Gratuitous!
Gratuitous!
What as a close up too? Gratuitous!!!
Unnecessary! Unwarranted! Unjustified! = GRATUITOUS!
Stan says,
"This is an extremely silly post..."
"I am not amused."
Monday, October 23, 2006
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Act now!
No, seriously act NOW before these two fabulous articles by my Ed slip behind their coy $ubscription veils.
(These are from a special annual FT ski thingymahoob they publish called "Pink Snow")
Those little beauties on the rack
By Ed Holland
Oct 20 2006
Frolic, Caper and Dipsy Doodle. . .
By Ed Holland
Oct 20 2006
No, seriously act NOW before these two fabulous articles by my Ed slip behind their coy $ubscription veils.
(These are from a special annual FT ski thingymahoob they publish called "Pink Snow")
Those little beauties on the rack
By Ed Holland
Oct 20 2006
Frolic, Caper and Dipsy Doodle. . .
By Ed Holland
Oct 20 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
Mini-Me
Today I came across a publicity photo for a upcoming comedy perf and found I was in the photo (if not in the actual show). As its a long-running show and the performers rotate, that's totally cool.
This photo of me, taken last year, seems really neat and I've never seen it before.
And the problem is?
I can hardly see it now:
Man I'm beautiful when I'm barely visible!
Do you think it would be ultra vain of me to ask the show's producer to send me the photo in non-molecule sized form? Or is that bad form?
This is a rhetorical question because I don't have comments.
And, come on, I'm so going to ask.
Today I came across a publicity photo for a upcoming comedy perf and found I was in the photo (if not in the actual show). As its a long-running show and the performers rotate, that's totally cool.
This photo of me, taken last year, seems really neat and I've never seen it before.
And the problem is?
I can hardly see it now:
Man I'm beautiful when I'm barely visible!
Do you think it would be ultra vain of me to ask the show's producer to send me the photo in non-molecule sized form? Or is that bad form?
This is a rhetorical question because I don't have comments.
And, come on, I'm so going to ask.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Project Uglyway
Remember the ugliest pillow contest I entered?
Well my ratty pillow didn't even make the finals.
I don't know, but to judge from the competition, I feel my ugly pillow wasn't "hip" ugly enough.
Ugly? More like a puffy Ebay goldmine !
I'm so peeved my ugly pillow didn't make it, I have half a mind to sic a gangsta stringray on their asses.*
*Read: Stingray Leaps Into Boat, Stabs Man in Chest - AOL News
Remember the ugliest pillow contest I entered?
Well my ratty pillow didn't even make the finals.
I don't know, but to judge from the competition, I feel my ugly pillow wasn't "hip" ugly enough.
Ugly? More like a puffy Ebay goldmine !
I'm so peeved my ugly pillow didn't make it, I have half a mind to sic a gangsta stringray on their asses.*
*Read: Stingray Leaps Into Boat, Stabs Man in Chest - AOL News
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Today I was home and watched TLC. The network formerly known as "The Learning Channel".What did I learn? Tons!
1. Really stupid people have babies all the time and love to be filmed when looking their worst.
2. Your friends secretly hate the way you dress and relish showing the nation how lame you are by taking secret videos of you.
3. Gay men are cruel, but they want nothing more than to make homely women look good. (And I thought they were gay to have sex with men? Duh. No way!)
I wasted a whole day with this dreck.
"Live and Learn" indeed...
Sunday, October 15, 2006
I don't usually recommend books on this here blog.(unless they are written by friends and relations)
I don't usually read enormous door stopper-sized biographies.
And big-ass biographies don't usually make me bawl at the end, making me dissolve in great heaving sobs.
But this one did.
Especially if you are, or have ever been, a New Yorker, pick up this enormous mother.
Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow. It's unsually good.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Wish me luck!
In America's ugliest pillow contest.
What this sad-ass pillow lacks in fugly, it makes up for in heart-wrenching story...
Fingers crossed!
In America's ugliest pillow contest.
What this sad-ass pillow lacks in fugly, it makes up for in heart-wrenching story...
Fingers crossed!
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
My brother is an idiot.
You heard me. Oh which brother? Surprise! It's not the one who usually seems a little bit 'tarded.
My brother Adam is an idiot.
Exhibit: Adam
Why?
He recently got a full page review in the Sunday New York Times Book Review and didn't even mention it on his blog.
Why?
Well maybe because his novel had already been reviewed in the NY Times two weeks before and he felt an embarrassment of riches.
Or maybe, he's busy working on that TV show he's doing. Or maybe he feels his NPR-addled* fans only want to hear about how Bush is an idiot (for the umpteenth time in every flavor).
Or maaaaaaayyyyybeeeeeee...
HE'S JUST AN IDIOT!
(I report, you decide.)
In other novelists-I-know news, Kiran Desai, a woman I went to college with, just won the Man Booker prize. She is the youngest woman ever to do so.
Exhibit: Kiran
Holy crap, right?
Kiran and I spent the most time together when we were the two Bennington students lucky enough to land two overpaid jobs at the Getty Center in Santa Monica. During the two months I spent in Los Angeles I was mugged (the guy got about 5 dollars), carjacked at gunpoint (a friend's car, and they almost drove away with me still cowering in the back seat) and I found myself living with a crack-addicted Bennington alum in a rat-infested crack house before a call to my mother that merely hinted that my surroundings weren't perfect led to my being swiftly taken in by my Beverly Hills Aunt who I had met about three times in my life during her brief sweeps into NYC.
Back to Kiran...
I have not been in touch with her since college. But I can say she was truly one of the nicest people you could ever know, very bright (but unlike the rest of Bennington kind, she didn't feel the need to wear a sandwich board declaring it) and lurking behind the nice introverted girl with impeccable manners was a wicked sharp sense of humor.
So successful, so young... you wish she was a female Franzen, right?
Sorry, but no. I couldn't be happier for her. Incredible and inspiring.
*I really enjoy NPR. I went to an ultra-liberal college in Vermont with no TV reception, no desire for TV reception and NPR was my constant companion. That being said, I think people who listen to too much NPR have their brains rotted as nicely as those who watch too much Fear Factor. The only sticky difference is that the TV addict knows it's junk, but the NPR addict comes away from their 'tainment feeling superior. And when the NPR listener is separated from their radio for too long they start composting anything within arms reach and their version of the DT's is repeatedly scratching their scabies and snottily telling you they don't watch TV. I know because that was me. So when I encounter a NPR freak I go all NRA and want to invade lots of countries just to see them sweat.
You heard me. Oh which brother? Surprise! It's not the one who usually seems a little bit 'tarded.
My brother Adam is an idiot.
Exhibit: Adam
Why?
He recently got a full page review in the Sunday New York Times Book Review and didn't even mention it on his blog.
Why?
Well maybe because his novel had already been reviewed in the NY Times two weeks before and he felt an embarrassment of riches.
Or maybe, he's busy working on that TV show he's doing. Or maybe he feels his NPR-addled* fans only want to hear about how Bush is an idiot (for the umpteenth time in every flavor).
Or maaaaaaayyyyybeeeeeee...
HE'S JUST AN IDIOT!
(I report, you decide.)
In other novelists-I-know news, Kiran Desai, a woman I went to college with, just won the Man Booker prize. She is the youngest woman ever to do so.
Exhibit: Kiran
Holy crap, right?
Kiran and I spent the most time together when we were the two Bennington students lucky enough to land two overpaid jobs at the Getty Center in Santa Monica. During the two months I spent in Los Angeles I was mugged (the guy got about 5 dollars), carjacked at gunpoint (a friend's car, and they almost drove away with me still cowering in the back seat) and I found myself living with a crack-addicted Bennington alum in a rat-infested crack house before a call to my mother that merely hinted that my surroundings weren't perfect led to my being swiftly taken in by my Beverly Hills Aunt who I had met about three times in my life during her brief sweeps into NYC.
Back to Kiran...
I have not been in touch with her since college. But I can say she was truly one of the nicest people you could ever know, very bright (but unlike the rest of Bennington kind, she didn't feel the need to wear a sandwich board declaring it) and lurking behind the nice introverted girl with impeccable manners was a wicked sharp sense of humor.
So successful, so young... you wish she was a female Franzen, right?
Sorry, but no. I couldn't be happier for her. Incredible and inspiring.
*I really enjoy NPR. I went to an ultra-liberal college in Vermont with no TV reception, no desire for TV reception and NPR was my constant companion. That being said, I think people who listen to too much NPR have their brains rotted as nicely as those who watch too much Fear Factor. The only sticky difference is that the TV addict knows it's junk, but the NPR addict comes away from their 'tainment feeling superior. And when the NPR listener is separated from their radio for too long they start composting anything within arms reach and their version of the DT's is repeatedly scratching their scabies and snottily telling you they don't watch TV. I know because that was me. So when I encounter a NPR freak I go all NRA and want to invade lots of countries just to see them sweat.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
I'm fresh
...and gooey too. And no, no one ever told me. Berti my globe-trotting superfriend, you rock!
From: berti p.
Sent: Thursday, October 05, 2006 10:48 AM
To: Susie Felber
Subject: You were thought of...
Susie!!
I am sure this has been brought to your attention many, many times before...but in the (very) off chance that it has not, did you know that all over Vienna, they have these incredibly tempting stands selling fresh, gooey pastries named Felber (the stands, not the gooey pastries). I'm happy to report that the fact that these stands shared a name with the Fabulous Felbers was all the excuse I needed to stuff myself with goodies every chance I could.
[rest of personal email redacted...use your imaginations]
Smiles,
Berti
Check it out, I just found the Felber bakery site! And I found they make an adorable rhino horn pastry that benefits an Indian rhino! The best part is that they are sold at the zoo and are filled with real rum so kids can get as large as rhinos and drunk. Now THAT'S a Felber.
Note: the preceeding message only interesting to Felbers.
...and gooey too. And no, no one ever told me. Berti my globe-trotting superfriend, you rock!
From: berti p.
Sent: Thursday, October 05, 2006 10:48 AM
To: Susie Felber
Subject: You were thought of...
Susie!!
I am sure this has been brought to your attention many, many times before...but in the (very) off chance that it has not, did you know that all over Vienna, they have these incredibly tempting stands selling fresh, gooey pastries named Felber (the stands, not the gooey pastries). I'm happy to report that the fact that these stands shared a name with the Fabulous Felbers was all the excuse I needed to stuff myself with goodies every chance I could.
[rest of personal email redacted...use your imaginations]
Smiles,
Berti
Check it out, I just found the Felber bakery site! And I found they make an adorable rhino horn pastry that benefits an Indian rhino! The best part is that they are sold at the zoo and are filled with real rum so kids can get as large as rhinos and drunk. Now THAT'S a Felber.
Note: the preceeding message only interesting to Felbers.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
New York's Natural History Museum introduces sleepovers
Ever wonder what it would be like to be homeless in the Arctic, surrounded by vicious polar bears and a gaggle of annoying upwardly mobile New Yorkers -- knowing that soon you'll be sleeping under a blue whale's balls?
Well wonder no more!!!
You can be among the very first to spend: A Night at the Natural History Museum!
(For reals y'all... check the link)
http://www.amnh.org/kids/sleepovers/
It's only $79 dollars per person. And what''s more, after hours with the lights dimmed and your flashlight in hand you can explore the museum and you'll notice 40% less dust on the crusty old exhibits than you would during the day! That will surely jazz up the upstate NY orchard dioramas!
There's no doubt about it: Locking your children in a museum for the night is a great way to get them to learn. Or, maybe you just want to molest some kids in front of penguins or giant sea sponges?
So come on down to the American Museum of Natural History's brand new Night at the Museum!
Sleepovers at the AMNH: Because for over 100 years, we have excelled at putting people to sleep.
Note: I kid because I love the Nat History Museum -- the blue whale, sea sponges and the crusty old diorama's in particular. The cross-section of a chipmunk's digs RULES!
Ever wonder what it would be like to be homeless in the Arctic, surrounded by vicious polar bears and a gaggle of annoying upwardly mobile New Yorkers -- knowing that soon you'll be sleeping under a blue whale's balls?
Well wonder no more!!!
You can be among the very first to spend: A Night at the Natural History Museum!
(For reals y'all... check the link)
http://www.amnh.org/kids/sleepovers/
It's only $79 dollars per person. And what''s more, after hours with the lights dimmed and your flashlight in hand you can explore the museum and you'll notice 40% less dust on the crusty old exhibits than you would during the day! That will surely jazz up the upstate NY orchard dioramas!
There's no doubt about it: Locking your children in a museum for the night is a great way to get them to learn. Or, maybe you just want to molest some kids in front of penguins or giant sea sponges?
So come on down to the American Museum of Natural History's brand new Night at the Museum!
Sleepovers at the AMNH: Because for over 100 years, we have excelled at putting people to sleep.
Note: I kid because I love the Nat History Museum -- the blue whale, sea sponges and the crusty old diorama's in particular. The cross-section of a chipmunk's digs RULES!
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Bugaboo: The most appropriately-named stroller in the world...
bug·a·boo (bug'e-bu)
n., pl. -boos
1. An object of obsessive, usually exaggerated fear or anxiety
2. A recurring or persistent problem
There are some things I wish I could erase from my brain. Namely, images of Holocaust victims and learning the name & price of the omnipresent Bugaboo stroller. Check out this Sporty Young Couple I spied this weekend in Manhattan. On Park Avenue and 59th to be exact...
This stroller retails for $729 dollars.* For another $100, they could've gotten it in yellow. Cheapskates.
*Actually, they were sporting the Bugaboo parasol and the Bugaboo diaperbag, bringing this strollers total to $869.
Speaking of the Holocaust and Bugaboos, I like to imagine this sporty young couple (SYC) will have a Schindler's List moment:
SYC: We could've got more...We could've got more, if we'd just...we could've got more...
Stern: Sporty Young Couple, forget the orphans of Darfur...there are eleven hundred people who strive to have a luxury stroller because of you. Look at them.
SYC: If we'd made more money...we threw away so much money, you have no idea. If we'd just...
Stern: There will be generations of stylish couples because of what you did.
SYC: We didn't do enough.
Stern: You did so much. Imagine if you'd had a Graco. Like, ewwww. So tacky. For the 'burbs dahling.
SYC: This Bugaboo Cameleon breezy canopy. Goeth would've bought this Bugaboo Cameleon breezy canopy. Why did we keep the Bugaboo Cameleon breezy canopy? Ten people, right there. Ten people, ten more people... (He rips the Bugaboo Transport Bag from his shoulder) This Bugaboo Transport Bag, two people. This is $121! Two more people. He would've given us two for it. At least one. He would've given us one. One more. One more person. A person, Stern. For this. We could've gotten one more person and we didn't.
They break down in Stern's arms, convulsing in remorse and guilt - some of the workers step forward and comfort him in their arms. Mrs. Dresner picks up one of the Bugaboo footmuffs from the ground. The Sporty Young Couple and their driver wear the easily-identifiable, deceptively-casual expensive uniforms of Upper East Side parents - the Sporty Young Couple's tortured faces are reflected on the car window, superimposed over the face of the illegal nanny as she slowly tries to get their notoriously difficult-to-fold Bugaboo into the car.
Update: Thanks for the linkage, Gawker.
bug·a·boo (bug'e-bu)
n., pl. -boos
1. An object of obsessive, usually exaggerated fear or anxiety
2. A recurring or persistent problem
There are some things I wish I could erase from my brain. Namely, images of Holocaust victims and learning the name & price of the omnipresent Bugaboo stroller. Check out this Sporty Young Couple I spied this weekend in Manhattan. On Park Avenue and 59th to be exact...
This stroller retails for $729 dollars.* For another $100, they could've gotten it in yellow. Cheapskates.
*Actually, they were sporting the Bugaboo parasol and the Bugaboo diaperbag, bringing this strollers total to $869.
Speaking of the Holocaust and Bugaboos, I like to imagine this sporty young couple (SYC) will have a Schindler's List moment:
SYC: We could've got more...We could've got more, if we'd just...we could've got more...
Stern: Sporty Young Couple, forget the orphans of Darfur...there are eleven hundred people who strive to have a luxury stroller because of you. Look at them.
SYC: If we'd made more money...we threw away so much money, you have no idea. If we'd just...
Stern: There will be generations of stylish couples because of what you did.
SYC: We didn't do enough.
Stern: You did so much. Imagine if you'd had a Graco. Like, ewwww. So tacky. For the 'burbs dahling.
SYC: This Bugaboo Cameleon breezy canopy. Goeth would've bought this Bugaboo Cameleon breezy canopy. Why did we keep the Bugaboo Cameleon breezy canopy? Ten people, right there. Ten people, ten more people... (He rips the Bugaboo Transport Bag from his shoulder) This Bugaboo Transport Bag, two people. This is $121! Two more people. He would've given us two for it. At least one. He would've given us one. One more. One more person. A person, Stern. For this. We could've gotten one more person and we didn't.
They break down in Stern's arms, convulsing in remorse and guilt - some of the workers step forward and comfort him in their arms. Mrs. Dresner picks up one of the Bugaboo footmuffs from the ground. The Sporty Young Couple and their driver wear the easily-identifiable, deceptively-casual expensive uniforms of Upper East Side parents - the Sporty Young Couple's tortured faces are reflected on the car window, superimposed over the face of the illegal nanny as she slowly tries to get their notoriously difficult-to-fold Bugaboo into the car.
Update: Thanks for the linkage, Gawker.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
What Doesn't Suck
For your consideration, here are two things that don't suck...
1. Mariah Carey
I was listening to her this morning (on a cutting edge device called a "radio" -- it's like an iPod on Shuffle but the amazing thing is you don't have to buy, download or pick the music)! Anywho, I decided Mariah's so talented she has earned herself a "get out of crazy free" card. So go ahead Mariah, root around bald and toothless in a woodpile -- you've earned it!
Hey talented nutjob, I toast to YOU!
2. What Sucks
That's right, the brand new blog from writer/comedian Chris Deluca called "What Sucks" -- does not suck! I think his mission statement is pure poetry:
With so much around us that blows, let this blog help you keep things sorted out. Let's face it - suckiness evelopes us, gripping us in a vice-like hold like a bear trap made of shit. Every day we face an overwhelming, deluge of crap and while the torrent of bullshit is unyielding in its advance, at least here it can be called it out for what it is- a lot of shit that really sucks. Everyday we'll shine a light on something that sucks. And your comments, until you weird me out, are welcome.
So check out What Sucks now!
For your consideration, here are two things that don't suck...
1. Mariah Carey
I was listening to her this morning (on a cutting edge device called a "radio" -- it's like an iPod on Shuffle but the amazing thing is you don't have to buy, download or pick the music)! Anywho, I decided Mariah's so talented she has earned herself a "get out of crazy free" card. So go ahead Mariah, root around bald and toothless in a woodpile -- you've earned it!Hey talented nutjob, I toast to YOU!
2. What Sucks
That's right, the brand new blog from writer/comedian Chris Deluca called "What Sucks" -- does not suck! I think his mission statement is pure poetry:
With so much around us that blows, let this blog help you keep things sorted out. Let's face it - suckiness evelopes us, gripping us in a vice-like hold like a bear trap made of shit. Every day we face an overwhelming, deluge of crap and while the torrent of bullshit is unyielding in its advance, at least here it can be called it out for what it is- a lot of shit that really sucks. Everyday we'll shine a light on something that sucks. And your comments, until you weird me out, are welcome.
So check out What Sucks now!
Monday, September 25, 2006
Remember way back when, when I told you about my illustrator friend Steve? Yeah, misty water colored memories light the corners of my mind too!
Well now Steve is doing illustration for the Fluorescent Justice sketchbook, an illustrated, animated, New York City night court blog experience! And, even better, these short original vids are available as a free video podcast from Court TV. And even better than that? I won a brand new shiny video iPod recently... from the same company that does these podcasts.
Holla! It's Steve's art on my Pod.
And the moral of the story is...
I have an iPod! Woo! Nyeh, nyeh, nyeh!
Sorry, that is not the moral. That is very immature. The moral is...
Man, it's hard to spell "Fluorescent." Smoke darn near comes out of my ears everytime I do.
No, that is not a moral, neither! The moral of the story is...
Oh please, there's no moral. Just check out the FJ night court blog and the FJ audio/video sketchbook. 10-4 good buddies.
Well now Steve is doing illustration for the Fluorescent Justice sketchbook, an illustrated, animated, New York City night court blog experience! And, even better, these short original vids are available as a free video podcast from Court TV. And even better than that? I won a brand new shiny video iPod recently... from the same company that does these podcasts.
Holla! It's Steve's art on my Pod.
And the moral of the story is...
I have an iPod! Woo! Nyeh, nyeh, nyeh!
Sorry, that is not the moral. That is very immature. The moral is...
Man, it's hard to spell "Fluorescent." Smoke darn near comes out of my ears everytime I do.
No, that is not a moral, neither! The moral of the story is...
Oh please, there's no moral. Just check out the FJ night court blog and the FJ audio/video sketchbook. 10-4 good buddies.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
This Day in Sustory
September 23rd, 2001: I marry in a beautiful ceremony that tells the world, "He's mine! Back da @#*% up! I'll cut ya!"
Me entering the cocoon of wedded bliss with a vodka on the rocks.
Keen readers of history might note that this date is strikingly close to another event that happened round about then.
And those who know me well know that my entire wedding was re-planned in a week, from soup to nuts. Or, more like, from cake to nuts. Everything but the dress, and the people getting married, changed. We pulled it off, thanks to a massive effort on the part of my family and friends. It's a great story for another time. I mean, heck, it's taken me five years to even mention my wedding, let alone show you people pictures. Be patient lambs!
Although many of our guests cancelled, the one with the whitest hair there is a 90-something year old relation who drove into Manhattan with her husband. She said, "We survived Hitler, lived through the Blitz in London...this wasn't going to stop us."
All in Fort Tryon Park agreed: this event's trauma < 9/11.
Of course last night I was on the phone with my mother who -- after relating how many people she knew seemed to be losing their grasp of dates -- asked of my marriage, "How long has it been now? Three years?"
This post has been a blatant ripoff, er, I mean hommage to Chris Regan's This Day in Mythstory.
September 23rd, 2001: I marry in a beautiful ceremony that tells the world, "He's mine! Back da @#*% up! I'll cut ya!"
Me entering the cocoon of wedded bliss with a vodka on the rocks.
Keen readers of history might note that this date is strikingly close to another event that happened round about then.
And those who know me well know that my entire wedding was re-planned in a week, from soup to nuts. Or, more like, from cake to nuts. Everything but the dress, and the people getting married, changed. We pulled it off, thanks to a massive effort on the part of my family and friends. It's a great story for another time. I mean, heck, it's taken me five years to even mention my wedding, let alone show you people pictures. Be patient lambs!
Although many of our guests cancelled, the one with the whitest hair there is a 90-something year old relation who drove into Manhattan with her husband. She said, "We survived Hitler, lived through the Blitz in London...this wasn't going to stop us."
All in Fort Tryon Park agreed: this event's trauma < 9/11.
Of course last night I was on the phone with my mother who -- after relating how many people she knew seemed to be losing their grasp of dates -- asked of my marriage, "How long has it been now? Three years?"
This post has been a blatant ripoff, er, I mean hommage to Chris Regan's This Day in Mythstory.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Eric's Really Good Idea
A celebration of design innovation. Hot off the video presses TODAY. Third in a rocking series. By Bob Shea with all voices by Ed Holland.
NOTE: Yeah, I posted this already by using the code because when I blogged it from YouTube it didn't show up... well as you can see it did, but two days late. Is this bug usual?
A celebration of design innovation. Hot off the video presses TODAY. Third in a rocking series. By Bob Shea with all voices by Ed Holland.
NOTE: Yeah, I posted this already by using the code because when I blogged it from YouTube it didn't show up... well as you can see it did, but two days late. Is this bug usual?
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Hot off the video presses!
Watch A celebration of design innovation by Bob Shea.
With all voices by my Ed.
OMG! Bloody Brilliant! Share 'n spread!
Watch A celebration of design innovation by Bob Shea.
With all voices by my Ed.
OMG! Bloody Brilliant! Share 'n spread!
Friday, September 15, 2006
Cops Pay This Guy to Act Up
By Susie Felber
Playing rapists, victims and witnesses, LA-based actor James Elliott makes a living out of helping police hone their interrogation and sleuthing skills.
Read my hot off the virt-presses interview with James right here!
Behind the story, story: So recently a great friend of mine tells me about the man she's dating, who is, in her opinion, really wonderful. She didn't want to tell me when the relationship was new because she knows my well-known (and well-performed) bias against hooking up with actors. She's never gushed about a guy to me like this one. Of course, as soon as she tells me one of his jobs is acting for the LAPD, my interest in her happy love life suddenly went out da flipping window as I pump her for details on how I can interview him. "You've finally met a man who adores and respects you, blah blah, whatever... so, ooooh, tell me again about the wild detective training unit thingy he works for?" Yeah, I'm a great friend.
By Susie Felber
Playing rapists, victims and witnesses, LA-based actor James Elliott makes a living out of helping police hone their interrogation and sleuthing skills.
Read my hot off the virt-presses interview with James right here!
Behind the story, story: So recently a great friend of mine tells me about the man she's dating, who is, in her opinion, really wonderful. She didn't want to tell me when the relationship was new because she knows my well-known (and well-performed) bias against hooking up with actors. She's never gushed about a guy to me like this one. Of course, as soon as she tells me one of his jobs is acting for the LAPD, my interest in her happy love life suddenly went out da flipping window as I pump her for details on how I can interview him. "You've finally met a man who adores and respects you, blah blah, whatever... so, ooooh, tell me again about the wild detective training unit thingy he works for?" Yeah, I'm a great friend.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Battle of the Network Affiliate Pooch Stars
A don’t-miss blog post that includes the premiere of...
Stan, the Manhattan Weather Mutt!
From Comedy Central’s Insider comes this important news item about Stormy, the Rockin' Weather Dog!
Stormy from CBS 19, "The East Eye of Texas"
"During the 5pm newscast . . . If the weather dog is wearing a sweater viewers will know they are in store for a cool weather forecast. If Stormy is dressed in a parka, those tuning in will know it is time to bundle up . . . At 6 and 10pm, Stormy will emerge from his doghouse to push a button to activate his evening 'Dog Walking Forecast'. This will inform viewers graphically what the weather will be like as they take an evening stroll with their own pampered pet. "
Thanks to Comedy Central for the link… I love Stormy, even though he has the miserable look of an extra in a Triumph sketch. But wait! Comedy Central neglects to mention that Stormy is a blatant, albeit cuter, rip off of another Texas Weather dog – Radar!
Radar knows the camera adds ten pounds… the fur, 20.
It seems Radar came about in 2004.
Radar has a bio, multiple videos, and a slow-loading 122 picture photo gallery (!) that includes pictures of his pimped out pet bed…
Don't Radar's digs look a bit like the set for Paris Hilton’s next stolen video?
Here we see Radar choking news director Nancy Shafran for not copyrighting that weather dog shit...
"I'll kill you! Get me my agent!"
And so, in the spirit of new and improved rip offs, may I proudly present:
Stan, the Manhattan Weather Mutt!
So, what's the weather gonna be today, boy?
Here Stan shows us that today will be rainy and slightly gay with a chance of rats and fashion week.
Good dog!!!!!
Tune in next time for more awesome predictions from Stan, the Manhattan Weather Mutt!
A don’t-miss blog post that includes the premiere of...
Stan, the Manhattan Weather Mutt!
From Comedy Central’s Insider comes this important news item about Stormy, the Rockin' Weather Dog!
Stormy from CBS 19, "The East Eye of Texas"
"During the 5pm newscast . . . If the weather dog is wearing a sweater viewers will know they are in store for a cool weather forecast. If Stormy is dressed in a parka, those tuning in will know it is time to bundle up . . . At 6 and 10pm, Stormy will emerge from his doghouse to push a button to activate his evening 'Dog Walking Forecast'. This will inform viewers graphically what the weather will be like as they take an evening stroll with their own pampered pet. "
Thanks to Comedy Central for the link… I love Stormy, even though he has the miserable look of an extra in a Triumph sketch. But wait! Comedy Central neglects to mention that Stormy is a blatant, albeit cuter, rip off of another Texas Weather dog – Radar!
Radar knows the camera adds ten pounds… the fur, 20.
It seems Radar came about in 2004.
Radar has a bio, multiple videos, and a slow-loading 122 picture photo gallery (!) that includes pictures of his pimped out pet bed…
Don't Radar's digs look a bit like the set for Paris Hilton’s next stolen video?
Here we see Radar choking news director Nancy Shafran for not copyrighting that weather dog shit...
"I'll kill you! Get me my agent!"
And so, in the spirit of new and improved rip offs, may I proudly present:
Stan, the Manhattan Weather Mutt!
So, what's the weather gonna be today, boy?
Here Stan shows us that today will be rainy and slightly gay with a chance of rats and fashion week.
Good dog!!!!!
Tune in next time for more awesome predictions from Stan, the Manhattan Weather Mutt!
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Arbitrary, schmarbitrary...
Check it: I am the 30th most popular comedy blog. Behold ye mortals and despair!http://mocomedy.blogspot.com/2006/09/top-40-blogs-by-and-for-comedians.html
Although even the creator of this list cautions that technorati is fickle and sure, the methods are not scientific, I've decided to take this statistic very seriously.
Interestingly, almost half the people on this Top 40 list are my friends. Correction: were my friends. From here on out I will do whatever it takes to get to the top. I will be ruthless. I will destroy anyone who gets in my way. I will even purchase one of those roller bags the contestants on the Apprentice use.
Just watch me.
Brody might work out and have muscles, but he betcha doesn't have one of these...
Check it: I am the 30th most popular comedy blog. Behold ye mortals and despair!http://mocomedy.blogspot.com/2006/09/top-40-blogs-by-and-for-comedians.html
Although even the creator of this list cautions that technorati is fickle and sure, the methods are not scientific, I've decided to take this statistic very seriously.
Interestingly, almost half the people on this Top 40 list are my friends. Correction: were my friends. From here on out I will do whatever it takes to get to the top. I will be ruthless. I will destroy anyone who gets in my way. I will even purchase one of those roller bags the contestants on the Apprentice use.
Just watch me.
Brody might work out and have muscles, but he betcha doesn't have one of these...
Trash talk!!!!
Powers: #5 get ready to take a dive
Todd: Think you'll ever raise higher than 11? No way dude, from here on out consider your stat un-levined.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Breaking!
I found a beautiful new site because it had sent me traffic and then learned that I have stylish friends! I have no clue who they are, but still... OMG! This is so very exciting!
If you know who this "Little Splurge" is, running that there site -- don't tell me. My life sorely needs more drama and intrigue. Lately I've been running on fumes.
Thing is that when one has a job, a relationship and no alcohol, one's only thrills come from trying to figure out the mysterious logic behind online v. in-store rug sales at Pottery Barn.
Here's a good rule of thumb for Pottery Barn rugs: If rug is on sale for $200 cheaper online, it's $300 more in the store, but if it's on sale for $300 off in the store, it's $400 more expensive online, unless it's Thursday, in which case it might be $600 dollars less at either, but they can't tell you which except if it is a full moon and then you can call a Pottery Barn manager in Paramus and she will order it for you and give you any price you claim you saw online just to make the sale. Then when you actually hoof it to Paramus they will claim not to have the rug you already paid a bundle for and they look at you like you are a crazy person and just when you are about to cry and wet your leggings and they are about to call the cops the manager will suddenly "find" your rug and all will be well.
PS When the moderately attractive short guy with a headset at the Manhattan Pottery Barn on 59th comes over and asks if he can help you, he really doesn't expect you are going to take him up on this. Even if you have a burning question like, "How much is this rug?" don't ask or you will cause him to blow a circuit. He will leave you standing there as your precious childbearing years tick by and then when you are ready to beg for a IVF smoothie* he will come back with no answer and then send you to "the desk" with a flip of his hand because he really "needs to be on the floor." In short, his job is to look pretty and waft around the store with a headset, ya dig?
*"IVF smoothie" means nothing, but seemed funny at the time. The time being about one sentence ago.
I found a beautiful new site because it had sent me traffic and then learned that I have stylish friends! I have no clue who they are, but still... OMG! This is so very exciting!
If you know who this "Little Splurge" is, running that there site -- don't tell me. My life sorely needs more drama and intrigue. Lately I've been running on fumes.
Thing is that when one has a job, a relationship and no alcohol, one's only thrills come from trying to figure out the mysterious logic behind online v. in-store rug sales at Pottery Barn.
Here's a good rule of thumb for Pottery Barn rugs: If rug is on sale for $200 cheaper online, it's $300 more in the store, but if it's on sale for $300 off in the store, it's $400 more expensive online, unless it's Thursday, in which case it might be $600 dollars less at either, but they can't tell you which except if it is a full moon and then you can call a Pottery Barn manager in Paramus and she will order it for you and give you any price you claim you saw online just to make the sale. Then when you actually hoof it to Paramus they will claim not to have the rug you already paid a bundle for and they look at you like you are a crazy person and just when you are about to cry and wet your leggings and they are about to call the cops the manager will suddenly "find" your rug and all will be well.
PS When the moderately attractive short guy with a headset at the Manhattan Pottery Barn on 59th comes over and asks if he can help you, he really doesn't expect you are going to take him up on this. Even if you have a burning question like, "How much is this rug?" don't ask or you will cause him to blow a circuit. He will leave you standing there as your precious childbearing years tick by and then when you are ready to beg for a IVF smoothie* he will come back with no answer and then send you to "the desk" with a flip of his hand because he really "needs to be on the floor." In short, his job is to look pretty and waft around the store with a headset, ya dig?
*"IVF smoothie" means nothing, but seemed funny at the time. The time being about one sentence ago.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Friday, September 08, 2006
Nah nah nah nah, nah nah nah nah, hey hey hey
Goodbye dahlings! I'm off to the country for the weekend. If it's anything like last weekend, I will...
Snap a celebrity...
(I'm referring to Musto, not Burt Lahr stage left)
See a truly scary scarecrow...
This has been a rare sincere post. I apologize for any lack of entertainment I may have caused.
Goodbye dahlings! I'm off to the country for the weekend. If it's anything like last weekend, I will...
Snap a celebrity...
(I'm referring to Musto, not Burt Lahr stage left)
See a truly scary scarecrow...
Enjoy the last of my garden...
Pick wildflowers and make a dinner with my man that's so awesome I just have to take a picture of it so that later I can post it and make even myself jealous...
Pick wildflowers and make a dinner with my man that's so awesome I just have to take a picture of it so that later I can post it and make even myself jealous...
Ahhh...Brontosaurus, my favorite!
This has been a rare sincere post. I apologize for any lack of entertainment I may have caused.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Hey WWW, it's Stephen Gardner Online!
I'm always excited when a friend finally launches a home on the Web. But I'm even more excited about this good pal's new site as he's a visual artist, and, unlike most of my friends, there's no bothersome reading before your socks are knocked off. Check out these three from the just hatched gardnerillustration.com:
When I met Steve way back in the 1990's, it was when he was performing comedy downtown, as part of a duo called Dirty & Cheeky. He was a really talented comedian and I remember asking him what he did -- which in comedian speak at the time meant 1. Moan about the crappy day job you have until you "make it" or 2. Launch into describing the other thing you do that is very exciting (Read: doesn't pay) that will certainly help you "make it." He modestly said he was an artist and didn't elaborate. So naturally, I took that to mean he 1. had a trust fund and 2. lit bags of his excrement on stage. Ya know, like the other "artists" I knew.
And so, when I finally saw what he did... book covers, movies posters, baseball cards and all sorts of mind-blowing professional illustrations, I was dumbfounded. Turned out that unlike the rest of us desperate performers, comedy was just a lark for him, something he did for fun as he happened to have a lot of friends in comedy.
In short, Stephen is a funny funny guy, a fantastic person and he has a genuine passion for what he does. And to top it off he ever so kindly met and married someone I adore and quickly poached as a close friend. But when I look at his work, I still can't believe I know someone who has this amazing talent.
Check out more of his sock-knocking work at www.gardnerillustration.com right now.
Here is my homie Stevie G. makin' art 'n stuff.
One last thought: It's not like Steve's not working -- he IS (he does jewelry design, illustration his agent calls with and, heck, I just helped him get a little gig with the network I work at), but if you have a wad of spare cash that you don't know what to do with, you should totally hire him to do a portrait. I think that's a very cool indulgence that the well-off should partake in more these days. You get a beautiful lasting portrait of someone you love (maybe yourself, whatever...) and an artist gets payola for doing, um, art. Win/win IMHO.
I'm always excited when a friend finally launches a home on the Web. But I'm even more excited about this good pal's new site as he's a visual artist, and, unlike most of my friends, there's no bothersome reading before your socks are knocked off. Check out these three from the just hatched gardnerillustration.com:
When I met Steve way back in the 1990's, it was when he was performing comedy downtown, as part of a duo called Dirty & Cheeky. He was a really talented comedian and I remember asking him what he did -- which in comedian speak at the time meant 1. Moan about the crappy day job you have until you "make it" or 2. Launch into describing the other thing you do that is very exciting (Read: doesn't pay) that will certainly help you "make it." He modestly said he was an artist and didn't elaborate. So naturally, I took that to mean he 1. had a trust fund and 2. lit bags of his excrement on stage. Ya know, like the other "artists" I knew.
And so, when I finally saw what he did... book covers, movies posters, baseball cards and all sorts of mind-blowing professional illustrations, I was dumbfounded. Turned out that unlike the rest of us desperate performers, comedy was just a lark for him, something he did for fun as he happened to have a lot of friends in comedy.
In short, Stephen is a funny funny guy, a fantastic person and he has a genuine passion for what he does. And to top it off he ever so kindly met and married someone I adore and quickly poached as a close friend. But when I look at his work, I still can't believe I know someone who has this amazing talent.
Check out more of his sock-knocking work at www.gardnerillustration.com right now.
Here is my homie Stevie G. makin' art 'n stuff.
One last thought: It's not like Steve's not working -- he IS (he does jewelry design, illustration his agent calls with and, heck, I just helped him get a little gig with the network I work at), but if you have a wad of spare cash that you don't know what to do with, you should totally hire him to do a portrait. I think that's a very cool indulgence that the well-off should partake in more these days. You get a beautiful lasting portrait of someone you love (maybe yourself, whatever...) and an artist gets payola for doing, um, art. Win/win IMHO.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Me, LIVE, Tonight!
Hey you people who have the hots for a craggy/crazy fictional doc... TIVO that House and then come on down to see me at Mo's House.
Tonight! Tuesday, September 5
WARP AND WOOF debut
8PM
Mo Pitkins House of Satisfaction
34 Avenue A New York City, 10009 (212) 777-5660
Wik: Comedian Andy Vastola
Comedian and Writer Susie Felber
Palestinian-Israeli Improv Duo West Prank
Ron Collins. 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.
Hey you people who have the hots for a craggy/crazy fictional doc... TIVO that House and then come on down to see me at Mo's House.
Tonight! Tuesday, September 5
WARP AND WOOF debut
8PM
Mo Pitkins House of Satisfaction
34 Avenue A New York City, 10009 (212) 777-5660
Wik: Comedian Andy Vastola
Comedian and Writer Susie Felber
Palestinian-Israeli Improv Duo West Prank
Ron Collins. 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.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Today in Universal Truths
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.
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
One Week from Today -- Felber LIVE!
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
8PM
Mo Pitkins House of Satisfaction
34 Avenue A
New York City, 10009
(212) 777-5660
Wik:
Comedian Andy Vastola
Comedian and Writer Susie Felber
Palestinian-Israeli Improv Duo West Prank
Ron Collins.
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.
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
8PM
Mo Pitkins House of Satisfaction
34 Avenue A
New York City, 10009
(212) 777-5660
Wik:
Comedian Andy Vastola
Comedian and Writer Susie Felber
Palestinian-Israeli Improv Duo West Prank
Ron Collins.
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
Flotsam
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.
Night y'all.
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.
Night y'all.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
This just in from BBC news...China cracks down on funeral strippers
Alternate headlines:
DEAD SEXY
BURIED PLEASURE
NO MORE PASTIES FOR PASTIES
ROUSE THE DEAD, DON'T AROUSE THE DEAD
DEAD FIND THEMSELVES ON THE THONG SIDE OF THE LAW
Or simply:
CHINA CRACKS DOWN ON CRACKS AT FUNERALS
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Those who live in lard houses
...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.
Nice, right?
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.
...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.
Nice, right?
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.
Monday, August 21, 2006
At the Manhattan OB/GYN
Who: Me
Where: In the examining room
When: Today
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.
Artists rendering
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.
Who: Me
Where: In the examining room
When: Today
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.
Artists rendering
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
Riddle me this
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?
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
My-hawkin'
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
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
My Brother's Book Reviewed in the New York Times -- today!For reals! Check it out!
Coming soon:
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 Betta You Betta You Bet
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
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
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