Thursday, August 31, 2006
The law of conservation of matter by Antoine Lavoisier:
Mass cannot be created or destroyed, but can change its form.
The law of WTF by Susie Felber:
The smaller the man, the wider he will open his legs on public transport.
Petite man on the crosstown bus today, left; poor squashed woman, right; annoyed Felber who was tired of a little man's leg on top of hers, not pictured.
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
If you missed Woodstock, because, like me, you weren't born yet, or you just didn't want to do drugs and contract scabies, don't miss the 21st century's bore-your-grandchildren mega event... the kick off of "Warp & Woof" a brand new political comedy & interview show thingy featuring me, the most exciting and influential female comedian of the 21st century.*
NEXT Tuesday, September 5
WARP AND WOOF debut
Mo Pitkins House of Satisfaction
34 Avenue A
New York City, 10009
Comedian Andy Vastola
Comedian and Writer Susie Felber
Palestinian-Israeli Improv Duo West Prank
The scholar-in-residence at the First Amendment Center in Arlington, VA, is the lawyer who secured the successful pardon of Lenny Bruce in 2004. Collins’ book, The Trials of Lenny Bruce, examines Bruce’s life and battles onstage and in the courtroom.
ALL THIS FOR ONLY 5 BUCKS AND ONE MEASLEY DRINK!
For the offical Warp & Woof site click here. Of course, we encourage you to go to all the Warp & Woof fan sites that will surely spring up too.
*According to my mom.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
I just added a new link to my sidebar. I'm winded.
What do you want from me, people? Blood from a stone?
Oh and hey, did you notice I had a new advertiser? I did. He's gone now.
Don't know where he came from. Nor where he went. But thanks Mr. Advertiser!
I think I'll go crazy and spend the money on wine, men and Cesar.
My mom took me out for a lovely dinner tonight. I'm very sleepy. I should not be posting now as I'm currently under the influence... of warm apple almond tart with fig gelato.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
China cracks down on funeral strippers
NO MORE PASTIES FOR PASTIES
ROUSE THE DEAD, DON'T AROUSE THE DEAD
DEAD FIND THEMSELVES ON THE THONG SIDE OF THE LAW
CHINA CRACKS DOWN ON CRACKS AT FUNERALS
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
...shouldn't throw Twinkies.
But I must.
The pic above is the 20-something woman in front of me today on the M42 heading east.
She was crushing the little old man on her right, pasting him and his (perfectly textbook folded-for-commutation) New York Times to the window. And in this pic you can see a glimpse ahead to the elderly/disabled seats, where two incredibly fat elderly people took up four seats, ensuring that the other elderly people had to stand... elderly people who were frail and lacked the protective padding of the ones who were sitting pretty in the front.
Anyway, the woman pictured got on at 8th Ave., and, to the delight of the little old man, she got off at 5th Ave. Even if it was a free transfer that inspired her to wait for and get on the bus, she would've made it faster by walking. And she might've lost an ounce.
[Note: I've already proven time and time again that taking the crosstown bus is slower than walking, and should only be used by the frail or disabled... or, like myself, very pregnant women on hot days. Click here for details.]
So here's the point. And there is a point more than "look at that fat lady."
I'm not some frat boy. I have a right to be pissed. I've earned it. Let me explain.
This isn't just a case of "some of my best friends are fat." I haven't been skinny since I was seven. I was fat back when you suffered for it. Back when it was still an alternative lifestyle. Back when it meant something.
When it meant something? Yes. See in the past, fat kids were a good bet for other fat kids. Because fat kids were usually the ones who were smarter, more sensitive and more likely to read cool nerdy books and play nerdy games. Their fat was to me a pretty reliable measure of compatibility and it was a beacon. I say "pretty reliable" because it wasn't 100%. I remember one girl I grew up with I'll call Dara, even though I've never met a Dara in my life. Dara was very fat. She held the unspoken title of first-fattest all through elementary school and her title was only taken when the influx of kids in high school placed her 3rd runner up.
I befriended Dara partly out of self-interest as I knew I'd find a kindred spirit... someone who liked to read, someone with a good sense of humor, someone with odd hobbies.
And I befriended her because, let's face it, fat kids usually needed friends so they made better friends than those perennially overbooked popular kids. Befriending a fat kid was not only a good deed, it was like snagging a DaVinci at a garage sale. A win/win situation.
But the thing is, it slowly dawned on me that, unlike most fat kids, Dara wasn't very interesting. She wasn't very bright. She was sweet. I remained long time friends with her but remember thinking her fat had cruelly tricked me.
And then after adolescence I built up equity, as I was a rare commodity: I was a truly confident, sassy, sexy and pro fat back when others of my kind still loathed and closeted themselves.
But suddenly, everyone is fat. No, that's not it. Somehow, when I wasn't looking, America leap frogged over being merely fat and went straight to being doesn't-fit-in-one-seat-audition-for-the-circus fat -- obese.
On one hand I'm jealous. If I was a kid today, rather than one in the 80's, I wouldn't be considered fat. I might not have even been considered chubby. And since there is strength in numbers, all these people today display their folds proudly, where way back when they would've felt cowed into covering up.
On the other hand, I feel for today's kids. Now that so many kids are seriously fat -- and it's not the media telling me this, it's my eyes -- how do the smart, interesting, perhaps slightly messed-up kids find one another?
And on the other hand (or, the other foot, since I've run out of hands...) I am suddenly turning on my fat brothers and sisters. I am tired of not getting a seat on the bus when I commute because so many people are too fat to stay in one seat. I am sick of being crushed on a daily basis. I do not like the heat of a stranger's fat lapping over my own large and pregnant thighs.
But mainly, I've gone from being a large girl who supported and faught for all of fatkind, to staring, mouth agape, at the sheer numbers of enormous people. And they're not just in the Midwest or WalMart anymore. They're on 42nd street. I supported the obese when they were a unfairly-treated minority. But now something's changed. Mainly, they aint a minority anymore.
It's like what happens when you discover an artist and then they become really popular. No, scratch that, I am thrilled when an artist I like becomes popular. But fat people used to be cool, even if no one thought so... especially because no one thought so. And they were brave. Now fat people are just... fat.
In conclusion, my newfound hatred of the obese is rather like Flowers for Algernon, except imagine if Charlie never became a genius, and instead, just transformed into a retarded guy who was a real jerk.
Epilogue: If, after the spawn of Satan is born, I don't lose the baby weight, and return to my normal weight (my normal being a hard-fought tippy top of the normal range on the height/weight chart) you are free to point and laugh at me.
PS Of course, all this being said, if my British relatives have the gall to mention, snicker about and hold forth on the causes of "fat" or "big Americans" to my big American butt one more time I will not be responsible for my actions.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Last night. A small but stylish affair. Friends and fam. No media. For this book.
And thanks to no media, you'll have to enjoy these crappy blurry photos by a woman who decided to eschew her flash and go manual on her newish SLR... me.
NPR trifecta: Adam, host Mo & Roy*
The crowd closes in on the book's editor, thrusting unpublished manuscripts into her hands.
"If they find out I run a hockey blog, these babes will bolt."
Conjoined twins: One works for IBM; the other for Marc Jacobs.
But seriously, read about the creepy dude on the left here, and something by the creepy dude on the right here.
As you can see, the iPod and amp got some play.
Left: Mr. Sold the Book; Right: Mr. Wrote the Book.
Teacher and do-gooder lawyer.
Artist and mother of do-gooder lawyer w/ hot date.
Guess which of these women was once a nun and win a prize.
This chick got drunk and started telling people their "Q scores."
Who did this author, this mag editor, and this research diva blow to get the one in-focus photo of the night???
Although they work at different basic cable nets, no physical fights broke out.
He writes for the Aflac duck. Funny 'cause it's true.
Yet another comedian attempts advanced facial topiary.
"Jew Ferrigno" a.k.a. my other brother
Author's mom is also an author and is also my mom and is also happy and is also quite tipsy.
"If this photo sucks you are so not gonna be invited to my book party."
The one on the right writes for Cracked. Which is cool but he wouldn't stop rubbing it in our faces. Every sentence out of his mouth starts, "Well as a writer for Cracked..." and "I have a new take on the Iraq crisis since becoming a stringer for Cracked..." and "You have a bit of cheese stuck to your lip, which I wouldn't mention except Cracked has taught me about standards; about how to strive for balance and harmony in all things. You wouldn't understand."
The author's wife has got leeeeeeeegs, and furthermore, she knows who to use them.
The man on the left has starred in way more commercials than the Aflac duck. For reals. Is it lucrative work? Well, here we see him about to purchase a white Oxford-educated slave.
Hot musical Hobbit stage right.
The view from the balcony. There was a bar there.
There was also a bar here.
The view after hitting the hootch.
"What about 6:30-8:30 don't you people understand?"
Incredibly sexy very pregnant woman with her latest boy toy.
The author listens politely as someone waggles his book at him and prays for the lord, or the hired help, to bring him a fresh bourbon.
*FYI I've been a mega fan of Roy's since I was in short pants and read his classic profile on Gilda Radner.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Where: In the examining room
Why: Routine check; waiting for the doc
What: On the wooden patient chair was a mag that was cover down. I flipped it over to remove it so I could sit, see the title and decide if I wanted to flip through it or delve back into finishing my brother's novel. Found it was an issue of Fit Pregnancy...with a pubic hair firmly stuck to the front. I mean, the hair was truly stuck as it had made the journey from being picked up and flipped, unscathed.
What (cont'd): I was not bothered by the hair on the magazine. Not one bit. I know that most women would take this opportunity to rant about the shocking experience, and knew that the high maintenance, over-tan, pregnant at an advanced age (via lightening storm and 30K in mad money) crazy ladies who go to this practice would flip out especially hard and call the DOH, the police and post on Urban Baby if they saw this, but it didn't gross me out. To be honest it didn't even phase me. Is it because my father was a doctor and told me stories about being a Resident in the Bronx, at a hospital where, if you turned your back (and sometimes if you didn't) the roaches in the lab would quickly devour the patient bone marrow off the slides?
How it ended: In any case, I like these doctors and it's a nice office, pubic hairs on magazines notwithstanding. So I casually, but powerfully, blew the hair off the cover. Then I placed the magazine with its friends in the rack on the windowsill and read a few pages of my bro's very entertaining (not to mention hairless) book before the doc came in.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Q: What's black and white and read (and red and black and greenish yellow) all over?
A: Two new books by two people I know!
Perhaps I wouldn't have noticed if they hadn't come in the same Amazon shipment, but behold my camera phone pic of the spines of Microthrills by comedian Wendy Spero and Schrodinger's Ball by my brother Adam Felber...
Ladybugs humping; ladies legs crossing...
Yeah, they both feature a sexy little icon next to the author's red and black names. Both books came out this month. Both are very funny, well-reviewed...
Similarities: Colors, style, pub dates of 8/06, both by seasoned comedy performers, both from NY, both now living in LA, both have worked in TV & the fact I know both these people personally and professionally (Adam a tad longer then Wendy).
Differences: Wendy's is non-fiction; Adam's is fiction. Wendy's first name is red, Adam's first name is black. Wendy's last name is black, Adam's last name is red. They are published by different companies.
In conclusion: These books are startlingly similar.
The question I put to you, my readers: Am I right or am I right???
PS I just saw this book, Rejuvenile, on my friend RKB's site. Not as similar, but the red and black type thing plus the colors... well it's all the rage, eh?
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Below you'll find a fabulous article by my Ed about moving to Weehawken. It recently came out in the FT Weekend Magazine. As the mag is not published in the U.S., I am happy -- no thrilled -- to pimp it here, complete with the excellent, snazzy illustration by Chris Duggan. Note: Click here to see and read the article in its original mag form, or read it below in text sans pic.
The Longest Mile
By Ed Holland
Published: August 5/6 2006
FT Weekend Magazine
Weehawken, land of contrasts! An oasis of residential tranquillity nestling a mere 15 minutes from the throb and hum of Manhattan’s Times Square! A verdant suburban paradise from whose manicured lawns and hedges one gazes awestruck over the most spectacular city skyline in the world!
Thus might run a demented property agent’s description of Weehawken. Thus, in only slightly more restrained terms, ran my own, to anyone who would listen. About Weehawken, where I was moving after years of living in Greenwich Village, I felt I had something to prove. Not only was it not in Manhattan, it wasn’t even in New York. It was - whisper it low - in New Jersey. My socio-geographical difficulty was poignantly reflected in New Yorkers’ reaction to my new address: “Where?”
Most cities, London being an obvious example, are essentially circular, radiating a gradual falling off of social acceptability on all sides. On the whole, the further you live from the centre, the less likely you are to talk about it. Hence the sly geographical elisions whereby, in the course of dinner party chit-chat, a street in, say, Kilburn miraculously finds itself part of St John’s Wood.
New York, up to a point, functions in a similar fashion. The vast outlying reaches of Brooklyn and Queens ascend gently in cachet as they approach the pinnacle of desirability that is Manhattan (no one will ever write I’ll Take Queens). And then. and then, well, nothing. On the west side of Manhattan, New York hits the Hudson River and the city stops dead. On the other side of this brutal escarpment lies a dark and strange-smelling land called “Jersey”, the undiscovered country from whose bourn - unless one is absolutely forced to fly into Newark airport - no traveller returns. Social death.
My move to Weehawken, a sliver of a neighbourhood perched on the cliffs above the Hudson opposite midtown Manhattan, involved a geographical displacement of approximately one mile; but to my New York acquaintances I had fallen off the edge of the world. Many, on hearing the news, would look down in embarrassment as if I had been recently exposed as a bankrupt or bigamist. Others, after consulting the etiquette book on this most delicate of situations, would bravely invite me out for a last dinner, “You know, before you, ah, leave us.” The valedictory tone suggested I was going off to join a monastery in Baja California or to become a lighthouse keeper in the South Sandwich Islands.
The disdain for “bridge and tunnel” types amongst proud Manhattanites - Big Apple veterans who had lived there for as long as, oh, two years after growing up in such impossibly glamorous locales as Michigan or Indiana - was nothing new. More damaging was the attitude of those across the East River. Smarting from years of being taunted themselves by the snobs on the island, people living in laughably obscure parts of Queens - approximately 1.7 miles further from the Empire State Building than Weehawken (I measured it) - sneered with delight at my news. At last somebody lower than them! In the boondocks they might be, but you wouldn’t find them sporting an “NJ” before their ZIP code.
Rather than accept my demise, I came earnestly to the defence of my new home, explaining in fevered detail the frequency of buses from Weehawken to Manhattan (”round the clock, by the way”), the extraordinary speed of the journey, even in rush hour, and the many convenient locations from which one could board this nonpareil of mass transit. This was before I mentioned the possibility of taking the ferry (”only seven minutes shore to shore”), which I portrayed as a uniquely magnificent travel experience whose luxury and speed evoked a rare combination of the Queen Mary and the Orient Express.
To no avail. Many diagnosed a case of protesting too much. “Fifteen minutes to Midtown? Yeah, right. That’s what everyone says when they move out of Manhattan.” Others, feeling themselves in the presence of a delusional maniac, nervously pretended to be impressed so as not to provoke me. Some even said they “couldn’t wait” to come and see the place, although unfortunately prior engagements have so far prevented them from making the journey.
Then, in a plucky attempt at civic rebranding, my wife began referring to Weehawken as “The Hawk”. Surely, under this subversive new soubriquet, we could reignite on the west of the Hudson the bohemian flame we left behind in Greenwich Village: a new Left Bank for the 21st century!
It would appear that this is an artistic movement that needs time to develop. The poets, gallery owners and kinetic sculptors have been oddly reluctant to jump on the 166 bus from Port Authority and feel for themselves the creatively energising experience of being stuck in traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel for 25 minutes. But they will come. The shopping facilities are just too good. We have a Burger King and a McDonald’s. And the library has late opening on Mondays and Wednesdays.
In the meantime, if you happen to be flying into Newark, do drop in on your way to Manhattan. Please.
Copyright The Financial Times Limited 2006
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
For reals! Check it out!
1. I will tell you about the Schrodinger's Ball cover change SCANDAL! (See Wal-Mart for old cover)
2. AND about how he and a talented funny woman I know both have funny, well-reviewed books out this month whose covers feature mysteriously similar red and black typeface over electric greenish yellow... AND about how they both secured quotes from those in The Daily Show cartel. AND furthermore, I will explore the truth re: are Daily Show veterans writing their own book cover quotes, or are they farming the work out to witty Thai children who are forced to churn out hundreds of amusing book quotes a day?
3. I will attempt to divulge whose hand that is in his author picture!
4. And I will spill ALL the beans about how Adam's life-long habit of dressing like a pirate almost ruined his marriage!*
But for now, go buy his book! Available today wherever fine books are sold! Like here!
*That last one was a lie. But an entertaining one, right?
Monday, August 14, 2006
Friday, August 11, 2006
You ever have one of those days where the summer intern who sits next to you comes to show off his going-away gag gift of a "piranha" and he is seriously disappointed when you tell him it's not a piranha and so the fishes value goes down in his 19-year-old intern eyes and you're sorry you said anything for had you known that he didn't know, you may have let him down easier (or mocked him harder), but anyway he's about to hit the airport and he's certainly not taking the thing (besides, one can assume that if hair gel is banned, large, open, filled tanks with fish miiiiiight be) so the intern tells you the thing is consigned to death by starvation or media company plumbing and you are horrified (but mainly astounded by the fact that people would get a college boy a living thing as a surprise), so you offer to take the thing and he puts it behind your trash can because he liked the gag and his internship and doesn't want his department to know he didn't take his overpriced Manhattan fighting fish and he quickly bolts for a family vacation on the left coast and then you realize -- oh craptastic -- you are going to have to get a small fish in a large bowl across town and there's no way not to look like a freak doing that, especially not when the one carrying the fish is seriously pregnant, but more importantly, how do you transport it without dropping it because that would be bad especially since your care-taking hormones are running on high and if anything happens to the little guy you will have a nervous breakdown, like you need the stress of something else to be responsible for but then you lift the fish up and onto your desk and spy that the fish is watching CNN and happily waving his fronds and fins at the screen as you type and he's wormed his way into your heart and you see the years of water changes and pellet buying spread out in front of you and instead of feeling like you're caught in a bear trap the confinement feels like an embrace and the only worry you have is, "What should we name him?"
You know, one of those days?
FYI He's really pretty but a crap swimmer so I'm thinking of naming him Nat or Titan.*
*As in Natalie Wood or Titanic
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Felber's first camera phone pic!
"I kiss you!"
Note: Scientists believe that someday Felberkind may discover how to put on makeup before taking a picture.
(This of course will come after time travel, flying cars, and an electable Democrat for president, but it's possible)
Yeah, those are ponytails I'm sporting today, what of it?
Monday, August 07, 2006
Purple Coneflower; Echinacea purpurea
Taken 8/6/06 at my weekend cabin's little garden
Yeah, Echinacea -- the same junk you hippies buy to help boost your immune systems. This year the deer ate 98% of my coneflowers (even though I planted them specifically because deer aint suppos'd to eat 'em). So if you don't see the deer sneezing and holding hankies in their hooves, you know the stuff works.
You want more funny? Scroll down. This post is all about showing off one of the pics I took yesterday and bitching about the fallacy of the "deer resistant" plant...
Friday, August 04, 2006
I came across this ad for One Hanson Place, a new luxury building in Brookyn:
I humbly suggest they use...
"One Hanson Place: Live in a Giant Penis"
Yes, "Live in a Giant Penis" is short, to the point and really says it all. Plus it's much better than the first tagline I wrote...
Hurry, units are going fast!
And this building is REALLY HARD TO BEAT!!! (oh ho ho ho)
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
I am writing in regards to your article about today's heat, Emergency in NY as city swelters !
I particularly liked the illustrative photo you chose: half-naked black children playing in fire hydrants. Was this photo from an episode of Seasame Street circa 1975?
Because I have lived and worked all over Manhattan for over a decade. I have never, EVER seen a black baby, or any baby for that matter, playing in a fire hydrant. I feel cheated.
In any case, thank you for continuing to give my British relations a gritty, stereotyped, outdated impression of Manhattan. It's photos like these that make them thrill to think Serpico still roams the streets and Kojack is on the case!
PS It was a bold choice not to take a picture from any of the parks we've built in the last 20 years to see children playing in beautiful urban sprinklers. Like here. Or here. Or you could've taken this picture featuring topless lesbians with perfect ta tas cooling off in Washington Square fountain. I think people would've enjoyed that one a lot.
UPDATE: A nice co-worker informed me that Gawker linked to this post. Then sometime after 5PM, the BBC changed the photo on the story cited above to this pic of an old man who is too poor to afford an air conditioner, too frightened by the mean streets to venture out and too heterosexual to pick out nice curtains:
Mr. Hooper, is that you?
And so I say bully to you, BBC, for providing the world with an even more depressing, downscale image to represent New York City in the heat!
Now, if you'll excuse me, y'all can play in your fire hydrants and peer nervously out the window, but I'm off to have a beautiful BYOB dinner cooked by Bruce Springstein's former personal chef.