Moving too fast. Not again:


Enrique Iglesias is in Israel to collect a reported $1 million paycheck to perform at a private Hanukkah party for a billionaire. Fine, that's great, but must you go do...whatever it is you're doing near my sacred site?

What is it with these crazy celebrities using my wall as a photo opportunity? I blame Madonna and her b.s. Kabbalah fascination for making Judaism all the rage.

I've got a perfect body. Today in Celebrity Sightings:

I'm not usually one to brag, but I really outdid myself this time. I had a blink-and-you'll-miss-it sighting while walking down Prince Street. In a crush of people, I spotted a familiar face and placed her right away as the worst part of "Popular," in my opinion, Carly Pope. She was looking a little bedraggled in her military-esque cap and dirty hair. Still, she was having a good time, laughing it up with her friend, and that's a lot better than the sullen-looking, nervous celebs I usually see.

Make you work hard. Once upon a time, when I was a wee assistant arts editor on my college paper, the Opinions Section had a weekly "Cheers and Jeers" column. With my impending move, I have become nostalgic. Thus, I bring you my own little "Cheers and Jeers" offering because there is nothing more important than my opinion.

Cheers!

• Buffy worship continues.



• Tom Perrotta worship heats up (scroll down to Item #2).



• Merry Christmas to you, too, Britney Spears. I'll take acne over vajayjay any day.



• So over The Gibson and The Lohan.



• I just received my first business-related holiday gift! I got a gift pack of dried fruit, nuts, chocolate and jelly beans. People try to bribe me with candy. I'm finally important.

Jeers!

• Yay for new discoveries in HIV prevention, but was this really necessary? I doubt that it was.



• Oh fuck, that's disgusting. I think I'm scarred for life.



• Anyone else getting a distinct "Hiroshima Mon Amour" meets "Schindler's List" vibe from Cate Blanchett in "The Good German?"



• No snow! How am I supposed to go skiing?



• Christmas is on a Monday this year, meaning I have to work Tuesday, meaning that my annual post-Christmas tradition of raiding the Saks Fifth Avenue Day-After-Christmas sale is ruined! Thanks a lot, Baby Jesus.

Make 'em laugh. According to "Vanity Fair," women aren't funny. Who knew? I certainly didn't get the memo. Apparently I was born with a penis I never noticed because I am certainly funny. In fact, I would say that I am much funnier than my boyfriend, and he would probably agree with me on that. My female friends are all very funny. In fact, most of the women I know are hilarious.

But, no, we must be wrong because women are not funny. Why aren't we funny? Because all we think about is reproduction, and reproduction makes you serious:

For women, reproduction is, if not the only thing, certainly the main thing. Apart from giving them a very different attitude to filth and embarrassment, it also imbues them with the kind of seriousness and solemnity at which men can only goggle.

Apparently, not relishing piss and fart jokes means women have no sense of humor. All of the intelligently humorous women out there, even the ones who do enjoy body function jokes, are automatically disregarded. I'm sure Jane Austen, one of the best satirists in English literature, would appreciate that.

In case you have any doubt as to the veracity of the woman-aren't-funny axiom, Christopher Hitchens uses Rudyard Kipling's poem "The Female of the Species" as supporting evidence. Apparently, verse by a notorious bigot is all you need to support your thesis.

This is what I like to call "convenient journalism." It doesn't require any research or basis in reality; it's just based on one person's limited view of the world. It's like if Jerry Seinfeld started writing magazine articles instead of doing stand-up.

"Ever notice how men are douchbags?" There's your next headline, "Vanity Fair."

Nothing compares to you. For all five of you who haven't heard yet, Mary Cheney is pregnant! That's right, the evil Vice President's lesbian daughter is expecting a child with her longtime partner. Not surprisingly, this isn't going over well with certain conservative groups. For example, Carrie Gordon Earll, a policy analyst for the conservative Christian ministry Focus on the Family, had this to say:

"Just because you can conceive a child outside a one-woman, one-man marriage doesn't mean it's a good idea. Love can't replace a mother and a father."

Um, what? This doesn't make any sense. Apparently, it doesn't matter how much you love your child or how well you raise your child. If you and your partner are of the same sex, you are inherently doing your child a disservice. The most important thing for a child is that the child has a parent with a penis and a parent with a vagina. Doesn't matter if dad beats the kid, doesn't matter if mom is an alcoholic. All that matters is different genitals!

I'd like to understand the religious Fascist Conservative viewpoint. I keep rolling this stuff around and around in my head, and I Just. Don't. Get. It. I really don't understand where these people come off saying that love doesn't count. Good parenting is good parenting, no matter who is raising the child. Every time one of these morally self-righteous bigots gets up in a public forum and spews this crap, every child from a non-traditional family hears this and is disheartened. Every kid raised by grandma or a foster parent or a single parent or two parents of the same sex is going to think that he is in some way defective or given the short stick in the life lottery. If these conservative groups were really concerned about building healthy and happy families, they would work to provide all children with health insurance, school lunch, and proper education at the very least. They would even legalize gay adoption so that the massive amounts of kids in foster care could have permanent, safe homes. Conservatives are only interested in hate and self-interest. They don't give a shit about families.

I haven't thought of you lately at all. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings:

Christmas came early, apparently, as I had a very obscure celebrity sighting last night right before I got on the 1 train at Houston. I was on the phone at the time, and I had to interrupt my conversation to say, "Hey, I just saw a celebrity."

Though, I have to admit, it was something of a lie as Ms. Krysten Ritter is not much of a celebrity. She has become the go-to annoying ditz for teenage girl-focused television, first as Gia Goodman on "Veronica Mars" and now as Lucy on "Gilmore Girls." If you can believe it, she's even skinner and more ridiculously-dressed now than she was on "Veronica Mars."

Anyway, when I saw her she was wearing a black ski hat, black scarf, and black peacoat, all of which, coupled with her jet-black hair and incredibly paleness, made her look like some sort of goth wanna-be rocker chick who moonlights as a cat burglar when she isn't writing bleak poetry. Either that, or she was just trying to be incognito, in which case she has an over-inflated sense of self-importance. Or she was just cold, but if that was the case, may I please suggest some color to offset the black? Maybe a kicky red scarf or a ski hat with a fun knit pattern? You know, just to spice things up a bit.

If everything could ever be this good again.
Best. Birthday gift. Ever. Holy shit, Sus, you just rocked my socks off.

I'll remember. Two Years Ago in B-List Celebrity Sightings:

Recently, I was asked why there haven't been many celebrity sightings on the T.L. Here's the truth: I actually see plenty of celebrities, but for the life of me I can't remember their names. I rarely forget a face, but names can be like smoke through a chimney for me...or something.

Anyway, this celebrity sighting actually has a little bit of a story to it. Two years ago, I was walking through Grand Central when I saw a celebrity walking towards me but I couldn't for the life of me remember his name or anything he'd been in. Flash forward to Saturday. I went to the theater and was flipping through a playbill when what do I see but a picture of said B-list celebrity from Grand Central. Huzzah! The next day while brushing my teeth, I remembered the movie I'd seen him in.

Without further delay, I present to you, "With Honors" alum Josh Hamilton walking through Grand Central, wearing a kicky little scarf. This also makes me one degree away from Patrick Dempsey. Yum.

I don't know about you, but I feel much better.

It's good enough for me. I just LOLed all over myself.

Flawless, absolutely flawless. I suppose "thou shalt not put thy dick up another man's butt" trumps "thou shalt not kill" in the Commandment department? Good thing to know that crazies exist in all religions. I was worried.

Home of the brave. Now that we've kicked some Republican ass, I think it's time we make all their dreams come true. Bring on the crazy liberal agenda. Wooo!

The bats have left the bell tower. Thanks for coming along with me on my spooky countdown. In honor of All Hallows Eve, I've resurrected something from the depths of television past. No, it isn't Charlie Brown, and it isn't "Buffy," but you're close. It is from the black and sinister trenches of YouTube, and it screams Satan's name as it dances naked around the Bacchanalian hellfires.

Send it in! Send it in!

Vampire Blog-a-thon

Transylvanian concubine. I have recovered from my stint as the Scrooge of Halloween and will now talk about a subject very dear to my ghoulish heart: Vampires. I admit, ever since I saw "Interview with the Vampire" in middle school, I have been wary of sleeping with my neck exposed else some nocturnal hematophage happens upon me. There's something about Vampires that really gets to people, isn't there? Vampires are distinctly human in form except without that pesky superego getting in the way of all the fun. Plus, they add a demonic note to that age-old "Where do we go after we die?" question. With Vampires, the answer is that you come back to feast on the flesh of the living. That's exciting if you're a Goth but terrifying if you're a Hungarian peasant.

I've noticed a transition between the historic soulless-Vampire-as-pure-evil and the current Hollywood Vampiric incarnation. Whereas once the eternal Vampire instilled fear, now it is a source of erotic excitement. You see it in the homoerotic undertones between Lestat and Louie in "Interview," the skin-tight cat suits and lingering sex scenes of "Underworld," and the romance-beyond-death theme of "Bram Stoker's Dracula." Even the Vampire's "kiss" is portrayed in slow-motion, close-up, open-mouthed, wet with dripping saliva. Then the camera pans to the victim's face. Her emotions are ambiguous, with her wide eyes and parted lips. Is she in pain or intense pleasure? Is there even a difference?

But enough of this. I don't want to talk about victims. I want to talk about heroes!

As many of you know--and I should probably be embarrassed about this--I am a huge "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" fan. I even wrote my college entrance essay about Buffy-as-feminist-icon (Hey, don't judge. It worked). I realize that "Buffy" started out as a pathetic little movie about a stereotypical blond cheerleader who inconveniently must battle the forces of darkness and make out with Luke Perry, but if you know anything about Joss Whedon, you know it was not meant to be like this.

Oh no. No no. We were not supposed to have cheerleader-and-phallic-symbol fetishism. Nonsense! We were supposed to see the traditional blond victim walk into the Vampire's lair and not only survive, but triumph. The TV version of "Buffy" is kind of like revenge porn--it's not every day that you get to see a petite blond kicking ass and taking names. We weren't even supposed to care about the Vampires. Think about how terrible the show was when Dracula showed up. Here's the most legendary and feared character in the Vampire canon, and he comes off as a fey David Copperfield wanna-be desperately in need of bronzer. Even the initially-feared Spike turned into a love-sick, if grumpy, puppy.

It's interesting to go from the woman-as-Vampire-victim Hollywood aesthetic to woman-as-Vampire-slayer theme. Women were either dinner or devil in the Vampire legends of yore. Now they are the avengers, fighting for some moral principle or saving the earth from destruction at the hands of some latent but lingering evil.

Yes, the cleavage is still there, and we still have the overly-moussed love interest. But the Vampire motif seems to be evolving beyond the traditional blood-lust and gore. Suddenly, women are the heroes, the Chosen, the leaders destined to deliver us from evil. The current trend in Vampire lore seems to reject snuff films in favor of heroism. Men become the sidekicks, and we're supposed to lust after the strong, gun- or crossbow-wielding heroine. She's the one's who's going to get the job done.

A small, blond chick walks into a Vampire's lair with nothing more than a pointy piece of wood. A battle ensues. Who do you think is going to win?

So sexy it hurts. I ask you, what's more frightening than Republicans procreating? I would also like to point out that most of the men they interviewed were smarmy, manipulative assholes. Go Blue!

Dig up her bones. Continuing with my spooky theme...

Le Tombeau
Originally uploaded by thelizisawesome.

Wasn't there a house at Harvard or Radcliffe named Greenough? I think you guys just raided cemetaries looking for names. It's called originality. Look it up!

We can hold hands like paper dolls. YES! I believe this warrants an old school fist pump.

*pumps fist in air*

Come on now, sugar. I don't know how many of you out there watch "Veronica Mars," but tonight's episode made me incredibly angry. The current mystery revolves around who is drugging and raping his/their way through Veronica's liberal arts college; the rapist's signature is a shaved head bestowed as a parting gift for each victim. The rapes, as far as we know, have been going on for over a year, and the college's administration has failed to take action.

My problem is the way in which the series labels everyone who dares protest these rather horrific rapes. The only voice of outcry is led by a gaggle of angry, militant feminists who are ethically dubious (one is a Fox News journalist in the making, if you catch my drift) or freakish (strange body piercings, implied lesbianism).

Think about it. At any college, if a razor-happy serial rapist was running amok among the female population, you'd better believe that the outcry would not be lead by a marginalized group of radicals. There would be hell to pay--parents would yank their children, alums would yank funding, and there would be a media circus. However, anyone who dares lift an eyebrow at the events is painted as an irrational ball-buster. The only reason our heroine Veronica seems to be taking an interest in the case is because of a sense of wounded pride, not genuine concern for the victims or fear for her own safety or the safety of her friends.

This setup is in stark contrast to season one, when Veronica set about uncovering the events surrounding her own rape. Every single person who saw Veronica the night she was drugged and raped--and there were a good 20 characters highlighted--is labeled culpable. Even "Saint Blond" Meg is guilty of standing by and leaving Veronica in harm's way. The rapes the writers are currently depicting are horrific. Victims have no way of remaining anonymous or going about their normal routines. The rapist strips away their identity, both as whole human beings and as feminine. They are forced to hide behind wigs or walk the campus as poster children for victimhood. Yet anyone who dares demand answers is portrayed in a remarkably unflattering, almost comical, manner.

Why am I getting so worked up about a dumb television show? Because television is a mass medium that reaches millions each day, and every time it is portrayed as unacceptable for women to stand up for themselves or speak out against sexual violence, we lose. Even Keith's derogatory crack about asking Veronica if she'd become a women's studies major because she donned a pants suit and unflattering shoes underscores the idea that women who do not conform to socially-dictated notions of proper femininity are not worthy or valuable.

I really have no idea why a show that started out lauding the exploits of a petite blond who refused to let the shit get kicked out of her by the reigning kings and queens of her high school has devolved in such a manner. I'd like to blame the CW, "network of the Lord", but I fear there's more to it than that. Either way, I am righteously pissed off.

This old engine makes it on time. Riding the subway is not totally safe? Is it because of terrorism? Have they uncovered some information about a nerve gas attack? Have they discovered poorly maintained infrastructure?

Haha, you're funny. The subway stations and subway cars are too noisy and will permanently damage our hearing.

Shockers!

With dead poets and drum machines. Countdown to Halloween continues here on the T.L., and the excitement is palpable! Oooh baby.

Did you ever notice how most greeting cards are either cloyingly sweet or snarky? There is never a greeting card that simply states "I love you" without including some saccarine poem about flowers and the ages or some ball-busting qualifier such as "but not as much as I love your money." I wonder why Americans are so reluctant to lay it out there. Maybe we're all just afraid to be vulnerable.

Well, fine then, if love is schmaltzy, then I am a malt ball. Or something. Whatever. Enjoy some candy.

And death climbs up the steps one by one. It's almost Halloween, and with it comes my nostalgia for a simpler time when my desire for jack-o-lanterns and trick-or-treats wasn't met with such derision. Anyway, the next two weeks will be heavily steeped in all things ghoulish and disturbing. Let's kick it off with some creepy pop culture.

Don't forget...

Some of them want to use you. The wait is almost over...



Stock up on your garlic and crosses before it's too late.

I killed a cockroach so big it left a puddle of puss on my wall. Today brought a reprise of the scorpion incident, except this time it involved the largest waterbug I have ever seen. This thing must have crawled here from Mexico, and it terrorized my office for a good half-hour. All attempts to kill it failed, and everyone was perched on their chairs in creeped-out anticipation. At the first possible opportunity, I threw an encyclopedia at it. That's right. I killed an insanely huge cockroach with a $250 encyclopedia. I feel justified in this because cockroaches are detrimental to women's health. I have since been told that I should be showered with flowers and candy, and that I am "ghetto." I take this as a compliment.

You won't scoff at my attempts to kill unwanted pests by squashing them with large objects anymore, will you Wombat? Victory!

I think it's here to stay. Holy shit.

According to visionary astrologer Elias Lonsdale, the age-old war between good and evil is over. His shocking conclusion: Evil lost. It will take a while for its malignant dominance to ebb away, and the transition time may bring apparent setbacks, but already the momentum has shifted. The forces of good are in ascendancy, and will steadily build a new order in the coming decades. Is Lonsdale's perspective true? I personally don't have the wisdom to be able to confirm or deny it. But I do know this: The age-old war between good and evil within you is over, and evil lost. From now on, the forces of beauty, truth, love, and justice will grow in power.

I don't want to join your club. So, um, I actually have the poster Natalie is mocking here. As some of you may remember, it hung over my dorm closet back in my college days (sniff sniff). But, in my defense, I bought it at a time when my then-boyfriend was acting particularly heinous, and I needed an outlet for my male-centered anger. Uh, does that mean I suck less?

I didn't think so.

Sing it back. Um, wow.

At the end. Today in C-List Celebrity Sightings:

Here's a really obscure one for you, folks. Last night I went to see The Pain and the Itch (a good friend of mine is doing stage management for it. It's hilarious. Go see it, already) and who was waiting in the lobby but the guy who played Ming Na's husband on "The Single Guy." Remember "The Single Guy," the NBC sitcom from the mid-'90s starring Jonathan Silverman? No? It's just me? Okay then.

Living alone, living a lie. Here's an interesting little editorial from "Dear Prudence" writer (and Swells alum) Emily Yoffe that struck a chord with with me. You probably wouldn't think that I think much about this, or you might think that I'd agree with the flabergasted readers who decried Yoffe's suggestion of reconsidering parenthood. As a feminist and a WOSTie, perhaps I am stereotypically supposed to condemn motherhood as chaining women to the home. Perhaps I should revel in sexual liberation and professional satisfaction over spit-up and diaper rash. If you thought this about me, you'd be painfully wrong. The mere suggestion of parenthood wrankles my step-mother, sending her off on non-sensicle diatribes condemning anyone who would dare find a baby mildly attractive. Every time she does this--and it's more often than you might think--I get angry. Very angry. To me, motherhood is no longer compulsory. I do not feel that it is my obligation as a woman to reproduce. As much as I want professional satisfaction and intellectual stimulation, to me, life doesn't mean much if you don't have family to round it out. My boss put it best. She said that when she decided to have a child, and she did so relatively late in life, it was because she felt that life was "so juicy" that she wanted to share it with a new generation. Like me, she did not have a great family life growing up, but she said that she took great pleasure in watching her husband and daughter interact because she got to vicariously experience their relationship; she created the family she'd missed out on. Yoffe's editorial sums this up and illustrates why, many years from now, I hope to be a mother.

Got to keep it all inside. I've decided to add a new section--or type of drip, if I want to wax poetic like my overblown blog title indicates. Without further ado, I give you Today in Schadenfreude:

The school board in Canton, Ohio, has added contraception to their sex-ed programs--it had been abstinence only--when they realized that 13 percent of the female students at one high school were pregnant. [Source]

Way to go, Ohio. That fascist, Republican misogynyny is really working for you. To this, I give my standard schadenfreude derisive of Nelson's "Ha ha!"

Playing games with the faces. I just found out what happened to Tucker Carlson:

He's going to be on Dancing with the Stars 3!

I'm very amused... I guess we now know the punch line to the joke, "What happens to a loud-mouth, conservative twat after his career ends?"

Adding even more glee to the schadenfreude: His co-"star" is Jerry Springer! Excuse me while I break into a maniacal laugh.

Ain't that America. That's America for you. A war's going on, and us stuck-up, privileged Americans are shocked by the fucking head gear!

Without a song in my heart. On my way to work today, I was fortunate enough to witness a fantastic dog moment. A fire engine was heading down Varick with its siren blaring, and this big husky-eque mutt of a dog was standing on the corner with his owner. You could hear the siren before you saw the fire engine, and this dog started "singing" along to the siren, echoing the whining noise almost verbatim. He had the same pitch and rhythm. He let out this long, plaintive, rhythmic howl that was perfectly in harmony with the siren. As the siren got closer, the dog got louder until the engine drove in front of the dog and the dog's howl became a very loud bark. It was the funniest thing; I couldn't stop laughing!

Fear, my old friend, disappear. As many of you know, I am freaking out about the GRE. It isn't even funny how anxious I am about this test. To boost my spirits, I am posting my horoscope. I don't care if this post isn't entertaining; I need help!

In 1993, my American friend Mark started playing music on the streets of Copenhagen. His parents regarded it as a tragedy. "This is what you do with the fine education we bought you?" they mourned. "What a waste!" grumbled his siblings and college friends. Mark was hurt, but didn't shrink from his mission, eventually expanding his open-air performances to Ireland and Holland. Thirteen years later, Mark has accumulated so much wealth from his gig that he has been able to buy homes in Ireland and Hawaii. Though he still busks part-time, he spends nine months of the year writing books. He's your patron saint in the coming weeks, Sagittarius. May he inspire you to follow your dreams no matter how much that bothers the people who think they own you [Source].

If you have any, leave your words of encouragement below.

You may laugh 'cause you did not do your math. As many of you know, I am exceedingly adorable. For example, before one of our editors traveled to South Africa for a conference, I requested that she bring me back a baby elephant which I would name Peanut.

I have just received the following e-mail:

I couldn't take him with me for you; South African Airways has pretty strict rules for excess bagage. So here is the picture I took from little Peanut...

Yay! My very own baby elephant! I hope he has lots of playmates in South Africa. I don't want him to get lonely without me.

Let the handcuffs slip off your wrists. One of our journals was mentioned in this article from, Lord help me, USA Today. It consequently showed up on our company intranet under the headline "Being smart and 'hot' is not an easy task..." Apparently it's like so tough to like be a girl and be like smart and junk. I mean like I don't know about you, but like I always face the dilemma every day of like should I be like slutty or like smart and stuff? It is like so like hard!

My advice to the women who "suffer" from this "problem" is this: Go to a women's college. If it's too late for that, do some volunteer work, preferably at a battered women's shelter, because, Sister, you have too much fucking time on your hands.

Are you diggin' on me. I was thinking today that we haven't had a good celebrity sighting in a while here on the TL, but during my lunchtime walk the god of voyerism blessed me. Without further ado, I present you Today in A-List Celebrity Sightings:

Joss Stone on the corner of West Broadway and Prince Street, buying a hand-made halter dress from one of those street vendor artist-types. I recognized her right down to her nose stud. Let me just say, she is gorgeous! She dyed her hair a very sexy chestnut brown with red highlights, and goodness is she tall! She also has a great (speaking) voice. I was very excited.

I've noticed that my celebrity sightings are a little like trading cards. I'm hoping to get a Lohan or a Hilton before either of them overdose and kick the bucket.

Someone must get hurt and it won't be me. Dear readers, I am flummoxed. For the first time in six years, I think our shit-for-brains President might not only have a realistic understanding of a situation but, Lord help me, he might actually be on my side of a debate! Check out another infamous oops-the-mic-was-still-on snafu, this time from the G-8 summit:

Apparently not expecting an open mike to pick up his remarks, Bush told Blair: "See the irony is what they need to do is get Syria to get Hezbollah to stop doing this s___ and it's over."

Okay, so points off for misunderstanding the meaning of the word irony, but the sentiment is there. Don't blame Israel for defending itself, blame the Syrian- and Iranian-backed terrorist organization!

"What about Kofi Annan?" Bush asked Blair. "I don't like the sequence of it. His attitude is basically cease-fire and everything else happens."

Not being a big fan of many UN policies myself, any jab at the UN's anti-semitic and ineffectual policies are okay with me.

I don't believe I am about to say this--I really don't--and I'm sure my father would answer me with a hearty dose of skeptisim in the veign of "These are bad guys, don't be fooled," but...okay, this is going to hurt...

Thank you, Mr. President.

The #1 Must-Have is that we are safe. Today in Why We Still Need Feminism:

The week continues with the stunningly awful story that's been burned into the brains and bosoms of all who've encountered it, chronicling the "traditional West African practice" of breast ironing. For those out of the hideous news loop, breast ironing involves the use of hard, hot objects (typically stones placed in boiling water) to stunt breast growth in girls, via the rubbing of the aforementioned hard, hot objects across the bare chests of prepubescent females. Devised as a protection against sexual abuse (as girls with scarred, stunted breasts are far less appealing to molesters), breast ironing is apparently freakishly widespread in Cameroon, where Reuters reports one in four teenagers has been subjected to the traumatic process, typically at the hands of relatives worried that the onset of puberty could invite sexual harassment. Never mind that breast ironing carries the "asking for it" argument to a truly horrific end; beyond conceptual offenses, the practice has a slew of horribly tangible side effects, including severe pain, abscesses, infections, breast cancer, and even the complete disappearance of one or both breasts. So thank God for the German development agency GTZ, which sponsored the eye-opening survey that fueled today's news reports, and which is waging a campaign "to respect the physical integrity of young girls." As GTZ representative Flavien Ndonko told Reuters, "If nothing was done today, tomorrow the very parents may even resolve to slice off the nose, the mouth, or any other part of the girl which they think is making her attractive to men." [Source]

This is a prime example of the unwillingness of society to acknowledge men's role in sexual violence. Instead of attacking the problem at its source--namely, the view of the female body as constantly sexually available and not a respectable, autonomous entity--these West Africans have, like so many other cultures before them, decided to place the blame and the onus for prevention on the very victims of arcane and brutal ideology. Until we can retrain men to see women as their equals and not as second-class, sexually available property, violence against women will always exist.

Lift me up when I'm falling. Another great billboard; this one's for you beer-lovers and Jesus freaks:


"The company that leases the billboard believes vandals made the poster at home and then pasted it on top of the ad that's supposed to be there."

Hats off to you, you cheeky fuckers.

Going to the chapel. One of my co-workers just got married last week, and for the past six months all I've heard is wedding this and wedding that. Couple this with a new person I know getting engaged practically every other week, and weddings have seeped into my brain. I have actually started dreaming about weddings! Now, I'm in no way ready to get married, but I have unconsciously started planning mine. Good God, what is happening to me? Am I slowly becoming that girl, the one who has the whole party planned out before she even has a groom? If I do, you are all free to slap me.

However, to keep things in perspective, I present to you the winner of Slate's Unidentifiable Wedding Gifts Contest:



Seriously, who the fuck thought up a CONDOM VASE? If getting married means people buy you atrocious things like a CONDOM VASE, then I guess I will just have to be a spinster.

Is it still possible to be a spinster?

And they say that a hero can save us. Yesterday in B-List Celebrity Sightings:

A Two-Sighting day, my friends! First, SNL cast member Tracy Morgan on his way into the AMC Theater in Times Square. You know what's coming next: Much shorter in person! He couldn't have been more than 5'4" tall. Also, he looked really haggard, like he'd been enjoying too many wrap parties, if you catch my drift.

Then, after seeing Superman, what did we stumble on outside the New York Public Library but a taping for the new Spider-man movie! Hotness! The scene featured one Thomas Hayden Church of Sideways fame who, if I may say so, really does not look good as a redhead. The whole time we were watching them film this scene (check out Spiderichman's livejournal entry for July 1 to see an impressively comprehensive play-by-play of the scene), I kept thinking of the scene in Sideways where Paul Giamatti is running away from the naked fat guy...I think I am inheriting some of CB's inscrutable thought process. Anyway, it was so much fun and really interesting to watch. I would rather have seen Topher Grace (swoon) or James Franco (double swoon), but I suppose beggars fanboys cannot be choosers.

A Superman-related post script: There is an atrocious grammar error on Lois Lane's Pulitzer Prize plaque. Post it in the comments section, and I'll award you three T.L. Intelligence Points.

Who can turn the world on with her smile. As many of you know, I am a big David Sedaris fan. I am also a big Amy Sedaris fan. In fact, I've probably never met a Sedaris I didn't like...not that I've ever actually met a Sedaris in person. But their mom sounds pretty cool; I wish I could have met her, but she died when I was three. Damnit.

Anyway, back to my point. As part of the Strangers With Candy media blitz, Amy Sedaris talked to the the A.V. Club about, well, stuff. And it was cool. So I am posting it here for you to enjoy because Lord knows the world could use more Amy Sedaris fans. Also, doesn't she sound eerily like her brother? The similarities are a little unnerving...at least they are to me, but I don't have any siblings, so what do I know about it? So, uh, enjoy!

One more thought: Amy Sedaris is ridiculously pretty. Do you think that's her real nose?

I want everything he's got. I'm sure that this is going to offend someone, somewhere, which is probably part of why it's such a darn funny joke:

A young monk arrives at the monastery. He is assigned to helping the other monks in copying the old canons and laws of the church by hand.

He notices, however, that all of the monks are copying from copies, not from the original manuscript. So, the new monk goes to the head abbot to question this, pointing out that if someone made even a small error in the first copy, it would never be picked up! In fact, that error would be continued in all of the subsequent copies.

The head monk, says, "We have been copying from the copies for centuries, but you make a good point, my son." He goes down into the dark caves underneath the monastery where the original manuscripts are held as archives in a locked vault that hasn't been opened for hundreds of years. Hours go by and nobody sees the old abbot.

So, the young monk gets worried and goes down to look for him. He sees him banging his head against the wall and wailing,"We missed the "R" ! , we missed the "R" !"

His forehead is all bloody and bruised and he is crying uncontrollably. The young monk asks the old abbot, "What's wrong, Father?"

With A choking voice, the old abbot replies, "The word was...

CELEBRATE!!!"

So I tell the world that it can kill itself. I am going to take an arguably controversial stance on the straight rights issues that are currently being shouted about: I don't care. That's right, America, I no longer give a shit about you. I live in New York, a state that legalized abortion three years before Roe v. Wade. You want your women to die of cervical cancer because you are convinced that the HPV vaccine will lead to promiscuity? Fine. You want to place pharmacists' religious beliefs above the health needs of your constituents by allowing pharmacists to refuse to fill prescriptions for emergency contraception? Fine. You are so determined to keep your women stupid, poor, disease-ridden and pregnant? Fine. Go ahead.

You know why I don't care? Because you refuse to care! You don't care that 80% of American women will contract HPV by the time they are 50, you don't care that HIV infection rates are on the rise, you don't care that abstinence-only education isn't effective. All you care about is preserving your precious Christian morality! Apparently, Christ would want your daughter to marry a closeted gay man brainwashed into denying his sexuality. Christ would want you to sacrifice your wife's health, or even her life, for the sake of your unborn fetus. And Christ would certainly want your sister to live in poverty because she wasn't allowed control over her reproduction, consequently causing her to give birth to a slew of children since she isn't allowed to refuse her husband his "marital rights" (and it's not like you're going to help her or her children out of poverty by providing free vaccines, school lunch, welfare, or public housing, are you, America?).

America, you win. You are so intent on damning yourself by voting (or not voting, as the case may be) for right-wing, fascist, self-righteous, Bible-thumping corrupt hypocrites that I really don't see the point in arguing with you. All I'm doing is sitting here in my SoHo office, basking in the glow of sexual freedom and access to effective and safe reproductive health care, and watching you people willing vote away your freedoms. I don't live in one of those 42 states that hate women. I live in New York. So fuck you, America. I hope you all stay in Oklahoma or where ever it is you are, and I hope you all reproduce yourself into disease-ridden oblivion. I hope your women get cancer, your gay children hate you, and your straight children premarital sex themselves to death. If that's the way you want it, who am I to stand in your way?

I'm curious about you. I have a bone to pick with music critics: Why don't you write coherent reviews? About halfway through my tenure as Arts Editor for the News, I noticed a disturbing trend in both the articles submitted to me for publication and reviews I was reading in such publications as "Entertainment Weekly." Gone were the coherent, well-articulated descriptions of what an album or artist sounded like. Such clearly-written critiques were substituted with bloated, buzz-word jargon that only an insider or an obsessed fan could possibly understand. Take, for example, a recent review of Nelly Furtado's new CD in the AV Club: "'Promiscuous,' the first single, follows suit with gleaming synths shot through a long, luscious hook." What the hell does that mean? I have this single on my iPod, and I've listened to it countless times, and I still have no clue what a "gleaming synth" or a "long, luscious hook" could possibly sound like! What happened to terms like "bass-line" or "lyrics?" Music critics are simply juxtaposing as many two-dollar words as possible in the hopes of sounding erudite yet cool--the epitome of snobbishness. Also, lay off the the alliteration. There is no excuse for deeming a song off the new Keane album "tritely positivist pap." For shame.

There could be nothing better. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings:

This is a good one, people. A once-in-a-decade siting of a most motley crew. At Ruby Foo's last night, I was seated across from Richard Belzer and Paul Schaffer, both wearing sunglasses at night in a very dimly lit restaurant. Who knew that Detective Munch and David Letterman's band leader were such pals? I actually felt bad for them, though, because some idiot sat them at a table right at the top of the stairs, so everyone who was seated in the balcony immediately spotted the stars and couldn't talk about anything else. So much for privacy.

Two Law & Order: SVU sightings in one week. I have such a pathetic little talent going on here.

Take the backroads. Today in C-List Celebrity Sightings (I am really scraping the barrel here):

Michelle Hurd, season one cast member of Law & Order: SVU. You may remember her as the sexually promiscuous black cop with the super-curly bleach-blonde hair and the impressive biceps. I think she's also been in some Excedrin commercials. Anyway, I saw her chatting with a friend outside a tea store located at the back of the DKNY boutique on Sullivan Street. You should go there; they have good tea.

Nobody knows where they might end up. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings:

Dr. Callie Torres of Grey's Anatomy fame, walking down 8th Avenune with what looked like her boyfriend. Can I just say that, even though they make her look fat on the show for some inexplicable reason, sister is gorgeous and rather petite-looking. She couldn't have been more than 5'6" and 120 lbs. Also, she's a Tony-award winning singer. Who knew?

I have no idea why I have gotten so good at spotting B-List Celebrities. I chalk it up to what Caroline calls my uncanny ability to turn my head. Either that or I spend way too much time reading celebrity gossip and watching television. Lord forbid I actually spotted an A-list celebrity! Then I might have to invest in a camera phone.

You're my number one. Today in Random But Fun Things on the Internet:

Dead Celebrity Soulmate Search! If only you lived in the past and had access to celebrities, you could have found your soulmate. How pointless! How fun! Apparently, in my past lives I was destined to be with silent film sensation Rudolph Valentino, Edgar Allen Poe, and Leonardo Da Vinci. Great. My past selves loved swarthy Italians, manic depressives, and gay men. Woot.

Life in plastic, it's fantastic. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings (actually this should be "Yesterday in B-List Celebrity Sightings, but blogger was on the fritz and prevented me from sharing my all-important stalkerness with you):

Rachel Zoe, of all people, checking her blackberry at the Tasty D Lite on Spring Street. I know it was her! I just know it! She had the long, stringy extensions; the wasted-away, low calore intake body; the pouty lips and wrinkled skin; the fake-bake tan; and, most telling, despite the downpour she was wearing huge-ass sunglasses. I feel so proud to have spotted such a Celebrity Gossip denizen, let me tell you.

In other banal celebrity news, Ryan Renolds and Alanis Morissette split up. He will be mine. Oh yes, he will be mine.

I'm the one who will shed this old skin. Many of you out there, for some inexplicable reason, do not read Savage Love, so it is my duty to show you what you are missing. I am posting the below because I really think it is some of the most sage advice I have ever encountered. This applies to certain of you out there in particular (I'm looking at you, Petit Morceau de Sel). Anyway, I hope you'll find it helpful and join me in the cult of Dan Savage worship.

I decided, at 12 years old, that pregnancy was not something I wanted to worry about, and now, at the ripe age of 26, I'm still a virgin. I exchanged oral favors with my boyfriends, none of whom lasted more than three months. Approximately half said they wanted more, and the other half were only settling for me until someone better came along. At 19, I figured out that it was a form of leading men on to date them, yet give them no chance of sleeping with me until some arbitrary future date when I was ready to have kids. So I took myself out of the game. I have not dated in six years. My self-imposed sexual isolation is complicated by the fact that I am now overweight and have abnormal hair growth. (I have to shave my face and chest daily.)

For years, my inner emotional life has been locked between aching loneliness and cold emptiness. My friends and my family, though warm and loving, are no longer enough. I want more, I want physical comfort and emotional gratification. I want sexual contact. But I just can't seem to get over my original reasoning and self-conscious body issues.

Of the columnists I've read, you are the bluntest. Help.

Frigid Frustrated Fool



The weight? Lose it. Join a gym, buy a bike, walk an hour a day. Move more, eat less—it ain't rocket science.

The hair? Lose it. Go to an electrologist or a laser-hair-removal joint and have your face and chest hair blasted away forever.

The self-pity? Lose it. While it sucks to be fat, FFF, you have to take responsibility for letting yourself get fat. (And, hey, some guys dig fat chicks.) While it sucks to have to shave your chest and face every day, FFF, there are worse physical challenges. (And, hey, some guys dig hairy chicks.) And while it sucks to be dumped, there's nothing spectacular about the dating misery you experienced as a teenager. Used? Dumped? Settled for? It happens to the best of us.

The 12-year-old? You need to murder that dumb cunt.

That sounds harsh, I realize, but I speak from experience. You see, FFF, I decided, at age 12, that parental disapproval, religious condemnation, and social ostracism were things I didn't want to worry about, so I resolved never to come out of the closet. Instead, I would learn how to become a priest or fuck girls, and I gave both options my best shot. (Hey there, Quigley Preparatory Seminary North! Hey there, Wanda!) But by age 26, FFF, I was out, my parents were over it, and I was living in Berlin with my first serious boyfriend. I couldn't have gotten the physical comfort and gratification that I ached for—to say nothing of the bruises and rope burns—if I hadn't wrapped my hands around the throat of that scared, pansy-assed, 12-year-old faggot and squeezed the life out of him.

Reading your letter, FFF, was like hearing from that 12-year-old faggot again. You made the same mistakes at 12 that I did, but whereas I wanted to avoid the potentially painful consequences of crushing disapproval, you wanted to avoid the potentially painful consequences of unplanned pregnancy. We both ran away from our desires in order to protect ourselves from the pain we feared. But our youthful attempts to avoid the possibility of pain by denying ourselves love and intimacy only succeeded in bringing down upon us the certain pain of aching loneliness and cold emptiness.

So, FFF, just as I had to get out there and risk being disowned by my family, getting tossed out of my church, and contracting a potentially fatal sexually transmitted disease in order to find physical comfort, emotional gratification, and sexual contact, you're going to have to get out there and risk getting pregnant, contracting diseases, and getting hurt to find the physical comfort, emotional gratification, and sexual contact that you need. There's no other way. Will you find love if you start taking risks? Maybe, maybe not. But I guarantee that you won't find love sitting on your ass in your apartment obsessing about pregnancy and downing pints of ice cream.

You can do this, FFF. If I could kill that scared 12-year-old fag, FFF, you can kill that dumb 12-year-old cunt. Just wrap your hands around her throat and squeeze.

Fight for your right.

"This week, the Senate begins debate on the Marriage Protection Amendment [Federal Marriage Amendment]. And I call on the Congress to pass this amendment."

- George W. Bush, June 5th, 2006, 1:45 p.m.

I HATE THIS MAN.

Tips for how to shake things up here.

And the real state of the union here.

Come on now, sugar. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings:

Vinnie Van Lowe himself leaving a cafe on W5th and 6th Avenue. I looked up just as he was leaving and was not about to scream "VINNIE!" across the crowded cafe. Also, I didn't know his real name.

They're not even a real country anyway. For those of you who were wondering why I went AWOL earlier this week, I was sent to Toronto on business. Now Toronto is a beautiful and clean city, but it is boring as hell. Before you Canada fans jump down my throat, I have a legitimate reason for thinking Toronto is hella lame: No one could tell me one thing I had to do while I was in Canada. In any other major city, any taxi driver or man-on-the-street could tell me at least five interesting things to do or visit in the city. No one I asked--and I asked many people--could tell me one effing thing to do.

On the bright side, I can now raise the number of radio/tv towers to three...four if you count the Tour Eiffel. Can you name them all?

When will we fall down.



This pretty much speaks for itself. Maybe she can recommend a good soap and candle shop while she's over there.

And I am officially going to Hell.

Hell yes. Excuse me for being philistine, but fuck yes! "Veronica Mars" got renewed for another season!

Does anyone know how this whole CW thing is going to work? In New York, UPN is channel 9 and the WB is channel 11, so are both stations going to be showing the same programming at the same time, or will one channel cease broadcasting?

Clearly, television is much too important to me.

Fall like a burning sun. My boyfriend is so effing talented I can barely stand it, and I am not saying it to suck up. Promise.



I don't want to publish the link to his site without his permission, but trust me when I tell you that he's fantastically talented. This reminds me so much of De Chirico's Ariadne.



Does anyone else see it?

They love dirty laundry. Today in B-list Celebrity Sightings:

Mr. Cyclops himself, James Marsden crossing Broadway at 67th Street. He was talking on his cell phone, and his long, greasy hair was blowing in his face. It was not the prettiest picture.

The show that never ends. I went to work today even though I feel like crap. Apparently this is a cause for celebration in our household:

How you feel? You went to work even though you are under the weather. You are growing up!

My dad takes pride in the strangest things.

I've said it before, I'll say it again. Working is for chumps.

Beyond the sea. You have no idea how strange it is to be walking along, minding your own business, when suddenly there's a guy swimming around in a huge frigging fishbowl.



David Blaine, why are you so strange?

She wants to move. As I'm sure many of you do, I get some pretty annoying SPAM mail. I never actually read any of it, but I've noticed that there are a few SPAMers out there who are really going that extra mile to entertain me with their witty SPAM names. Today I received one such SPAM titled "She wants a better sex? All you need's here." Now bad grammar aside, this made me laugh so hard. Why? Because I was immediately reminded of all those 19th century French novels I had to read which call a woman's reproductive organs "the sex." So basically this SPAM just asked if "she," whoever she may be, would like a better vagina. I assume this is for some sort of vagina accoutrement store...New Vaginas 'R' Us?

I have shamelessly used a run-of-the-mill SPAM e-mail as an excuse to put the word "vagina" to gratuitous use. It is all downhill from here.

Looks like FIFA has jumped on the anti-semitic bandwagon.

FIFA has condemned Israel for an air strike on an empty soccer field in the Gaza Strip that was used for training exercises by Islamic Jihad and the al-Aqsa Martyrs Brigade. This strike did not cause any injuries. But at the same time FIFA has refused to condemn a Palestinian rocket attack on an Israeli soccer field last week which did cause injuries....

[Jerome Champagne, FIFA's deputy general secretary, who personally condemned the Israeli attack] "wrote to the Jerusalem Post saying he couldn't possibly be biased against Israel because his wife was Jewish."

Fantastic. I fucking love it.

Welcome aboard, FIFA. You're in good company.

We used to be friends. I can't believe it. Jason Dohring is a Scientologist! Not my poor, sweet, beautiful Logan! How can this be?!

In addition, the above-mentioned list is a good reference of all celebrities you should no longer respect. Maybe the only way to curtail this whole Scientology epidemic is to boycott all entertainment industry members in any way affiliated with Xenu et. al.

Seriously people, Scientology bothers the heck out of me.

It may rain or it may shine. Today in Get the Hell Away From My Wall:



What the hell, Will Smith? Not only are you hanging out at my Wall, you interrupted a bar mitzvah with you paparazzi-inspiring celebrity. At least Sharon Stone dressed conservatively for her spectacle. Can't you leave the bling and the Kangol hat at home for one day? Have some respect, please.

I don't get it. I doubt the paparazzi would swarm some celebrity taking Holy Communion from the Pope, so why do they need to disrespect my sacred site in pursuit of mega-stardom? Is Judaism some sort of exotic circus attraction?

Calling to you. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings:

Alexis Bledel crossing the street on her way out of Starbucks. I don't know if she wears color contacts or not, but her eyes are a really intense shade of blue. And, say it with me now, Much Shorter in Person.

Into this Earth. Today in Random Things I Saw While On My Way to Work:

There's this guy who takes the Express with me, and every time I see him, he's eating a Black and White cookie. Now, for those of you non-New Yorkers out there who have never had the good fortune to enjoy a Black and White (seriously, you are deprived), a Black and White is a mammoth cookie, half of which is frosted with vanilla and half of which is frosted with chocolate. It is a seriously delicious and rather large cookie, and I've often had one and been so stuffed I didn't need to eat dinner. Getting back to this guy, I've seen this guy twice already, and he never fails to disgust me. Not only is he eating a Black and White at 9 a.m., he shoves as much of the cookie in his mouth as possible before chomping down on the thing. He's not so much eating the cookie as he is inhaling the cookie. It is absolutely disgusting to watch, and I can only guess it's the epitome of stress-eating. Also, what a waste of a perfectly fantastic cookie.

Shivers up and down my spine. Seriously, why does the whole Cruise/Holmes baby thing give me the creeps? I mean, okay, Scientology? Totally creepy. Tom Cruise? Also creepy, in a repressed-homosexual-cult-member sort of way. Katie Holmes? Terrible actress; I never saw the appeal. So combine all these elements and it's just so creepy! If Katie Holmes really did give birth today, was she artificailly-inseminated? And if she wasn't, does this mean I'm supposed to assume that she and Tom actually had sex? Or did they simply buy a baby, which seems to be the standard defamer theory? Either way, the whole thing is just...Ew. Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP!

I turn my camera on. Today in B-List Celebrity Sightings:

During intermission at The Caine Mutiny this Saturday, which starred everyone's wet dream from the early '90s David Schwimmer, I happened to spot the beloved Baptist baby daddy from Saved! As is everyone in Hollywood, he was much shorter in person. I can now add this to my list of minor-stars-who-played-teen-gay-men-in-their-breakout-role-and-who-I-happened-to-stumble-upon-in-incredibly-random-situations. The best example of these being, of course, spotting Too Gay To Function at the Getty.

To deny yourself is so true to form. I have come to the realization that I would not look good in hot pants. Sigh. Life is so cruel.

I am not pretending. As promised to Zap, below find some rather thought-provoking commentary from the Afterward by Primo Levi from his memoirs, Surviving Auschwitz and The Reawakening.

In an authoritarian state...there is only one Truth, proclaimed from above; the newspapers are all alike, the all repeat the same one Truth. So do the radio stations, and you cannot listen to those of other countries. In the first place, since this is a crime, you risk ending up in prison. In the second place, the radio stations in your country send out jamming signals, on the appropriate wavelengths, that superimpose themselves on the foreign messages and prevent you from hearing them. As for books, only those that please the State are published and translated. You must seek any others on the outside and introduce them into your country at your own risk because they are considered more dangerous than drugs and explosives, and if they are found in your possession at the border, they are confiscated and you are punished. Books not in favor, or no longer in favor, are burned in public bonfires in town squares....In an authoritarian State it is considered permissible to alter the truth; to rewrite history retrospectively; to distort the news, suppress the truth, add the false. Propaganda is substituted for information. In fact, in such a country you are not a citizen possessor of rights but a subject, and as such you owe to the State (and to the dictator who represents it) fanatical loyalty and supine obedience. (377-378)

Everybody must know, or remember, that when Hitler and Mussolini spoke in public, they were believed, applauded, admired, adored like gods. They were "charismatic leaders;" they possessed a secret power of seduction that did not proceed from the credibility or the soundness of the things they said but from the suggestive way in which they said them, from their eloquence, from their histrionic art, perhaps instinctive, perhaps patiently learned and practiced. The ideas they proclaimed were not always the same and were, in general, aberrant or silly or cruel. And yet they were acclaimed with hosannahs and followed to the death by millions of the faithful. We must remember that these faithful followers, among them the diligent executors of inhuman orders, were not born torturers, were not born (with a few exceptions) monsters; they were ordinary men. Monsters exist, but they are too few in number to be truly dangerous. More dangerous are the common men, the functionaries ready to believe and to act without asking questions, like Eichmann [Hitler's propagandist]; like Hoss, the commandant of Auschwitz; like Stangl, the commandant of Treblinka...

It is, therefore, necessary to be suspicious of those who seek to convince us with means other than reason, and of charismatic leaders: we must be cautious about delegating to others our judgement and our will. Since it is difficult to distinguish true prophets from false, it is as well to regard all prophets with suspicion. It is better to renounce revealed truths, even if they exalt us by their splendor or if we find them convenient because we acquire them gratis. It is better to content oneself with other more modest and less exciting truths, those one acquires painfully, little by little and without shortcuts, with study, discussion, and reasoning, those that can be verified and demonstrated. (394-395)

Right here in town. Today in Random Things I Saw While Walking To Work:

1) This total douchebag sporting a Michael-Jackson-circa-Thriller red and black leather jacket was mucking around on a skateboard (!!!) this morning when he sort of tripped off it. It skidded out into the middle of Spring Street right as a Verizon telephone repair truck was cruising along and...SMASH. Death to skateboard! The hipster douche was rather put out, much to my joy and amusement.

2) One of the guys who works at the hardware store on Spring Street near Ben's Pizza on Thompson (or is it Sullivan?) commented to his hardware store employee buddies that I had a fat ass. Granted, my ass is rather shapely, but I would not call it fat. I will have to take a poll on this. Does this look like a fat ass to you?

T.L. 1, NYC 1.

Watch me make up my mind instead of my face. Courtesy of my step-mom:

Us girls are too dumb to do ANYTHING! And yet, we're supposed to be entrusted with children? Hmmm...their logic does not match our Earth logic.

I wonder if those phone numbers are correct. Anyone want to try it out?

I will be the vulture to its carion. This keeps cracking me up. Good golly.

No birth of no nation. Yet more reasons to get the hell outta this piece o' shit country, courtesy of Dan Savage:

Straight Rights Update: Earlier this month, Republicans in South Dakota successfully banned abortion in that state. Last week, the GOP-controlled state house of representatives in Missouri voted to ban state-funded family-planning clinics from dispensing birth control. "If you hand out contraception to single women," one Republican state rep told the Kansas City Star, "we're saying promiscuity is okay." On the federal level, Republicans are blocking the over-the-counter sale of emergency contraception and keeping a 100 percent effective HPV vaccine—a vaccine that will save the lives of thousands of women every year—from being made available.

The GOP's message to straight Americans: If you have sex, we want it to fuck up your lives as much as possible. No birth control, no emergency contraception, no abortion services, no life-saving vaccines. If you get pregnant, tough shit. You're going to have those babies, ladies, and you're going to make those child-support payments, gentlemen. And if you get HPV and it leads to cervical cancer, well, that's too bad. Have a nice funeral, slut.

What's it going to take to get a straight-rights movement off the ground? The GOP in Kansas is seeking to criminalize hetero heavy petting, for God's sake! Wake up and smell the freaking Holy War, breeders! The religious right hates heterosexuality just as much as it hates homosexuality. Fight back!

Makes you want me now I've gone. Kosher condom, anyone?

Cutest boy I ever saw. Holy crap, Jack Black eloped with one of the sisters from That Dog. How awesome is that?!

Like a party that's over before it's begun. Why is Sharon Stone at the Kotel? No, seriously, why the fuck is she kissing my wall?! She's not Jewish! WTF?!



I like how every WASPy, self-righteous, white actress think she can "take up the white man's burden" and miraculously fix everything. Maybe if she flashes the entire Mideast her vagina, it'll bring about peace.

Absolutely nothing. Either I've become a bad feminist, or I'm too jaded and cynical to become upset by this country's inanity anymore, but this really doesn't upset me. Why? Because it's a cheap political ploy meant to challenge a pre-existing judicial statute. We all knew this was coming the minute Alito was confirmed, so, really, I'm not surprised. Although, I am intrigued by the fact that I'm just not upset by it. Maybe my father's incredibly jaded and acerbic political viewpoint has finally warped my brain, but the truth is that I will always be able to get an abortion should I need one. I'll always find a way to get enough money to go to Canada or France or some other non-Puritanical, non-classist, non-racist, non-oligarchical, non-misogynist country. So, here's the thing. If the nation keeps electing these Puritanical, classist, racist, oligarchical, misogynist politicians who are going out of their way to screw them over, why should I care? Now, as many of you know, I am big on the election day conspiracy thoeries (No paper trail, people! It's the perfect crime). My state legalized abortion before Roe v. Wade. Do you really think that, even if Roe v. Wade was overturned, it would seriously be an end to abortion across the country? Do you think that California or Oregon or Massachusetts would go along with it? Not likely.

Now, as a big ol' WOSTie, I know all about the poor women who don't or can't vote and who don't have access to birth control and how everyone is racist and how it is my job to protect them blah blah blah. Maybe my progressive liberal spirit has been broken, or maybe I just can't be bothered to give a shit anymore about this bullshit country. Land of freedom my ass.

I want to always feel like part of this was mine. Best estimation of the situation I've heard yet, courtesy of Dan Matt Bob:

"Maybe it's good insanity. Passion."

My life is delicious.

Wrap me up. Here's the thing about my office that pisses me off: It's like motherfuckin' high school up in here! Seriously. All the EAs are painfully clique-y. They do that thing where they go up to one EA and ask if she wants to go to lunch, but all the other EAs can here her because we all work in cubicles. Everyone whispers behind everyone else's back, and one of my co-workers tattled on me to my boss for making too many personal phone calls. The cute blonde guy who I liked until he told me in his I-have-clearly-never-met-a-Jew-before awkwardness that I am "God's people" is trying to fuck the EA in the cubicle too my left. Today he told her that he liked her last name (!!!) and then he invited her to a bar with a bunch of other corporate drones.

This is exactly like high school, in fact. I again feel overlooked by the "popular people" who I don't necessarily want to talk to, anyway. I again feel hopelessly out-of-touch, fashion-wise. And I again feel like I have too much free time on the weekends. This is crap. I went to a women's college exactly to avoid ever feeling this kind of crap again, and now I'm smack stuck in the middle of it. Sigh. At least this time around I get paid to be here.

They take a polaroid and let you go. Pointless blog post-o-rama! I had two of the most gruesome experiences today while lunch-breaking/walking around SoHo/window shopping/lusting after things I desperately want but won't buy because I'm ridiculously cheap:

1) I was walking behind this woman for about a block; she was wearing this pair of very tall, brown, leather, pointy-toe boots. Instead of a heal, picture two unsharpened #2 pencils, only thinner. Yeah, these boots were creepy. And she couldn't walk in them! Seriously, she was standing at the most drastic angle (like when kids go ice skating and their parents are too stupid to know that you're supposed to go down half a size when you rent ice skates, so the kids can't skate because their ankles angle in and they're about to die...like that, only her ankles went out instead of in). I'm walking behind this woman, and I'm waiting for her heal to break and her ankle to snap. And I could hear the snap in my head! And I thought I was going to barf! *shudder*

2) I proceeded to return to my office building and get into the overly-crowded elevator. Someone smelled like a hamster's cage, it was horrible. And then I
realized the smell was not rodent-related. It was the stench of the McDonald's the guy next to me was holding. *shudder*

Cutting the voltage to your powerlines. Yay!

This revolution has just begun.

In my more bitter moments (usually when I’ve blown over two hundred dollars during an evening in a club), I sometimes imagine that lapdancing itself, in its modern incarnation as a widespread entertainment form, is not the logical evolutionary product of striptease, or a sexual shell game designed by clip joint hucksters, but rather an insidious invention, nay, a SECRET WEAPON, cleverly designed by a cabal of wily feminist supervillains to distract, befuddle, and weaken otherwise productive male members (pun intended) of Western society.

Damnit, he's on to us. Who told?

Up with the Revolution! G-string power!

Turn to the left. Best snippet of a conversation I ever overheard:

A well-dressed man to his female companion: "Yeah, I meant to google Himmler today, but I forgot." -Broadway & Spring Street

We make love together. Yes, I know V-Day has passed and I should really move on, but I thought this contained some nice background information for those of us who resent Christianity's annoying faux-assimilation into our daily lives. Hmm, maybe that's just me.

Anyway, I like the whole year o' sex thing. Paganism is a whole lot cooler than any of us want to admit. Stupid monotheism ruining everything for us. Where's a good, guilt-free orgy when you need one?

Owner of a lonely heart. One of my co-workers has been going around wishing everyone "Happy VD." Apparently, it's been her tradition since high school.

Also, thank the good Lord my boyfriend does not look like this:

Happy Syphilis, everyone!

Find out what it means to me. This is the kind of shit that pisses me off. "Traditionally Jewish women don't like sex but now we are known for giving head." Where in the hell did that come from? It's just as bad as any dragon lady asian or big-vagina black mammy stereotype. And this is even more insulting because it's coming from a Jew-produced magazine that's meant to "empower" us and discuss our "issues." These Jews think they have to prove themselves to a world that hates them. Instead of rebelling or giving the world the finger, they roll over and play the game. "I may be a Jew, but my penis is 18 feet long." It's Philip Roth, self-hating Jew, identity-crisis bullshit, and I refuse to be a part of it.

My issues do not rest with my need to "overcome" my Judaism by proving my mettle through my sexual prowess. My issues rest with my people degrading me be defining me as nothing more than a hoover-mouthed cum bin.

I will not accept this arrogant bigotry from the goyem, and I will not accept it from the tribe, either.

I pushed you too far. Are you shitting me? No, seriously, Hollywood...you and I need to have a chat. This time, you've gone too far.

These kinds of things make me want to break something.

Right back where we started from. Sarmo and I saw Luke from The O.C. at Cafe Europa on 6th Avenue today. He was eating a sandwich with some of his buddies. He's much skinnier and blonder than I thought he'd be. Also a bunch cuter.

Hell yes. I have just found the best, most appropriate Valentine ever. Like whoa.

As usual, the internet is populated by people who are more creative and articulate than I can ever hope to be, so, as usual, I glom onto their work. Sweet.

Maps. I'm sure everyone and their mother has seen this by now, but still...neat.

Dragging in your deep shag. Yes, fine, I am a Dan Savage groupie. For any of you poor saps who missed his interview in the A.V. Club, he makes a really interesting argument regarding straight-male sexuality, one that whole-heartedly agree with. Yes, yes, I am a big ol' feminist, but I have to agree with Betty Friedan that machismo kills. Here, Savage reiterates an argument we've been batting around every since Susan Faludi came out with Stiffed. Straight-male sexuality is defined in the negative by everything he's not: He's not a "fag" and not a "woman," so who is he?

I feel so sorry for straight guys. Because their sex lives are a terror, and are really circumscribed by straight guys policing the behavior of other straight guys—"Hey, you're a fag"—and by gay guys policing their behavior, and straight women. Paradoxically, straight guys run the world, but sexually, they're so imprisoned and it's not just a prison of their own creation. A girl goes to college and eats a little pussy and gets over it, and nobody thinks she has to be a lesbian because she did that disgusting pussy-eating thing once or twice. A straight guy goes to college and once or twice gets drunk and goes down on another guy, and if it gets out there, nobody's ever going to think he's straight, ever. It doesn't matter how much pussy he eats after that, or how many kids he fathers by a woman, he's secretly a fag. There's a problem with straight-male sexual identity where it's just a mass of negatives. It's not defined really by anything positive. Being a straight guy is not being a fag, not being a woman, and not doing anything that fags or women do, like have feelings or sit-ups or anything.

Half my mail sometimes is just straight guys going, "She put a finger in my butt. I liked it. Am I gay?" because he was penetrated. Or from women going, "I put my finger in his butt. He liked it. Is he gay?" And it's very sad. You wonder why straight guys are all so endlessly perverse. Like I said earlier, all the poo-eaters are guys. And it's just because there's so much more pressure laid on men about male sexuality that just squeezes out in weird, perverse ways. It's kind of tragic. It's also tragic that straight guys have so little access to sex. And it's always their fault....And men do sort of bear all responsibility—whatever's going wrong is completely their fault, women are always the victims. I just think there's no respect for male sexuality in this empathy culture that's shaped by and defined by a female perspective on relationships and emotions. I believe that if you marry somebody and you're gonna make the commitment to be faithful, you should be faithful. If your wife doesn't have sex with you for five years, I think you should fuck somebody else. [Laughs.] And it's not your fault if you're cheating at that point. You get a pass. Women are told that being in love means you don't want to fuck anybody else, so I get all this mail from all these women who are freaked out 'cause their boyfriend or lover or husband looked at some Internet porn. "Oh, he's got me, why would he look at Internet porn?" 'Cause he may have you, but he wants more. The measure of a man's devotion isn't that he doesn't want to fuck other people. It's that he doesn't fuck other people.

Also, Hell yes!

I actually think the solution to homophobia is eradicating misogyny. I think a lot of homophobia is hatred of women repackaged, 'cause gay men seem to preoccupy homophobes the most. It's usually about anal sex, and gay men are perceived as taking on the woman's role, and women are despised. The woman's role is less-than. And in a male-supremacy culture, men who take on the woman's role willingly kind of freak out some of the dudes. If you could eradicate misogyny, homophobia would evaporate. That's why I always tell women, "If you're dating a homophobe, you're dating a guy who's secretly a misogynist, who secretly hates you. And you shouldn't."

Sit down. Stand up. MOTHERFUCKIN' WORD!

Numb and tired and perfect for the working day. I've been incredibly bored at work this week because my editors have been in Boston, so I've been trolling my faithful procrastination Web sites. Two interesting things I've gained from friendster:

1. This guy I went to camp with is now a woman who goes by the name Zoe. Interesting choice, considering I'm pretty sure his given name is Brian. Also, s/he's a lesbian.

2. Bennington College makes me think of Bret Easton Ellis. And that is not a compliment.

Right here's the spot. Apparently, January 24 is widely thought to be the worst day of the year. The New York Daily News (hehehe I am citing the Snooze as a reputable news source. I'm hilarious) reported that "British psychologist Cliff Arnall cited an avalanche of evidence testifying to the singular suckiness of January 24, including but not limited to the day's distance from Christmas (too far to look forward to next year's, with many citizens still mired in the debt of last year's); failed New Year's resolutions (with an excess of smoking, drinking, and overeating); and a uniquely bleak horizon, with no three-day weekends, just one unreliable holiday, plus tax forms and crap weather."

I believe it. January 24 was the day I went back to work after returning from Israel. Culture shock + jet lag + the flu do not a happy employee make.

Many thanks to The Stranger for pointing out more reasons why January 24 blows.

On the bright side, the next time you're having a bad day, you can think to yourself, "At least it's not January 24."

Out of body experience. Holy hell, how funny is this? I would love for it to be true. Love love LOVE!

Oh my goodness I missed the Slog.

You're like an empty cup. Arguably profound Jane Austen quote of the day:

She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! alas! she must confess to herself that she was not wise yet.

-Persuasion

I know there may be others. I saw Jason Schwartzman while I was on my lunch break today. He was ridiculously shaggy and wearing ridiculously huge sunglasses. Also, he's ridiculously short.

It's all part of this thrill-a-minute ride known as New York City.

'Cause I got this thing for you. I have just learned that, in Israel, orthodox women learn how to crochet so they can make kepot to attract men. I have never heard of a more ridiculous way to entice a man than by crocheting him a frigging kepah.

Orthodox Judaism: I still don't get it.

I'll show you heaven. I think Tom has mastered the art of shaking me back to reality. Either that or he's a terrible sycophant. Either way, I'm pleased.

"You are beautiful and funny and you have a lop-eared dog. These are not things the universe bestows on the despised."

That's what you do, baby. This is what I've learned after three days on the job: Working is for chumps. I am now pursuing my new career path--marrying rich.

You don't know where and you don't know when. This is my final half-hour at the Bank, and I'm a little sad to go, a little nervous about the future, but also really happy that I won't have to spend my days bored out of my mind (that's the dream, anyway). I give you an Ode to the Bank haiku:

Bank so fine and clean
No more envelopes to stuff
Thank the Lord I'm out

I wish I could look back on this whole finding-a-job process and think, "Gee, that was easy," but it wasn't. It was hard, painful, and full of extended periods of crushing self-doubt. But what's interesting to me is that there is not some amazing, sunrise-like moment of brilliancy accompanying this transition. Tomorrow I will rise early, dress, and take the train to my new job. I am hoping that it will be fantastic, but it might not be. I am open to the possibility of magic.

So this is the New Year, and I don't feel any different. Ohmgee, how much do I love Natalie?



Thiiiiiiiiiiiiis much!