fact, here's a list of my favorite things:

5. Spontaneous Production Numbers
4. Giddy Excitement
3. A Singalong Hootenanny
2. Science
1. Thinking

Okay, so it's true, I love Science and Thinking slightly more than I love a Singalong Hootenanny. And I think "Making Out" should be on that list somewhere, but I was trying to be discriminate.

"I like soup, and I like ice cream sandwiches, too. I like fish sticks, but I love you." -- that's a lyric from an old Bare Naked Ladies song (once I really loved the Bare Naked Ladies a whole lot; not so much these days, except in a nostalgic way). I don't eat ice cream sandwiches unless they're of the tofutti variety, and I sure as fuck don't eat fish, but I do love soup.

Sometimes I like to sing about all the things I love:
"I love soup and I love taking off my clothes and jumping into rooftop swimming pools, too. I like the wodge of Nestle Quik at the bottom of the glass, and I love Harold Ramis, too. I love Ghostbusters (1 and 2 but not really the cartoon) and I love sparkles and I love the handy-dandy science printer on CSI."

Here is a song about things I do not love:
"I don't like going to the doctor, nor do I like mean people. I also don't particularly care for crying babies, and I don't like ricotta cheese, not one whit. I really dislike homophobes and I am not really fond of my nose and I have very vitriolic feelings of incredible hatred directed at President Bush."

And I love singing along with John Darnielle about heading to D-land and peeling oranges and sharing slices with your father and being extra careful not to drip juice on the fine Corinthian leather, because Rome wasn't built in a day.

Sorry Everybody

Check out this website -- it's called "Sorry Everybody" and it offers dejected Americans the opportunity to apologize to the the rest of the world on behalf of the just-over-half of Bad America who voted for Bush. The site's author says:
Some of us -- hopefully most of us -- are trying to understand and appreciate the effect our recent election will have on you, the citizens of the rest of the world. As our so-called leaders redouble their efforts to screw you over, please remember that some of us -- hopefully most of us -- are truly, truly sorry. And we'll say we're sorry, even on the behalf of the ones who aren't.

Kristin and I were enjoying the photo gallery of people apologizing, and we took some cam-phone photos of ourselves holding signs but they just looked like poo, so I made this little collage once i got home.

I am so, so, so, so sorry.

Thursday, November 04, 2004

Looks like a drift to the right from the world we were born in

Billy Bragg's song "King James Version," off the "William Bloke" album:
"Looks like a drift to the Right
For the world we were born in.
But the horizon is bright
Yonder comes the morning "

I can't get that out of my head.
Must ... remember ... horizon ... looks ... bright.

President Obama, 08.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

I drew a map of Canada ... O Canada

Alas, it will not be easy-as-Canadian-goose-pie to move to Candadia.

Heck, a year-long wait sounds better than four years of hell.

For the record, on top of everything else about which I'm enraged, I am BUMMED that Florida passed the no-abortion-without-parental-consent bill. Because that means more terrified teenagers and that means more pre-Roe-v-Wade desperate measures like hangers and knitting needles.

Speaking of which, if Roe v. Wade gets overturned over the next four years, this ride is going to get even worse than it already is.

New America forever!

"Kathy, I'm lost," I said, though I knew she was sleeping

Jesusland, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

And we walked off to look for Amerika.

once i met a woman from Saginaw. I asked if she'd ever taken four days to hitchhike from there.


Love it Or Leave It, originally uploaded by starbexxx.

Who's moving to Canada? It's like the end of Fiddler, but instead of trekking out of Anatevka with all our worldly belongings, we'll be loading up the moving vans and taking over the Hollywood-in-exile film industry way up yonder in the sleeping giant to the north.

"A Distorted Reality is Now A Necessity to be Free"

My new friend Dustin is also a blogger and he captured the moment on film. As he says, "this was all of us when Rather first said that Bush had it. i caught it, but i wasn't sure anybody else had. He looked down at his notes, straightening the paper and said, very tentatively, i think the president has it... i took the picture because i felt that was it. i knew it."

So, there it is, captured for all eternity. a gaggle of miserable people refusing to accept the grim new reality.

Noah and I went home and smoked a lot. As Elliot Smith sings, "A Distorted Reality is Now a Necessity to be Free."

Motherfucking Dildo Shit

(that's what my mom always said when things were going wrong).

Holy fucking poo.

Let the riots begin --
red vs. blue
Old America vs. New Amerika.
"evangelical homophobic hating fucks" vs. "Human beings"

In other, less important ways: David Cross + Gideon Yago = CNN's Bill Hemmer.


oh please, oh please, let us wake up into a dewey beats truman world.

Monday, November 01, 2004

But You Don't Believe We're on the Eve of ... Reconstruction

alternate title: "It's Been A Bad Day, Please Don't Take my Picture."

So today was a roughie-toughie and so I'm allowing my brain to dally in pleasant pastures of imagination ... a world in which, let's say, Kerry wins the election and life becomes awesome.

Here's what I'd really like. I'd really like to meet a boy with whom I get along famously and we feel a mutual spark of attraction but we are also really interested in making a quirky little documentary that will ostensibly be about our travels through small towns across America and the unification that ensues when we sing folk songs with the old-timers, but which will also be about the development of our relationship and the deconstruction of the urban-rural dichotomy and how America functions. And thus we hit the road, Jack. And fall in love. And make an awesome movie with a kickass soundtrack, a few solid catchphrases, and philosophical weltanshaung that mixes pop culture with mythology and sociology.

That would sure be nice.

Holy Shit! I Know a REAL, LIVE PUNDIT

viva la stereogum!

Color me fancy! I was just reading my new Wired (geek HEAT!) and realized I know a real pundit! Not a pop culture pundit, but, like, someone quoted in an ad! An ad for BOSE! A critically acclaimed product for the sort of people who take their audio seriously! And a quote from a non-acredited source just won't do! And so they must turn to Scott from Stereogum! THAT IS SO FUCKING RAD!

"Most consumers don't take full advantage of the available technology," says Scott Lapatine, author of Stereogum, a popular digital music weblog featured in the New York Post and Billboard magazine. "Listening to music on the subway is great, but who listens to headphones in their home? Getting your digital device hooked up to a stereo with high-quality speakers is the next logical step," according to Lapatine.

BOOM CHAKA LAKA, YES! See, I am a huge Scott Lapatine fan. He is hella rad and meme-initiating. I met Scott through my friend Adam, although coincidentally, Scott is friends with Jed who lives with my friend Josh. Many roads lead to Scott, and one of them used to culiminate in the smokers' area outside our office building, back when we both worked there and smoked. Anyhoo. Scott's blog, Stereogum, is pretty fucking paradigmatic and thus, I hoist my whisky and hot apple cider in his direction: For I am in awe of Scott Lapatine, and I think he rocks. Long may ye introduce the world to Arcade Fire whilst tracking the movements of la Brit and K-fed. Viva la Scott.