My Typical Romance

If you've been paying attention, then you've figured out that I have a type. This guy. This guy (who, consequently but not coincidentally, resembles my ex-boyfriend). And this guy. What do all of these boyish men have in common? They are rockstars (William Beckett of The Academy Is, Pete Wentz from Fall Out Boy, and Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance, respectively).

Wow. A chick who digs musicians. Mindblowing.

Yeah, okay, I'm not special. And I've dated plenty of other guys (if you redefine the word "plenty") that don't fit the rockstar/brooding musician type at all. I can find men appealing who don't sing about failed relationships and wear black clothes and makeup. But that's only because there aren't that many of them and a girl's gotta eat (so to speak).

This past weekend I was flooded with MY TYPE at every corner at the Projekt Revolution tour in San "I'm Actually a Desert, Barnes & Noble and Chili's Nonwithstanding" Bernadino, California. My good friend Brian and his band won an MTV contest and were performing as the very, very, very opening act of the entire tour, headlined by Linkin Park and, 50% my reason for attending, My Chemical Romance. Swoon.

I met Brian my very first day of classes at my very first class, freshman year at college. It was Intro to Film (as if I needed an introduction to something I had been self-educating myself about since birth) and the TA had everyone break the ice by sharing a recent movie that they enjoyed. Brian, a heterosexual male, said Moulin Rouge which had come out just a few months previous, and you could immediately sense an entire classroom of film school snobs (yep, even on Day 1) judging his choice, conforming to the then-popular Baz Luhrman backlash. Uncharacteristic of me, but perhaps out of a survival of the fittest adrenaline rush of needing to make friends, I approached this attractive stranger after class and simply said, "I agree with you, I really loved Moulin Rouge." We realized we had lots more in common, including a love of Alanis Morissette and No Doubt (concerts we attended together in the years to come), dancing like idiots at sorority and frat invites, a similar ridiculous sense of humor and obsession with pop culture. And thus a friendship was born!

Brian has remained a busy and distant friend but a supportive one throughout the years. He's always done his best to make my improv troupe performances, and I always go to his band's gigs when I can make it, even if I go alone. His band, Art of Chaos, is not typically the type of music I like -- it's a bit louder and heavier than something I would normally listen to. Then again, I never proclaim a love for a band just because it is of a particular genre of music (Linkin Park and Good Charlotte, I'm referring to you).

That said, because I've given it more airplay on my iPod than I would have given it had I not known someone in said band, I've grown to really love Art of Chaos' music. It's catchy, it's emotional, it's not just screaming into a mic - in fact it's not screaming at all, and Brian has a lovely tenor voice atypical in his band's chosen genre of music. I can happily say I'm not just humoring him; I really do enjoy his band's music (which you can check out here). Which is a pleasure, because I thankfully don't have to lie to his face, which is what I probably would do even if I couldn't stand it. That's what friends are for, right?

So, since I am a lady of my word and had last Saturday free, I spent close to $100 on a LOGE 1 ticket, and drove to San Bernadino alone to see Brian and his bandmates perform at one of the biggest gigs of their career (so far). Okay, maaaaybe I also wanted to see My Chemical Romance and I chose to get orchestra seats as opposed to general lawn for $30... but as all my slutty friends say, if you're gonna go, go all the way. And use protection. Sunscreen, of course. Pervs.

I got to The 'Bernadino (new FOX drama?) at 11:45am and a line thousands of people long had already formed. I bypassed everyone and waited at the top of the hill, near the entrance. At about 12:30, they started letting people in at the precise moment I heard Brian's voice come through a loudspeaker. They started playing their first song the very second the gates opened. Talk about an opening act.

I wasn't going to miss him, not after driving an hour and a half and spending tons of money and getting there at the very, very beginning of a 12 hour music festival. I cut absolutely everyone in line, got my ticket ripped, and RAN to the Revolution stage where they were finishing their first song to about, oh, the ten people ahead of me in line who got there first.



I saw their whole show (always engaging, like old pro rockstars), but unfortunately most of their entourage of friends, family and fans missed it because of the line. Another shining example that sometimes, just sometimes, being selfish and cheating your way to the top is the way to go. I never said this blog was a role model.

I spent the rest of the afternoon waiting to say hello and congrats to Brian while he signed autographs (seriously - there is nothing weirder than seeing your friend you've known for a long time sign autographs and take pictures with strangers). Then it was a combination of tanning, texting, calling my mom, reading tabloids, spending as much money as possible on the worst food imaginable ($96 for a ticket and the best you can offer me is a limp cheeseburger combo? SHENANIGANS!), listening to my iPod, admiring the thousands of tattooes on display, trying to figure out what a seven-year old is doing at this type of concert when I can't remember having a taste in music when I was seven, trying to sneak backstage with Brian (to no avail), until this happened:



I can't say enough good things about this band. My ex tried to get me into them, but the only thing he showed me was the "I'm Not Okay" video, and while amusing and tongue-in-cheek, Gerard Way looked like, as I quote, "a monster".

He changed his hair a few times, sobered up, put away (some) of his eyeliner, and needles to say, I changed my mind, too:


i wear my sunglasses at night

Brian met him backstage and the only thing I could do to keep from weeping was lick Brian's hand that shook Gerard's. Okay, I didn't really do that, but it's frustrating to be so close yet so far to someone you would pretty much stage a vag attack on the second you meet them just from listening to the music they create. In fact I think it would be fair to say I get sexually aroused just by watching MCR perform live, turned on to 11 seeing Gerard goosetep all over stage (no really, he does that a lot). Do I need therapy? Or a bandana and a pack of Mentos to get backstage? Both, probably.

In any respect, Art of Chaos is just a few more live performances and a Rolling Stone cover away from inspiring multiple orgasms. And that's pretty much the best endorsement I can give.

My So-Called Back*

*just thank me that I didn't make a "sexyback" joke

I'd just like to point out that I saw this in the very flesh (pun well-thought out in advance and intended) and it made me jump from zero to lesbian in 2.5 seconds:


Jordan Cartolano, eat your heart out

Somewhere, Brian Krakow is having a massive boner.

I've always liked Claire Danes - her one-two punch during my pre-teen and teenage years with My So-Called Life and Romeo + Juliet pretty much made her my female role model. I'm happy to see she's still around, doing things (even if those things happen to be Australian musicians or other people's babydaddy's). I'm also happy to see that she's drop dead gorgeous in the sexiest dress I've ever seen. Dayum.

Unfortunately, not all of the MS-CL alum are faring much better...

Jordan Cartolano = Dreamy-Eyed Remedial Student I Can Change


i'm so burdened by society. and homework.

30 Seconds to Mars frontman = Trying Too Hard


not as good as the Frozen Embryoes

Oh no, it gets even worse - this is him without goth makeup (or body fat):


look, i became convex for a role, i'm a serious actor!

Film School Eulogy

check, and mate

Legendary foreign film director Ingmar Bergman died Monday at the age of 89.

The Seventh Seal


Legendary foreign film director Michaelangelo Antonioni died Monday at the age of 94.

Blow Up


That's two influential filmmakers dead on the same day. Does anybody know Bernardo Bertolucci's whereabouts?? I hope he's taking his vitamins.

Just in case... here's a clip from a movie I personally hate when I watched it in my Film Censorship class, Last Tango in Paris. I haven't watched it again since my initial viewing, but I disliked it so much I don't think I'll be giving it a second chance. Blah blah it's a "classic movie", that doesn't mean I have to enjoy it despite explicitely not enjoying it. Except for this scene. Which is the scene I will share with you now. Marlon Brando, even grey-haired, overweight and unattractive, there's no one like you.

Last Tango in Paris

It's Not TV, It's HBO..... Actually, On Second Inspection, These Are Loafers

Don't you love a blog post that begins with a random Simpsons quote thrown into the subject heading for no reason whatsoever? I do! Ah, it's gonna be a good day.

Well, it's that time of the month again. No, I'm not talking about my menstrual cycle. That would be weird to blog about.

No, no. It's Click On This Link And Read My Monthly Column in INsite Boston!!! Yaaaay!

Fall TV Preview

If you don't, Lindsay Lohan will be sent to rehab in Iraq. And you wouldn't want this innocent little starlet to get a piece of shrapnel embedded into her skin while she's trying to detox, would you? Would you??


peace in the middle east or whatevs, lolz!!1!

**yes i did this photoshop (for work... but I probably would have made it eventually anyway of my own accord)

**Did you miss my previous columns? Well, click away!

June 2007

May 2007

Thnks Fr Th Mmrs

i'm sorry, have we met?

Remember Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? Did you enjoy it? If you didn't, you may be able to completely erase the experience from your mind:

A study published in the Journal of Psychiatric Research reports that researchers at Harvard and Montreal's McGill University are getting good results from propranolol, a drug used in the treatment of amnesia, that appears to block, if not completely remove, bad memories on a selective basis.

The drug was tested using 19 victims of various kinds of trauma, including accidents and rape. Some subjects were given propranolol, others a placebo. Researchers say that in those receiving the drug, the biochemical pathways that serve memory were disrupted sufficiently enough to dull, if not erase, the most painful recollections.

Where do I sign up? Maybe I already have signed up and I can't remember. Ignorance would be bliss this week. (Vague shout out to being depressed!)

Girlfriend Is FUCKED

an adequite mug shot

Reports TMZ:

Lindsay Lohan might be adding a whole lotta striped jumpsuits to her wardrobe.

Already facing charges for driving under the influence and misdemeanor hit and run in Beverly Hills, Lindsay racked up even more charges last night in Santa Monica, and is now facing big-time jail time.

The maximum sentence she faced for the original DUI and hit and run charges was 6 months for each. Last night, Lindsay was charged with another DUI -- if convicted of both DUIs, she could face up to one year in jail. And the horror doesn't stop there! She was also charged with possession of cocaine, which is a felony and carries a maximum of three years in jail.

La Lohan is accused of driving on a suspended license as well, which carries a maximum of one year in jail. Her frenemy Paris Hilton was sentenced to 45 days for the same offense.

As far as the allegation of bringing cocaine into a correctional facility -- our sources tell us that this charge will most likely be dropped, because it is only enforced if someone transports drugs to an inmate in custody. La Lohan didn't willingly go to jail last night!

Judges don't take kindly to arrestees whose crimes occur so close together -- so it's quite possible that the proverbial book will be thrown at her. In a worst case scenario, Lilo could face SIX YEARS in jail!

Lindsay and I attended the same high school at the same time (I was a senior, she was the freshman "who was in that Parent Trap movie"). I feel as though we share a kinship, although I graduated Calhoun High School with honors, and she left junior year to eventually become a movie star, recording artist, and firecrotch. Because of our shared Long Island upbringing (me, Linds, and Amy Fischer - Long Island's finest), I take special note of the comings and goings of Miss Lohan in all her Adventures Through the Car Windsheild. I make jokes and poke fun, but seriously, the girl's probably hiding WMD's in her nasal cavity alone. Someone needs to chain this girl to a radiator Black Snake Moan style before she kills herself. Although I bet her funeral at Pure nightclub would be the party of the year. She should preoder a Louis Vioutton coffin before Britney picks up the last one.


OMG, i can't stop driving things!!!
(thanks LOLHAN blog for the giggles)

Why Hasn't She Gotten Done Already?

Is Bud Lite too classy for you? Are you in the mood for something a little less hoity-toity than Coors? Do you live in a van down by the river and shoot tin cans for pleasure? Than Git-R-Done beer is the alcoholic drink for YOU!

Git-R-Done beer, named for the comedian's famous catchphrase, was launched Saturday by SchillingBridge Winery & MicroBrewery, from the small town where the 44-year-old actor-comedian grew up.

The owners of the small family winery say the light beer is made from high-quality ingredients with more "flavor and body" than popular corporate beers.

Mike Schilling, who runs the winery with his wife, Sharon, is confident Git-R-Done beer will appeal to the comedian's fan base.

"Rednecks love quality, too," he said.

If rednecks love quality, than why is Larry the Cable Guy still doing stand-up on television? PARADOX! I'm sure this beer will do well, though - particularly if its sold at the 99 cent store...

Posh It To the Limit

So Posh & Becks are now in Los Angeles... but this town ain't big enough for the both of us!!!

And that's why I'm moving to the UK. Foreign exchange program.

No, no, (unfortunately) I'm not moving out of LA. In fact, their presence in the media is probably only helping my bloggy blog here in mouseclicks. So thanks for all of you who have stumbled upon this blog in a search for David and Victoria's incredibly erotic W photoshoot. I wouldn't want you to walk away emptyhanded, so here you go:



I kinda like these guys. As far as celebrities go, they provide more eye-candy entertainment than naseating irritation. David actually has a talent and is well respected (at least in every other country in the world since America doesn't give a shit about soccer). Victoria at least used to be in a world-famous supergroup (and I guess still is?). They've got three kids and tattoos of their kids' names and other cryptic symbols and languages all over their body. They're both usually extremely well-dressed.... well, David anyway.



Although I have to say, wearing crazy outfits (particularly this hat) is probably the worst offense she's ever done to the world. As far as I know, she's never been in rehab, never bitch-slapped anybody in Hyde nightclub, never drove the wrong way on the freeway, never flashed her crotch (although her nipples are always searching for an escape). She just seems like a wild, filthy rich celebrity with a hot husband everyone likes (who knows who he is), and other than that, she's completely devoid of personality. And that's a celebrity I can like.

Also, as much criticism as this dress got, if I was a size negative 0, this is the first thing I would wear:



Welcome to LA, Posh and Becks! Your kids will be texting Lindsay Lohan any minute now. It's best you chain them to their beds while your here. Cheers!

Finding Emo

Another hilarious installment of News Shows That Need Filler So They Attack Teenage Styles They Don't Understand:




But honestly, what in the eff has My Chemical Romance ever done to you, stupid CBS reporters? They're attacked almost as much as FAKE EMO ONLINE QUIZZES that ARE IN ON THE FUCKING JOKE. Gerard Way and the rest of the MCR should not be scapegoated for anyone cutting themself a la Marilyn Manson during the Columbine era - ya know, there's a lot of people out there cutting themselves, and they wear Abercrombie & Fitch. Some even wear Karl Lagerfeld (and no underwear underneath). Don't blame a brilliant (and highly entertaining live) band who has no interest in encouraging kids to hurt themselves. Sometimes ignorance stops being funny and just starts getting on my nerves.

Grr! Bex angry!

On another note, after watching that video, I'm less terrified of EMO coming to get me than I am of this guy:

I Doubt This Comes in Plus-Sizes

If you thought heroin chic was stylish, check out my favorite ad of the moment, if not for it's genuine honesty (Marketing Exec: "Models snort coke and look great while doing it! What're you looking at me for? Blame society!")


cheaper than doing real blow

Two models who look bored as all hell snorting a dress! In what I assume is the VIP section of an elite Hollywood club! Even a nipple is hanging out! This ad has everything! Just don't wear this dress while driving. We all know the reprucussions of a DUI! (Fun days with the Rehab gang at the beach! Weeeee!)

My Mom Has a Mug with My Face On It From When I Was Eight, Does That Count?

As if there weren't enough people talking about Paris Hilton (myself included in this sad mob), and as if Paris doesn't talk about herself enough, she has now gone the extra step of wearing herself:


stars are blind, and now so are you!

Thank god she went the extra mile. For one precious, beautiful, heavenly second I almost forgot Paris Hilton existed. All I needed was the gentle push of a ridiculous photo op.

Who am I even kidding? I'm voluntarily discussing her on my blog. Thank you for holding up the bar of lunacy, Paris. What on earth would I constantly complain about if not for you and your legion of wenches?


double, double, Hyde and trouble

\/\/ Shout Out!

My blog got the cover of W magazine this week!



Okay, it's mispelled... and there's no mention of me or this blog... and it's actually about David and Victoria Beckham and not about how I spend hours and hours of my workday blabbering on about celebrity culture and japanese television... but I consider this a personal triumph. Viva la blog!

You Had Me at Flight of the Conchords

I'm in a lovey mood today. Small puppies and electro music usually puts me in a good mood. Here's another example that love exists, in the form of two geeks from New Zealand who have captured my heart and tickled my funny bone (which is located not too far from the g-spot):



I'm seeing them tomorrow night at the El Rey in Los Angeles. Do you know tickets for this show are selling for about $200 on Ebay? And yet I still refuse to sell my ticket I paid $30 for? Now that's love.

Three Examples of How I Know Love Is, Actually, All Around Us

Example #1: This song, Cupid's Chokehold, by Gym Class Heroes, my favorite new song of the moment. (Regardless that the lead singer of one of my favorite bands is a guest vocalist in the song.) I can't wait to feel this way about someone again. I look forward to it more than winning an Oscar or giving a sold-out Q&A at the DGA. (I'm a nerd. [And a film school graduate.]) But one day this song will be for someone in my life. Right now this blog is a filler until I meet him. (Apparently making Bex and Posh&Bex fuck buddies, although I think P&B wants something more serious. Whatever, I told P&B when we first started that I wasn't looking for anything long-term. I'm really holding out for a better blog to come along.)



Example #2: Also this song, Digital Love, by Daft Punk. It's not new, and I've actually owned their CD Discovery for years with barely a listen, but for the last two weeks I can't stop listening to it. It's just so sweet and happy and genuine, like being in love and floating around on a dancefloor. Being on drugs at a rave also helps in achieving the same sensation. Although love doesn't cause a leak in your spinal fluid. Much.



Example #3 to Infinity: THIS PUPPY.



This puppy is so filled with love that its body has metastasized into a physical declaration of JOY! I'm waiting for his owners to shave "U R MINE" into his fur and sell clones of him for Valentine's Day.

P.S. I hate Love Actually, I'm ashamed I quoted it in my subject heading.

Blog or Death

This would be hilarious... if it didn't actually scare the living shit out of me if it were to really happen.


Breaking News: All Online Data Lost After Internet Crash

A Post Without Gossip

This is a sample chapter from the memoir I'm writing. It took place during my first trip to Australia in 2003 when I was volunteering at a wildlife park in the middle of Oz with a group of other American college student volunteers. Enjoy! Have a happy weekend!


Have you seen a big bag of money around here? I swear I just had it here in my pouch... god, I'd lose my head if it wasn't attached to my neck

Mmm... Kangaroo

When yet another game of Trump started, a game I convinced myself they kept playing because they knew I refused to learn it, I decided it was time to take a break from trying to fit in. I released my clutches and followed Scott to the snake hut.

Scott gladly spent most of his time with the animals while the rest of us enjoyed our elongated smoke o's [aussie version of a coffee break] devouring packages of Tim Tams in one sitting. I wish I were comfortable not being a part of the larger collective, able to enjoy solitude knowing there was a party going on elsewhere. But while Scott voluntarily segregated himself from the group, it was the group that was slowly segregating themselves from me. That's small but specific variable that makes all the difference.

Scott was on this trip for genuine conservation work as opposed to getting laid in a foreign country. He was excited by all animals at the park, but he especially loved the reptiles. He thought they were cute the way normal people think a newborn kitten is cute or a baby dressed as a pumpkin is cute. I'm more of a Big Eyed Puppy Wearing a Bow kind of girl, but I was mesmerized by the snakes. They have amazing muscles – you can hold one by the tail and it will be able to support the rest of its body upright. I can't even do a cartwheel without fumbling under my own weight. Then again, I can ride in a plane without any hassles, so you win some, you lose some.

Joe, the owner of the park, was inside, holding a tuberware container. He motioned us over and we curiously looked inside. Five tiny mice shivered inside, each no more than a day old. They were the same color of pink Runts candy, and just a tad larger. The baby mice hadn't yet grown fur, and they would never get the chance to. It was the snake's smoke-o, and since they can't eat Tim Tams, they snack on baby mice.

Scott picked one up by its tiny tail, careful not to pinch too hard between his fingers for fear of squishing it. What could it matter, though? What's the point in gently handling this baby mouse one minute before its painful death? We're accomplices in its murder, guilty as much as the snake.

Scott placed the baby mouse in the cage at the oppose side of the snake. Slowly sensing another body in his space, the snake slithered until it found its prey. It had no difficulty snapping the small rodent into its mouth, tiny trickles of blood coming from its mouth.

After its meal, the snake continued to slowly move throughout its cage, indifferent. Kind of like the human version of an hour after eating Chinese food. "What, that was it? I'm hungry again." Poor mouse didn't even live long enough to become a decent meal. Some creatures just get the short end of the stick.

* * *

We feed animals, then ourselves, back and forth, day in, day out. That night we went to a nice restaurant in town for dinner. It felt good to wear makeup and spend a night out of my hiking boots.

At the restaurant, which was not The Outback (to my dismay), we were seated in a private room with white linen tablecloths and candelabras. This room is entirely too mature for eight juvenile college students on vacation. At least they kept us distanced from other clientele, away from our sex talk and Nikki's obnoxious Midwestern accent. Without hesitation I pick my meal: kangaroo. Now, kangaroo isn't sold at every McDonald's in Australia - only the nicest restaurants serve it, like duck or veal back in the States.

When dinner is served, I'm given a plate filled with hunks of raw kangaroo meat and a steaming stone grill. You put each piece on the grill and cook it to your liking. I'm suspicious why I'm spending so much money on a meal I have to prepare myself, but when you're in Australia, do as the Australians do: cook a cute animal medium-rare.

Kangaroo turns out to be delicious. As a bonus: doesn't have eyes or tentacles or squishy, chewy parts that have to be consumed whole. It's a strange thing to be eating, but it still resembles meat.

Now, I've never wanted to pet a shrimp or a duck. On the same note, I've never had a craving for goldfish or swan. I think cartoon cows are cute, but I'm highly unimpressed the few times I've been confronted with the real thing. So the kangaroo remains the only animal I wish I could own as a pet and that I also think is scrumptious. That's one big conflict of interest. I'm sure farmhands often become very attached to the hogs they raise and eventually slaughter, but as I'm sure you've deduced at this point, I am not a farmhand. My only experience with animals at this point in my life was my Akita growing up and McDonald's hamburgers. For-petting animals and for-eating animals were mutually exclusive until I met the adorably delectable kangaroo.


hippity-hop, into my tummy

* * *

The next day while we're doing our morning feeding (I spend an extra ten minutes at the ram's pen, entranced by their square-shaped pupils) Joe drives his pick-up into the park. He found a dead kangaroo in the road, normal Australian roadkill as typical as possums in America. Australian law prohibits you from moving a dead animal, but in Joe's way of thinking, this could be an entire meal for another animal. At least this way the kangaroo would serve a purpose.

Nobody's eating me. Do I still serve a purpose?

Joe decided we'd feed it to the dingoes, the vicious meat-eaters that look like huskies. I felt bad for the dingoes, trapped in their cage. They're furry and friendly, and I want to let them roam free and throw them a Frisbee and rub their bellies. But I have to remember that looks can be deceiving. Dingoes come across as normal dogs but they have the minds of wolves.

It's bad for the dingoes to ingest every part of the kangaroo, so the guts have to be cut out. Mike, the med student in our group, figured he'd eventually be doing this anyway, so he volunteered to operate on the dead animal. Guts-ectomy.

Upon inspection, Dr. Mike discovered a fetus inside the female kangaroo's pouch. It reminded me of the mouse, not yet one day old, but much larger, curled up in the fetus position, as a fetus is wont to do.

Mike leans down, cuts into the kangaroo's flesh. I avoid looking at its face, its eyes popped out of their sockets. I can understand hitting a possum on a freeway, but how could you not see a medium-sized kangaroo on an empty dirt path around here? I smell a conspiracy...

The fetus and its mother didn't feel real to me. They looked fake, like props, Muppets on a Sesame Street episode about the reproductive system of marsupials. Throughout the gutting and skinning, I'm more awestruck than disgusted. This is one of those experiences that I am absolutely certain will never repeat itself again in my entire life. I enjoy the horribly putrid smelling moment.

It smells awful, worse than sulfur. He slops the purple and forest green guts on the ground. The dog comes over and licks it, eats a little, walks away, and throws up.

Mike carves the kangaroo's limbs off like we're at a bizarre Australian-themed Thanksgiving, and then skins it. I recognize the hunk of meat I had for dinner last night. It was from the leg.

I immediately regret not ordering the chicken.

Joe and Mike throw the kangaroo limbs inside the cage. The dingoes casually walk over and start feeding. I assumed their wild nature would now show itself, survival of the fittest, but their dining is completely civilized. One of them dabs a napkin on either side of his maw.

If I had seen the kangaroo alive before it was gutted, skinned and chopped into pieces, I bet I would have been more revolted. But as it is, I remain a carnivore today.

I don't recall whatever happened to the kangaroo fetus. Small, pre-skinned, pre-gutted – it would have made a pretty decent appetizer.

BONUS: Watch all the gutting with your own eyes! Filmed by moi, with all the power and knowledge that comes with a film degree.

They Grow Up So Fast, Don't They?

One minute they're a fresh-faced polar bear cub that's always ready for a cuddle from one of the millions of people whose hearts have been warmed by their precious little smile...



And the next minute, they're giving blow-jobs to any zookeeper that'll show 'em the time of day.



Don't do this to yourself, Knut. We miss you. Come home. We'll get you the help you need. You don't have to subject yourself to this.

Diet Cherry Cokehead

I post to you everyday from a pretty decent-to-awesome job. I get a paycheck (that I can afford groceries and rent with [okay, as well as the semi-frequent Beverly Hills haircut-and-dye spa day]) every two weeks for making fun of celebrities, praising the good stuff in entertainment I like, and occassionally acting as the on-location producer for movie premieres and fashion shows we do press for. I have comfortable work hours and my coworkers are friendly and hospitable with any intoxicants they may have on hand. I even have my own cubicle! My very own private me-space, the equivilent of a fort made out of couch cusions for the working professional! My dream since the day I realized I had to work for a living (which, coincidentally, is the day I died inside).

Perhaps the sweetest perk of this job is the $.25 Diet Cherry Coke in the coke machine in our breakroom. Options beyond regular, boring, ho-hum calorie-free soda, and only for two dimes and a nickel??? (Precious quarters are always saved for laundry day, of course.)

But today, as my energy levels dropped, and the dress I'm wearing to my friend's wedding in August kept poking me in my tub, away from caramel mochaccinos, I needed a caffeine boost. And I needed it cheap. And as close as possible.

BUT THEY WERE ALL OUT OF MY BELOVED DIET CHERRY COKE.


for those who think cherry

This I cannot put up with. I am quitting.* I AM WORKING IN SQUALOR!

*Bex is not really quitting. Diet Dr. Pepper is a poor substitute for Diet Cherry Coke, but eating out of a trashcan and kidnapping my hairstylist requires more effort than sitting at my desk in my cubicle all day. Priorities, people.

Finding Emo

This just makes me giggle.



You give me a good emo pun, and I laugh. Guess I'm not so angsty after all!

Smells on a Plane

And you thought it was just the food, the waiting, the security checking, the uncomfortable, cramped seats, the horrible movies, the crying babies, the coughing sick people, the threat of crashing and/or terrorism and the inevitable delays that were the bad part of flying:

(P.S. Whoever wrote this deserves their own blog. And probably has one.)

Seat 29E

See more like this on kontraband.com

All Apologies

Bex apologizes for her absence the past few days. I still owe you F.O.B. Moments #1 and #2, in addition to a full report on the Gwen Irvine concert and this amazing night. Thanks for your patience. P&B supports your patronage by mouseclicking here everyday. In the meantime, if you haven't seen the Paris/Larry King interview last week, because you were on the moon (not our moon, but another planet in another galexy's moon that doesn't have YouTube), here's a recap: