BUFFY GRADUATES, BECOMES FIELD FOR ACADEMIC STUDY

This is what I originally wanted to do this Memorial Day Weekend. Buffyologists from as far away as Singapore presented over 190 papers on the late TV series.

Click here for a report on The Slayage Conference, which was held in Nashville this weekend. Papers will undoubtedly be posted eventually at the Online International Journal of Buffy Studies.

If this seems like much ado about nothing to you, remember that today's colleges have courses in The Simpsons, and that Buffy saved the world, A LOT.

CARB GIRL SADDENED BY STORE CLOSING

Thanks to the Gothamist, via Dahl, for this story.

CARB GIRL "GRIEVING" OVER UWS STORE CLOSING

New York City, May 30--After learning of the closing of Columbia Bagels, Carb Girl said she was "dismayed and grieving" over the loss.

"I'm sad. What else is there to say?" said the bagel fiend and Upper West Side denizen. "I had noticed that (neighboring store) West Side Markets had closed, and I thought that was a huge loss at the time. Little did I know that another shoe would drop..." she trailed off into tears as she recalled the consumption of carbs past.

Other Upper West Side sources reacted mutedly, but realistically.

"Stores close all the time in this city--logically, I know there are other places to go. I mean, let's face it, there are bagel stores everywhere, and Carb Girl doesn't even live that close to Columbia," her friend Sara said in an exclusive interview. "Carb Girl lives equidistant from two perfectly acceptable bagel shops, and one of them even carries her favorite: walnut and raisin laden energy bars."

When alerted to this fact, Carb Girl seemed to brighten somewhat. "Those energy bars, though high in Weight Watchers points, are really yummy. It's good to know they're not gone forever."

NEW LOOK AT JDATERSANONYMOUS

Yes, I'm mad for site redesign this week!

I've also re-templated my other blog, JDaters Anonymous, hoping for increased traffic.

So if you like it, let me know. If you don't then, let me go. I can't take another minute of this world without you in it! So comment away.

(And yes, I'm aware I'm having some font issues in the "Links" area. Haven't figured that out yet, but would value any suggestions...)

Looking forward to your feedback!

A WORLD WITHOUT MEN

Marie Claire magazine asks "noteworthy" women (quotes courtesy of Jamie-Lynn Discala's inclusion on the list):

"Could you live in a world without men?"

Before I give you my response, here's Alanis Morissette:

"We'd miss out on the divine design in the existence of two genders. Even in my darkest moments, when I want to hit my brothers over the head, I remind myself that their behavior is an invitation to see the quality they're embodying (strength, intelligence--even stupidity) and love it in myself. I'd love a world of just sisters. Yet I'd want to have my buttons pushed again, to seek the path to wholeness that only men can offer."

Alanis, she of the dark, introspective songs that are almost frightening lyrically and confused syllabically, in her darkest moments, wants to hit her brothers over the head. She's so edgy.

My response to the question:

"Could I live in a world without men? I already do."

O, THE HUMANITY...

I'm fully prepared to turn 33, but not until next month.

Apparently, JDate decided that I might as well age a few weeks early. I just logged on to find that my age had been "promoted," from the accurate 32 to the unexpected-and-somewhat-horrifying 33.

I'm definitely adding this to my list of complaints with JDate. I know it's not that big a number, and it's only a few weeks early, but come on...there's NO NEED FOR THIS AT ALL!!

YOUR HELP REQUESTED...

...in selecting a venue for my birthday. The parameters are:

Thursday night, June 10 or Saturday night, June 12
A comfortable-sized room that we can have to ourselves for a few hours, with no cover and a cash bar
Preferably on or close to the Upper West Side...

Any suggestions appreciated. The last few years I've been at the Parlour, on West 86th Street. I can't beat it locationwise, but I'm up for a change, if I can figure something else out.

Well, Manhattan socialites? What are your suggestions?

WHINE-FELD

I liked Seinfeld as much as the next person (up until that last episode, that is--that was just plain weak). But then last Thursday, the NBC viewer was “treated” to a 20-minute “Special Seinfeld Event” that turned out to be a commercial for American Express featuring the eponymous comedian and his hero/god/road buddy Superman.

The reason I’m just kvetching about this now is that it’s been re-airing in shorter segments and annoying the crap out of me as it does. As the comedian might have said in his late TV show, “What is the deal??”

Is a commercial “an event”? I’m enough of a television-lover to consider certain TV show episodes a “television event,” but not a commercial. Especially not a dumb commercial. That’s just an annoying waste of my time. That time represents valuable moments I could have spent flipping between WE, Oxygen and Spike TV. I could have eavesdropped on an entire date between two dysfunctional singles on Blind Date. I could have read one-fifth of an article in the New Yorker. I could have perused the newest entries on some of my favorite blogs and maybe begun to formulate a clever comment. I could have boogied to that song that makes the old man on the Six Flags bus freak out groovaliciously (“Hey now, hey now, hear what I say now, happiness is just around the corner…”)

Jerry, don’t waste my time. I know where you live. Literally.

BRITNEY FINDS TREYF* TO BE TOXIC...

Thanks to Jewschool for this story.

I feel another series of letters to pop stars (see the archives) coming on...


* For the uninitated, "treyf" is a term applied to anything (from ham to Madonna's participation in Kabbalah that isn't quite kosher.

DUDE, WHERE’S MY BOOK CONTRACT?

Thought that blogging leads only to more blogging, languishing in the blogosphere, mired amidst bloggers and bloggerettes and eventually requiring bloggerectomies?

Just read this New Yorker piece about the influx of bloggers booking into print publishing, and you’ll see that sometimes the shortest point between a writer and a book contract is a straight blog.

So, I present the top 5 reasons why Katie Lee from ICM should check out My Urban Kvetch as an introduction to the world of Esther:

5) Witty written words work welcome wonders on wacky, worthwhile women;
4) Blend of smart writing, Jewish culture, and pop culture yields humorous blog-shaped smoothie that refreshes as it entertains;
3) Peaches-and-cream complexion of blog’s author will look smashing on glossy magazine covers;
2) No pesky full-time job to get in the way of said author’s deadlines and book tour;
and the number one reason:
1) My Urban Kvetch has zero net carbs.

I've written one book (a work for hire) and edited another. It's time for me to write my book, the book that captures me, my sense of humor, my perspectives and experiences.

Katie...have your people call my people. We'll do lunch.

(Thanks to Steve Silver for providing the linkin’ that got me thinkin’.)

MIND...FADING...

Today, I saw some guy on TV. He looked really familiar. Who was he? How did I know him? He was on CNN, so I knew I didn't know him personally.

Was he a politician? Yes, I thought so. But who was he? My mind scanned itself frantically, looking for the name of this gent. I knew I had seen him lampooned on SNL, but I couldn't even remember which cast member had spoofed him.

Then, it occurred to me. Richard Dean. Who was Richard Dean? No one, apart from 2/3 of a McGyver. This wasn't Richard Dean Anderson, it was Howard Dean.

HOWARD FREAKIN' DEAN!! Three months ago, he was on TV constantly, and now I couldn't even come up with his correct name. Add this to last week's "Richard Marx" incident, and I may need a transorbital leukotomy or something.

Speaking of frontal lobes, my brain's a-thumpin'. What dreams may come, should I sleep and perchance to dream...

GOING THROUGH THE MOTIONS...

...biding my time until I can go to the store to get Buffy Season Six, out today on DVD.

It's crazy how the release of this season on DVD has become my Whedon touchstone during the last weeks of Angel. And now that said Angel is over, I watch the reruns with diminished glee, knowing how it all ends.

I'm pacing myself, not rushing to Circuit City on the first day of release, because I have too much work to do and too many distractions (hello, blogging!) as it is. The day I purchase that set of DVDs, I know I will sit down and watch all the episodes consecutively and with director commentary. And I just don't have time for that now.

But, oh, am I excited...

GO, GREENIE, GO...

You gotta love Shrek. Big, green, unapologetic, with a soft side and an appreciation for inner beauty. Not unlike capitalism.

But seriously folks, this ogre trounced other box office records in its opening few days, and that was even without Sunday. I just got back from the Salute to Israel parade, and I guarantee you that at least a thousand of the children there are going to see Shrek 2 this afternoon. The theater on my corner is playing "all Shrek, all the time." This means shows every half hour and green ogre heads spray-painted ("where's your Bloomberg now!!") on the sidewalk on the whole block. Not bad for the theater that previously showed "You Got Served" and "The Evening Star" (a film so awful that my roommate spent half the film looking up at the ceiling, because that was more interesting than the actual movie).

And how much do I love this sentence?

"The three-day tally for "Shrek 2" also ranks as the best opening so far this year, ahead of "The Passion of the Christ," which debuted with $89.3 million in February."

Mel vs. Meyers? Gibson vs. Green Guy? I'm going with Mike on this one, yeah baby!!

I hope DreamWorks is prepared for the wads of cash this creature feature's going to generate. If they have trouble spending it all, I recommend that they found an Upper West Side Writers' Fellowship, wherein deserving candidates could spend time developing their creative ideas and be assured that their rent and basic needs (read: cable and boyfriends) were taken care of.

Or, bring back the old Communist concept: from each according to his (DreamWorks's) ability to each according to her (my) need.

Seems fair...

(Plus, I have to say, it was a thorougly delightful and entertaining movie. The perfect flick for the muggy humidityfest that was yesterday.)

SEE, I TOLD YOU JOSS WHEDON RUINED MY TV LIFE

Was I wrong?

Angel ended tonight, and I sobbed my little heart out. Spoilers ahead, so if you haven't seen the ep yet, consider yourself warned.

Watching the finale was like watching the Lord of the Rings saga only up until the Battle of Helms Deep. How am I supposed to be satisfied with that ending and no confirmation that TV movies will follow? How am I to make sense of my favorite green guy going all Quentin Tarantino, instead of crooning a life-affirming Gloria Gaynor song...painful.

Now what? Must I make do with Charmed? Can I handle seeing all that cleavage every Sunday night? Do I rent the DVDs of the one season of Joss's Firefly? Do I hole myself up in my apartment with TNT, where my favorite cast members are still alive and battling evil?

I'm at a loss, truly. I need to believe Wesley's still alive. That Fred's still alive. That Gunn's still alive. That Lorne's still my happy green pookie. That Lindsey's strumming on his guitar at some karaoke club, seducing me--I mean, the crowd--with his musical prowess. That Spike's cheekbones survived this apocalypse. That Angel's abs lived to glisten another evening.

I need to mourn, and not feel silly. Can I just do that?

OPENING: WEEKEND UPDATE ANCHOR WANTED

Forget it, kids. I'm applying, although I'm not sure they'd hire a second sarcastic and funny woman to sit behind the Update desk with Tina. I'd be so honored if they did, though...

Jimmy's outie; read more here.

IS IT JUST ME?

I found it more than a little funny that the American Idols concert tour is being sponsored by Pop Tarts. Just me, then?

PROOF THAT MY SANITY IS DWINDLING

In copy editing a manuscript for a Jewish publication, I came across a section referring to the works of Marx. My first thought was “Marx? Which Marx brother?” Then I tried to think of Marx’s first name, and all I could come up with was Richard. Yes, cheesy, mullet-headed Richard Marx of “Right Here Waiting” and “Don’t Mean Nothin’” (a double negative that will drive any editor crazy).

Only after clearing my mind and really thinking did the name “Karl” appear on my pop culture-saturated radar.

So I’m no intellectual. At least not today. But it’s good to know the information’s still in there, albeit partially buried beneath a pop culture blanket.

JOSS WHEDON RUINS MY TV LIFE

Here's the problem. I spend a few years resisting Buffy, suspecting it will be kitsch-gone-haywire. I try it, I like it, it becomes my new "Must-See TV."

Then, it's cancelled. I watch the waning episodes, acutely feeling the lifeblood ebb away. Favorite characters bite the dust, some literally, and I'm left unsatisfied with the ending. But I take solace in the presence of Angel, the Buffy spin-off that spun off into its own world, apart from the Buffyverse, yet still related by point of origin and sense of humor.

I become involved in Angel, but since I began watching in the middle, I'm missing vital elements of the mythology. I rent the DVDs from Netflix, and watch from the beginning, awed by the construction of characters and their foibles--appreciating the humor submerged in and subverting the drama of every episode--in a nod to the fact that tragedy requires the countering balance of humor.

I'm saddened by the onscreen death of Doyle, knowing that, a few years ago, the actor (Glenn Quinn) died of a drug overdose. Last moments on screen rendered terribly poignant in the post-mortem.

I'm trapped by the storylines, the back stories, the flashbacks, the resurrections of beloved characters and situations; I accept the "what??" moments: two vampires have a child? child goes from age 0 to 15 in three weeks? Connor and Cordelia? Cordy in a coma? Angel gets turned into a puppet?

I survive the deaths of several major characters (Cordy, Fred), and thrill to the reappearance of Andrew, who delights onscreen as himself and as representative of all the Slayers we never met. Thinking of him under the "Watcherful" eye and tutelage of Giles brings me moments of giggling, even when I'm not watching the show. Spike and Angel are a perfect onscreen team, squabbling like the immortal brothers they are.

And then, disaster. Or rather, cancellation.

A shock to the fans, as well as to the actors and creators. A decision made by the evil WB network, determined to deprive me of the smart, compelling vampire tales and instead inflict Superstar USA upon me and the rest of the American public. The word "unfair" seems painfully inadequate, and I'm not sure how to deal.

I hear that one of the major characters will die, and I know in my heart that it's Wesley. I want to eulogize him, but find myself paralyzed. I remember his bumbling first appearances in Sunnydale, as he stumbled over clues and into trouble. I remember his reappearance in L.A. as a "rogue demon hunter", feared by demons who didn't know that he was the same bumbling ex-Watcher. Watching him fall for Fred, even as she fell for Gunn, was a new kind of heartbreaking, and their eventual union was short-lived and painful.

I'm so depressed in anticipation of this moment, and a look at online spoilers could help me come to terms with whatever the final episode contains. But I'm resisting, thus far, hoping that seeing it as a surprise tomorrow night will not devastate me.

I take solace in news of the upcoming release of Buffy Season Six, but to know that there's no new episode of Angel on the horizon seems so unnecessarily final.

I live in hope that Joss will follow through on threats to create Angel mini-movies, or better yet, create a series for Giles ("Ripper") as he had original intended.

Rereading this entry, I feel like maybe I need to get a little bit more of a life. But I will miss Angel, and hope that television will step up to the plate and create shows that challenge the standard set by the creativity of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel. Here's hoping.

"JAKE RYAN? BUT HE'S A SENIOR, AND HE'S TAKEN, I MEAN, REALLY TAKEN..."

If you are anything like me, there was a point in your high school life when you totally lived for Sixteen Candles. Well (prepare to feel old instantly), Sixteen Candles (see this excellent NY Times article) is 20 years old.

You remember how it was back then.
* You'd look longingly at "that guy," whoever he was, and hoped that he'd catch you staring, leave his perfect girlfriend and see the someone special your parents were always telling you that you were.
* You went to dances hoping for miracles. (Or, if you were in yeshiva, like I was, you hoped the miracle would be that there'd be a dance to begin with.)
* Sweet sixteen parties functioned as additional school dances, with classroom cliques perfectly preserved in their transition to dance floor; there was no redemption in boogieville for the losers among us--even if we believed we were good dancers, we'd be shunned by the regular group of shunners.
* You passed notes in class, hoping your declaration of love would be intercepted even as you feared that your declaration of love would be intercepted.

Back in the pre-Britney age, we all wanted to be Molly. We wished we were redheads. (After we saw The Breakfast Club, we even danced like her.) We named our crushes "Jake Ryan." We incorporated phrases like "life is not whatnot, and it's none of your business" into regular discourse. We puzzled over the centrality of a young John Cusack to the pack of nerds, which he was so clearly not destined to be a long-term part of. We identified with the headgear-clad Joan Cusack as she attemped to drink from a water fountain. We wondered what the Donger was saying as he lay, writhing intoxicatedly, on the front lawn of Samantha Baker's house.

And now, twenty years later, we remember our hero worship, our identification with the losers of cinema, and realize that most of them were never really losers to begin with. (OK, maybe Anthony Michael Hall was.) And we know from our own personal experience and shattered high school expectations that most of us will never get our crushes to fall in love with us because they catch us staring at them. If your crush intercepts a love-declaring note, he's seldom intrigued. (Trust me on this one.)

But we manage to survive without the boy, because it turns out that our parents were right about us, even if we didn't believe them.

Sixteen Candles has always been about the themes that obsess us constantly: the torture of geek populations; the primacy of superficial beauty; and the potential for transformation. Universal and timeless themes...just look at reality television.

There's a term paper in here somewhere. It's almost worth going back to school. Almost.

VIDEO GAMES THAT COME TO LIFE!!!

I would add this to my list of reasons that I believe that even NYU grad students aren’t taking this whole “workload thing” seriously.

Although I do admit that I engage in a real-life version of Frogger on a regular basis as I cross the streets of this Great City, weaving (doink) between (doink, doink) cars (doink) and trucks (doink), jumping over logs and alligators (doink, doink, doink) on my way across the street, Pac-Manhattan takes video games to a whole new level…

From their website (I did a little bit of cosmetic editing, capping some words, but otherwise the text is directly from the site):

Pac-Manhattan is a large-scale urban game that utilizes the New York City grid to recreate the 1980's video game sensation Pac-Man. This analog version of Pac-Man is being developed in NYU's Interactive Telecommunications graduate program, in order to explore what happens when games are removed from their "little world" of tabletops, televisions and computers and placed in the larger "real world" of street corners, and cities. A player dressed as Pac-Man will run around the Washington Square Park area of Manhattan while attempting to collect all of the virtual "dots" that run the length of the streets. Four players dressed as the ghosts Inky, Blinky, Pinky and Clyde will attempt to catch Pac-Man before all of the dots are collected. Using cell-phone contact, Wi-Fi internet connections, and custom software designed by the Pac-Manhattan team, Pac-Man and the ghosts will be tracked from a central location and their progress will be broadcast over the internet for viewers from around the world.

And there’s more…they have a FAQ page and registration form online, in case anyone would like to participate…any takers? I’m waiting until they give me a pink bow, and then I’ll be Ms. Pac-Manhattan…

MORE REASONS OUR SOCIETY IS DOOMED


Ladies and Gentlemen: I offer you the latest prooftext in my theory.

Prince Charles, meet Jay-Z and Beyonce.

SINGLE WOMEN FEEL DISENFRANCHISED

Tell us something we don't already know.

According to a report from Yahoo News, women who are single (or as the article puts it, "on their own") feel alienated by the political process. They (we) feel that their (our) votes count little if at all, and therefore, many of them (us) choose not to vote.

It's a free country, of course, and people are free to either vote or not vote, as they choose.

But there are more than 21 million single women in the United States (although it often feels like each of us is alone, but that's another article for another time), who did NOT cast a vote in the last Presidential election. Can you imagine if they had all voted?

With numbers like that, we could really make an impact.

Voting is a chance for us all to participate in our government. Enough voices raised, and change will come.

Haven't registered to vote? Click here.

MARKETPLACE MADNESS...

I just bought one of those new 1.5 liter bottles of Diet Coke, figuring it would be less expensive and easier to carry than the 2-liter bottle. I dropped it twice, and paid $1.99, when a 2-liter bottle is $1.89.

This kind of thing drives me nuts. It doesn't make an iota of sense to charge more for less. I guess in NY, whether it's new packaging, a new flavor, or whatever, it's always an excuse to jack up the price. Because I'm made of money. Superfreelancer really enjoys paying two bucks for a bottle of soda. And they say milk's expensive...

I feel like I should apply this new pricing structure to my freelancing jobs:

You want me to write a six-page brochure? $4000. A one-page flyer? $5000.

An 800-word article? $500. A one-paragraph description of your organization? $16,000.

Hey, I could get used to this. And more to the point, it would be easier to make rent.

BOY FROM OZ GOES STIR-LUPINE, AGAIN

Just came back from seeing VAN HELSING, which we all know stars Aussie dreamboat Hugh Jackman, whose name I want to make into a joke, but can't quite figure out how (Huge Jackman? Not funny enough).

The movie? It is what it is. No Oscar moments, but several kitschy dialogue sequences, followed by loud and eye-swirling special effects. Story? Do any of us really care? Nutshell: Van Helsing is sent by a special order of monks to kill supernatural evil beings, and he has some sort of history that he doesn't remember. He kills these beings hoping that someone will restore his memories. There's more, some sort of curse on a Gypsy family, heavily-accented brides of Dracula, and of course, Kate Beckinsale looking gorgeous, with the most perfectly arched eyebrows and whitest teeth in all of Hungary.

My unfulfilled hope? Maybe it's the fact that I've seen the musical episode of Buffy one too many times, but I was praying that Hugh Jackman, the artist formerly known as Wolverine (X-Men/X-Men 2) who is also starring on Broadway in the musical "The Boy From Oz," would fall to his knees, strike a pose and burst into a witty, revealing song about how it feels to be him. I'm sure after I give this some more thought, I'll have come up with lyrics, but right now, suffice it to say that I had hoped Jackman would put the "sing" back in Van Helsing.

I must have been really been distracted by this thought, because I forgot to pay my friend Jim back for the ticket. (I'll get you next time, Jimmy...)

FAIR-WEATHER "FRIENDS"

So, it's over. I will need time to mourn. It was never perfect, but I accepted it the way it was, and always will be in the reruns that populate any given television day.

How do I begin to process the end of something that's been with me for a decade? Throughout the weekend, as I continue to ponder life without the six of them, I experience a range of emotions.

Denial: How could it possibly be over, like forever kind of over? The endless parade of self-congratulatory/promotional appearance by the cast members (and yes, even The Rembrandts) on talk shows and entertainment/news magazines, while they seemed to indicate that there was indeed a final show to promote, simultaneously seemed to indicate that the six icons were in no danger of fading into memory.

Anxiety and fear: How would I ever fill the void of on-target, age-appropriate humor that Friends always brought into my living room/kitchen/dining room/study/bedroom/bathroom? Reality shows, upon which I am certain to pontificate another time, don't do the trick. And other sitcoms seem lame in comparison.

And then there's the betrayal. First, of course, was Matthew Perry's refusal to convert to Judaism and admit that he really wanted to be with me. That was hard enough. But when it comes down to betrayal's nitty-gritty, just look to the ditty. Weekly, that theme song promised that they'd be here for me, 'cause I'm here for them too. But now I know that it was all a lie. Or at least a truth of limited duration.

At the end, there's a wistful sadness...It reminded me of the time that my best friend moved to Canada. We swore we'd keep in touch, and did for a while. Then we faded. I was upset, then angry, then accepting. That was life. Change happened. The question was, how to deal with it...

Friends transition in and out of each other's lives. And just because our friends (or our Friends) aren't always going to be there for us in an active way, we can be grateful for their past support, and look back on the times we laughed and cried together. Because we'll always have our memories, rerunning in syndication.

ESTHER JONES'S DIARY

Tuesday, 4 May 2004: cigarettes-0 (v.g., even though don't smoke), calories-200 (v.g., lunchtime achieved with minimal hunger), blog visitors-430, I.Q.-147 (no doubt soaring due to HTML revelations).

Am gifted. Surely am approaching genius levels, having taken online I.Q. test on iVillage and landing at 147, am solidly in "gifted" range. Combine with genius level manipulation of HTML in Blogger templates to achieve hyperlinking and text emphasis, and am undoubtedly making strides toward MENSA membership. Perhaps latent genius was reason for high school social ostracization. Or perhaps permed hair was reason for high school social ostracization. On second or third thought, high school social ostracization needs no reason. It just is.

Impending intellect makes one hungry. Must engage in cessation of web self-publishing and indulge in some caloric intake. Perhaps metabolic rate will wake and achieve gifted status. I live in hope.

STILL ANOTHER LETTER FROM THE YESHIVA GIRL TO THE MATERIAL GIRL

Dear Madonna,

I saw today’s news about Britney, and totally had to write you. What is up with her copying your idea to get Kabbalah-inspired tattoos? She is such a wannabe, even more than any of those girls my age who copied you in the 80s…But did you hear? The Kabbalistic karma bit her in the well-sculpted ass! She had the wrong letters inscribed, and now that tat has to be surgically removed! ROTFLMAO!

But seriously, Madge, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this Kabbalah thing for a while. This isn't quite an intervention--I'd NEVER do that to you--but I’m worried about a couple of things. I’ve been doing some investigating into what makes this Kabbalah Centre tick, and while I’m all for helping you explore Judaism, that doesn’t seem to be what the Centre is about. They claim to be the center of the struggle against Satan, but do any of us really know what that means, and if it has anything to do with the Jewish mystical traditions?

When I was growing up, they always taught us that women couldn’t study Kabbalah, that it was so intricate and complex that even men couldn’t study it until after they were married with children and in their 40s…which I always found to be an antiquated and misogynistic ruling. But now with Britney reading Kabbalah poolside at age 22, it makes me think that it can’t be the same text that, as a female, I was forever and automatically banned from studying!

From red strings to thwart the evil eye and scented candles to improve your sex life to blessed Kabbalah water with curative and baptismal properties, and extending the notion that the Hebrew letters themselves able to accomplish what the most advanced gene therapy cannot and alter the genetic structure of DNA, perhaps the Kabbalah Centre is going too far? I’m sorry to say it because I know it means a lot to you and Guy, and I know Lourdes loves her new string bracelet, but this doesn’t sound like Judaism to me, Madge.

I’m all for exploring spirituality, and I know you’ve been around the religious block a few times. But I’ve been Jewish my whole life. And while I welcome modern touches that make an ancient religion more meaningful, IMHO, when it morphs so much that it’s no longer even recognizable to lifetime adherents, maybe it’s time to reassess that movement’s truth…I certainly hope you take this suggestion in stride—I only want to make sure that you’re getting the authentic product…

Let’s get together soon…maybe Shavuos? I’m teaching at my shul on the Upper West Side—maybe you’d like to join me as a co-speaker? No pressure, totally let me know!

Your sister in Judaism,
Esther

WHY OUR SOCIETY IS DOOMED (Part Two of a Continuing Series)

In addition to the constant media presence of William “She Bangs, She Bangs” Hung, itself proof of a coming apocalypse, now I have to deal with the fact that Friends, Frasier, The Practice and Angel are ending. Enter The Simple Life 2, The Swan, I Want a Famous Face, Extreme Makeover and, my personal favorite, Superstar USA.

What’s Superstar USA, you might ask? This show is loosely inspired by American Idol: people audition to be America’s next big name in pop music, but here’s the twist—they send the good singers home, and keep the awful ones. Then, they tell the inescapably untalented ones that they’re amazing and then force them to compete against each other.

What is this, some real-life, adult version of Heathers? It reminds me of the time in camp when a girl in my bunk—let’s call her “Bitch,” because I did—told me that it was her voice on a tape of the song “Tom’s Diner” (since it was a cappella and I had never heard of Suzanne Vega, I had no reason to do anything other than take her at her word). Then she tricked me into singing for her (“Heaven” by Bryan Adams), told me I was really great, almost as good as she was, and then ran off giggling and pointing as she made fun of me in front of her friends. Someone eventually clued me in, but obviously, Bitch never apologized, and I entered a decade of having a complex about my singing voice that I only managed to overcome by embracing a karaoke lifestyle and competing in front of indie thespian Liev Schreiber at a bar on the Upper East Side. But I digress.

The ending of these stalwart shows can only mean that we should forget about companionship, mental health, law and ridding the world of evil, and focus instead on making ourselves over from the outside so we more closely resemble socialite thoroughbreds, and then we can all prey on the congenitally gullible—once we’ve given them our approval, we’ll yank it out from under them. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Coming right up…one apocalypse, with a side of Bitch.

BUFFY GRADUATES, BECOMES FIELD FOR ACADEMIC STUDY

This is what I originally wanted to do this Memorial Day Weekend. Buffyologists from as far away as Singapore presented over 190 papers on the late TV series.

Click here for a report on The Slayage Conference, which was held in Nashville this weekend. Papers will undoubtedly be posted eventually at the Online International Journal of Buffy Studies.

If this seems like much ado about nothing to you, remember that today's colleges have courses in The Simpsons, and that Buffy saved the world, A LOT.

CARB GIRL SADDENED BY STORE CLOSING

Thanks to the Gothamist, via Dahl, for this story.

CARB GIRL "GRIEVING" OVER UWS STORE CLOSING

New York City, May 30--After learning of the closing of Columbia Bagels, Carb Girl said she was "dismayed and grieving" over the loss.

"I'm sad. What else is there to say?" said the bagel fiend and Upper West Side denizen. "I had noticed that (neighboring store) West Side Markets had closed, and I thought that was a huge loss at the time. Little did I know that another shoe would drop..." she trailed off into tears as she recalled the consumption of carbs past.

Other Upper West Side sources reacted mutedly, but realistically.

"Stores close all the time in this city--logically, I know there are other places to go. I mean, let's face it, there are bagel stores everywhere, and Carb Girl doesn't even live that close to Columbia," her friend Sara said in an exclusive interview. "Carb Girl lives equidistant from two perfectly acceptable bagel shops, and one of them even carries her favorite: walnut and raisin laden energy bars."

When alerted to this fact, Carb Girl seemed to brighten somewhat. "Those energy bars, though high in Weight Watchers points, are really yummy. It's good to know they're not gone forever."

NEW LOOK AT JDATERSANONYMOUS

Yes, I'm mad for site redesign this week!

I've also re-templated my other blog, JDaters Anonymous, hoping for increased traffic.

So if you like it, let me know. If you don't then, let me go. I can't take another minute of this world without you in it! So comment away.

(And yes, I'm aware I'm having some font issues in the "Links" area. Haven't figured that out yet, but would value any suggestions...)

Looking forward to your feedback!

A WORLD WITHOUT MEN

Marie Claire magazine asks "noteworthy" women (quotes courtesy of Jamie-Lynn Discala's inclusion on the list):

"Could you live in a world without men?"

Before I give you my response, here's Alanis Morissette:

"We'd miss out on the divine design in the existence of two genders. Even in my darkest moments, when I want to hit my brothers over the head, I remind myself that their behavior is an invitation to see the quality they're embodying (strength, intelligence--even stupidity) and love it in myself. I'd love a world of just sisters. Yet I'd want to have my buttons pushed again, to seek the path to wholeness that only men can offer."

Alanis, she of the dark, introspective songs that are almost frightening lyrically and confused syllabically, in her darkest moments, wants to hit her brothers over the head. She's so edgy.

My response to the question:

"Could I live in a world without men? I already do."

O, THE HUMANITY...

I'm fully prepared to turn 33, but not until next month.

Apparently, JDate decided that I might as well age a few weeks early. I just logged on to find that my age had been "promoted," from the accurate 32 to the unexpected-and-somewhat-horrifying 33.

I'm definitely adding this to my list of complaints with JDate. I know it's not that big a number, and it's only a few weeks early, but come on...there's NO NEED FOR THIS AT ALL!!

YOUR HELP REQUESTED...

...in selecting a venue for my birthday. The parameters are:

Thursday night, June 10 or Saturday night, June 12
A comfortable-sized room that we can have to ourselves for a few hours, with no cover and a cash bar
Preferably on or close to the Upper West Side...

Any suggestions appreciated. The last few years I've been at the Parlour, on West 86th Street. I can't beat it locationwise, but I'm up for a change, if I can figure something else out.

Well, Manhattan socialites? What are your suggestions?

WHINE-FELD

I liked Seinfeld as much as the next person (up until that last episode, that is--that was just plain weak). But then last Thursday, the NBC viewer was “treated” to a 20-minute “Special Seinfeld Event” that turned out to be a commercial for American Express featuring the eponymous comedian and his hero/god/road buddy Superman.

The reason I’m just kvetching about this now is that it’s been re-airing in shorter segments and annoying the crap out of me as it does. As the comedian might have said in his late TV show, “What is the deal??”

Is a commercial “an event”? I’m enough of a television-lover to consider certain TV show episodes a “television event,” but not a commercial. Especially not a dumb commercial. That’s just an annoying waste of my time. That time represents valuable moments I could have spent flipping between WE, Oxygen and Spike TV. I could have eavesdropped on an entire date between two dysfunctional singles on Blind Date. I could have read one-fifth of an article in the New Yorker. I could have perused the newest entries on some of my favorite blogs and maybe begun to formulate a clever comment. I could have boogied to that song that makes the old man on the Six Flags bus freak out groovaliciously (“Hey now, hey now, hear what I say now, happiness is just around the corner…”)

Jerry, don’t waste my time. I know where you live. Literally.

BRITNEY FINDS TREYF* TO BE TOXIC...

Thanks to Jewschool for this story.

I feel another series of letters to pop stars (see the archives) coming on...


* For the uninitated, "treyf" is a term applied to anything (from ham to Madonna's participation in Kabbalah that isn't quite kosher.

DUDE, WHERE’S MY BOOK CONTRACT?

Thought that blogging leads only to more blogging, languishing in the blogosphere, mired amidst bloggers and bloggerettes and eventually requiring bloggerectomies?

Just read this New Yorker piece about the influx of bloggers booking into print publishing, and you’ll see that sometimes the shortest point between a writer and a book contract is a straight blog.

So, I present the top 5 reasons why Katie Lee from ICM should check out My Urban Kvetch as an introduction to the world of Esther:

5) Witty written words work welcome wonders on wacky, worthwhile women;
4) Blend of smart writing, Jewish culture, and pop culture yields humorous blog-shaped smoothie that refreshes as it entertains;
3) Peaches-and-cream complexion of blog’s author will look smashing on glossy magazine covers;
2) No pesky full-time job to get in the way of said author’s deadlines and book tour;
and the number one reason:
1) My Urban Kvetch has zero net carbs.

I've written one book (a work for hire) and edited another. It's time for me to write my book, the book that captures me, my sense of humor, my perspectives and experiences.

Katie...have your people call my people. We'll do lunch.

(Thanks to Steve Silver for providing the linkin’ that got me thinkin’.)

MIND...FADING...

Today, I saw some guy on TV. He looked really familiar. Who was he? How did I know him? He was on CNN, so I knew I didn't know him personally.

Was he a politician? Yes, I thought so. But who was he? My mind scanned itself frantically, looking for the name of this gent. I knew I had seen him lampooned on SNL, but I couldn't even remember which cast member had spoofed him.

Then, it occurred to me. Richard Dean. Who was Richard Dean? No one, apart from 2/3 of a McGyver. This wasn't Richard Dean Anderson, it was Howard Dean.

HOWARD FREAKIN' DEAN!! Three months ago, he was on TV constantly, and now I couldn't even come up with his correct name. Add this to last week's "Richard Marx" incident, and I may need a transorbital leukotomy or something.

Speaking of frontal lobes, my brain's a-thumpin'. What dreams may come, should I sleep and perchance to dream...

GOING THROUGH THE MOTIONS...

...biding my time until I can go to the store to get Buffy Season Six, out today on DVD.

It's crazy how the release of this season on DVD has become my Whedon touchstone during the last weeks of Angel. And now that said Angel is over, I watch the reruns with diminished glee, knowing how it all ends.

I'm pacing myself, not rushing to Circuit City on the first day of release, because I have too much work to do and too many distractions (hello, blogging!) as it is. The day I purchase that set of DVDs, I know I will sit down and watch all the episodes consecutively and with director commentary. And I just don't have time for that now.

But, oh, am I excited...

GO, GREENIE, GO...

You gotta love Shrek. Big, green, unapologetic, with a soft side and an appreciation for inner beauty. Not unlike capitalism.

But seriously folks, this ogre trounced other box office records in its opening few days, and that was even without Sunday. I just got back from the Salute to Israel parade, and I guarantee you that at least a thousand of the children there are going to see Shrek 2 this afternoon. The theater on my corner is playing "all Shrek, all the time." This means shows every half hour and green ogre heads spray-painted ("where's your Bloomberg now!!") on the sidewalk on the whole block. Not bad for the theater that previously showed "You Got Served" and "The Evening Star" (a film so awful that my roommate spent half the film looking up at the ceiling, because that was more interesting than the actual movie).

And how much do I love this sentence?

"The three-day tally for "Shrek 2" also ranks as the best opening so far this year, ahead of "The Passion of the Christ," which debuted with $89.3 million in February."

Mel vs. Meyers? Gibson vs. Green Guy? I'm going with Mike on this one, yeah baby!!

I hope DreamWorks is prepared for the wads of cash this creature feature's going to generate. If they have trouble spending it all, I recommend that they found an Upper West Side Writers' Fellowship, wherein deserving candidates could spend time developing their creative ideas and be assured that their rent and basic needs (read: cable and boyfriends) were taken care of.

Or, bring back the old Communist concept: from each according to his (DreamWorks's) ability to each according to her (my) need.

Seems fair...

(Plus, I have to say, it was a thorougly delightful and entertaining movie. The perfect flick for the muggy humidityfest that was yesterday.)

SEE, I TOLD YOU JOSS WHEDON RUINED MY TV LIFE

Was I wrong?

Angel ended tonight, and I sobbed my little heart out. Spoilers ahead, so if you haven't seen the ep yet, consider yourself warned.

Watching the finale was like watching the Lord of the Rings saga only up until the Battle of Helms Deep. How am I supposed to be satisfied with that ending and no confirmation that TV movies will follow? How am I to make sense of my favorite green guy going all Quentin Tarantino, instead of crooning a life-affirming Gloria Gaynor song...painful.

Now what? Must I make do with Charmed? Can I handle seeing all that cleavage every Sunday night? Do I rent the DVDs of the one season of Joss's Firefly? Do I hole myself up in my apartment with TNT, where my favorite cast members are still alive and battling evil?

I'm at a loss, truly. I need to believe Wesley's still alive. That Fred's still alive. That Gunn's still alive. That Lorne's still my happy green pookie. That Lindsey's strumming on his guitar at some karaoke club, seducing me--I mean, the crowd--with his musical prowess. That Spike's cheekbones survived this apocalypse. That Angel's abs lived to glisten another evening.

I need to mourn, and not feel silly. Can I just do that?

OPENING: WEEKEND UPDATE ANCHOR WANTED

Forget it, kids. I'm applying, although I'm not sure they'd hire a second sarcastic and funny woman to sit behind the Update desk with Tina. I'd be so honored if they did, though...

Jimmy's outie; read more here.

IS IT JUST ME?

I found it more than a little funny that the American Idols concert tour is being sponsored by Pop Tarts. Just me, then?

PROOF THAT MY SANITY IS DWINDLING

In copy editing a manuscript for a Jewish publication, I came across a section referring to the works of Marx. My first thought was “Marx? Which Marx brother?” Then I tried to think of Marx’s first name, and all I could come up with was Richard. Yes, cheesy, mullet-headed Richard Marx of “Right Here Waiting” and “Don’t Mean Nothin’” (a double negative that will drive any editor crazy).

Only after clearing my mind and really thinking did the name “Karl” appear on my pop culture-saturated radar.

So I’m no intellectual. At least not today. But it’s good to know the information’s still in there, albeit partially buried beneath a pop culture blanket.

JOSS WHEDON RUINS MY TV LIFE

Here's the problem. I spend a few years resisting Buffy, suspecting it will be kitsch-gone-haywire. I try it, I like it, it becomes my new "Must-See TV."

Then, it's cancelled. I watch the waning episodes, acutely feeling the lifeblood ebb away. Favorite characters bite the dust, some literally, and I'm left unsatisfied with the ending. But I take solace in the presence of Angel, the Buffy spin-off that spun off into its own world, apart from the Buffyverse, yet still related by point of origin and sense of humor.

I become involved in Angel, but since I began watching in the middle, I'm missing vital elements of the mythology. I rent the DVDs from Netflix, and watch from the beginning, awed by the construction of characters and their foibles--appreciating the humor submerged in and subverting the drama of every episode--in a nod to the fact that tragedy requires the countering balance of humor.

I'm saddened by the onscreen death of Doyle, knowing that, a few years ago, the actor (Glenn Quinn) died of a drug overdose. Last moments on screen rendered terribly poignant in the post-mortem.

I'm trapped by the storylines, the back stories, the flashbacks, the resurrections of beloved characters and situations; I accept the "what??" moments: two vampires have a child? child goes from age 0 to 15 in three weeks? Connor and Cordelia? Cordy in a coma? Angel gets turned into a puppet?

I survive the deaths of several major characters (Cordy, Fred), and thrill to the reappearance of Andrew, who delights onscreen as himself and as representative of all the Slayers we never met. Thinking of him under the "Watcherful" eye and tutelage of Giles brings me moments of giggling, even when I'm not watching the show. Spike and Angel are a perfect onscreen team, squabbling like the immortal brothers they are.

And then, disaster. Or rather, cancellation.

A shock to the fans, as well as to the actors and creators. A decision made by the evil WB network, determined to deprive me of the smart, compelling vampire tales and instead inflict Superstar USA upon me and the rest of the American public. The word "unfair" seems painfully inadequate, and I'm not sure how to deal.

I hear that one of the major characters will die, and I know in my heart that it's Wesley. I want to eulogize him, but find myself paralyzed. I remember his bumbling first appearances in Sunnydale, as he stumbled over clues and into trouble. I remember his reappearance in L.A. as a "rogue demon hunter", feared by demons who didn't know that he was the same bumbling ex-Watcher. Watching him fall for Fred, even as she fell for Gunn, was a new kind of heartbreaking, and their eventual union was short-lived and painful.

I'm so depressed in anticipation of this moment, and a look at online spoilers could help me come to terms with whatever the final episode contains. But I'm resisting, thus far, hoping that seeing it as a surprise tomorrow night will not devastate me.

I take solace in news of the upcoming release of Buffy Season Six, but to know that there's no new episode of Angel on the horizon seems so unnecessarily final.

I live in hope that Joss will follow through on threats to create Angel mini-movies, or better yet, create a series for Giles ("Ripper") as he had original intended.

Rereading this entry, I feel like maybe I need to get a little bit more of a life. But I will miss Angel, and hope that television will step up to the plate and create shows that challenge the standard set by the creativity of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel. Here's hoping.

"JAKE RYAN? BUT HE'S A SENIOR, AND HE'S TAKEN, I MEAN, REALLY TAKEN..."

If you are anything like me, there was a point in your high school life when you totally lived for Sixteen Candles. Well (prepare to feel old instantly), Sixteen Candles (see this excellent NY Times article) is 20 years old.

You remember how it was back then.
* You'd look longingly at "that guy," whoever he was, and hoped that he'd catch you staring, leave his perfect girlfriend and see the someone special your parents were always telling you that you were.
* You went to dances hoping for miracles. (Or, if you were in yeshiva, like I was, you hoped the miracle would be that there'd be a dance to begin with.)
* Sweet sixteen parties functioned as additional school dances, with classroom cliques perfectly preserved in their transition to dance floor; there was no redemption in boogieville for the losers among us--even if we believed we were good dancers, we'd be shunned by the regular group of shunners.
* You passed notes in class, hoping your declaration of love would be intercepted even as you feared that your declaration of love would be intercepted.

Back in the pre-Britney age, we all wanted to be Molly. We wished we were redheads. (After we saw The Breakfast Club, we even danced like her.) We named our crushes "Jake Ryan." We incorporated phrases like "life is not whatnot, and it's none of your business" into regular discourse. We puzzled over the centrality of a young John Cusack to the pack of nerds, which he was so clearly not destined to be a long-term part of. We identified with the headgear-clad Joan Cusack as she attemped to drink from a water fountain. We wondered what the Donger was saying as he lay, writhing intoxicatedly, on the front lawn of Samantha Baker's house.

And now, twenty years later, we remember our hero worship, our identification with the losers of cinema, and realize that most of them were never really losers to begin with. (OK, maybe Anthony Michael Hall was.) And we know from our own personal experience and shattered high school expectations that most of us will never get our crushes to fall in love with us because they catch us staring at them. If your crush intercepts a love-declaring note, he's seldom intrigued. (Trust me on this one.)

But we manage to survive without the boy, because it turns out that our parents were right about us, even if we didn't believe them.

Sixteen Candles has always been about the themes that obsess us constantly: the torture of geek populations; the primacy of superficial beauty; and the potential for transformation. Universal and timeless themes...just look at reality television.

There's a term paper in here somewhere. It's almost worth going back to school. Almost.

VIDEO GAMES THAT COME TO LIFE!!!

I would add this to my list of reasons that I believe that even NYU grad students aren’t taking this whole “workload thing” seriously.

Although I do admit that I engage in a real-life version of Frogger on a regular basis as I cross the streets of this Great City, weaving (doink) between (doink, doink) cars (doink) and trucks (doink), jumping over logs and alligators (doink, doink, doink) on my way across the street, Pac-Manhattan takes video games to a whole new level…

From their website (I did a little bit of cosmetic editing, capping some words, but otherwise the text is directly from the site):

Pac-Manhattan is a large-scale urban game that utilizes the New York City grid to recreate the 1980's video game sensation Pac-Man. This analog version of Pac-Man is being developed in NYU's Interactive Telecommunications graduate program, in order to explore what happens when games are removed from their "little world" of tabletops, televisions and computers and placed in the larger "real world" of street corners, and cities. A player dressed as Pac-Man will run around the Washington Square Park area of Manhattan while attempting to collect all of the virtual "dots" that run the length of the streets. Four players dressed as the ghosts Inky, Blinky, Pinky and Clyde will attempt to catch Pac-Man before all of the dots are collected. Using cell-phone contact, Wi-Fi internet connections, and custom software designed by the Pac-Manhattan team, Pac-Man and the ghosts will be tracked from a central location and their progress will be broadcast over the internet for viewers from around the world.

And there’s more…they have a FAQ page and registration form online, in case anyone would like to participate…any takers? I’m waiting until they give me a pink bow, and then I’ll be Ms. Pac-Manhattan…

MORE REASONS OUR SOCIETY IS DOOMED


Ladies and Gentlemen: I offer you the latest prooftext in my theory.

Prince Charles, meet Jay-Z and Beyonce.

SINGLE WOMEN FEEL DISENFRANCHISED

Tell us something we don't already know.

According to a report from Yahoo News, women who are single (or as the article puts it, "on their own") feel alienated by the political process. They (we) feel that their (our) votes count little if at all, and therefore, many of them (us) choose not to vote.

It's a free country, of course, and people are free to either vote or not vote, as they choose.

But there are more than 21 million single women in the United States (although it often feels like each of us is alone, but that's another article for another time), who did NOT cast a vote in the last Presidential election. Can you imagine if they had all voted?

With numbers like that, we could really make an impact.

Voting is a chance for us all to participate in our government. Enough voices raised, and change will come.

Haven't registered to vote? Click here.

MARKETPLACE MADNESS...

I just bought one of those new 1.5 liter bottles of Diet Coke, figuring it would be less expensive and easier to carry than the 2-liter bottle. I dropped it twice, and paid $1.99, when a 2-liter bottle is $1.89.

This kind of thing drives me nuts. It doesn't make an iota of sense to charge more for less. I guess in NY, whether it's new packaging, a new flavor, or whatever, it's always an excuse to jack up the price. Because I'm made of money. Superfreelancer really enjoys paying two bucks for a bottle of soda. And they say milk's expensive...

I feel like I should apply this new pricing structure to my freelancing jobs:

You want me to write a six-page brochure? $4000. A one-page flyer? $5000.

An 800-word article? $500. A one-paragraph description of your organization? $16,000.

Hey, I could get used to this. And more to the point, it would be easier to make rent.

BOY FROM OZ GOES STIR-LUPINE, AGAIN

Just came back from seeing VAN HELSING, which we all know stars Aussie dreamboat Hugh Jackman, whose name I want to make into a joke, but can't quite figure out how (Huge Jackman? Not funny enough).

The movie? It is what it is. No Oscar moments, but several kitschy dialogue sequences, followed by loud and eye-swirling special effects. Story? Do any of us really care? Nutshell: Van Helsing is sent by a special order of monks to kill supernatural evil beings, and he has some sort of history that he doesn't remember. He kills these beings hoping that someone will restore his memories. There's more, some sort of curse on a Gypsy family, heavily-accented brides of Dracula, and of course, Kate Beckinsale looking gorgeous, with the most perfectly arched eyebrows and whitest teeth in all of Hungary.

My unfulfilled hope? Maybe it's the fact that I've seen the musical episode of Buffy one too many times, but I was praying that Hugh Jackman, the artist formerly known as Wolverine (X-Men/X-Men 2) who is also starring on Broadway in the musical "The Boy From Oz," would fall to his knees, strike a pose and burst into a witty, revealing song about how it feels to be him. I'm sure after I give this some more thought, I'll have come up with lyrics, but right now, suffice it to say that I had hoped Jackman would put the "sing" back in Van Helsing.

I must have been really been distracted by this thought, because I forgot to pay my friend Jim back for the ticket. (I'll get you next time, Jimmy...)

FAIR-WEATHER "FRIENDS"

So, it's over. I will need time to mourn. It was never perfect, but I accepted it the way it was, and always will be in the reruns that populate any given television day.

How do I begin to process the end of something that's been with me for a decade? Throughout the weekend, as I continue to ponder life without the six of them, I experience a range of emotions.

Denial: How could it possibly be over, like forever kind of over? The endless parade of self-congratulatory/promotional appearance by the cast members (and yes, even The Rembrandts) on talk shows and entertainment/news magazines, while they seemed to indicate that there was indeed a final show to promote, simultaneously seemed to indicate that the six icons were in no danger of fading into memory.

Anxiety and fear: How would I ever fill the void of on-target, age-appropriate humor that Friends always brought into my living room/kitchen/dining room/study/bedroom/bathroom? Reality shows, upon which I am certain to pontificate another time, don't do the trick. And other sitcoms seem lame in comparison.

And then there's the betrayal. First, of course, was Matthew Perry's refusal to convert to Judaism and admit that he really wanted to be with me. That was hard enough. But when it comes down to betrayal's nitty-gritty, just look to the ditty. Weekly, that theme song promised that they'd be here for me, 'cause I'm here for them too. But now I know that it was all a lie. Or at least a truth of limited duration.

At the end, there's a wistful sadness...It reminded me of the time that my best friend moved to Canada. We swore we'd keep in touch, and did for a while. Then we faded. I was upset, then angry, then accepting. That was life. Change happened. The question was, how to deal with it...

Friends transition in and out of each other's lives. And just because our friends (or our Friends) aren't always going to be there for us in an active way, we can be grateful for their past support, and look back on the times we laughed and cried together. Because we'll always have our memories, rerunning in syndication.

ESTHER JONES'S DIARY

Tuesday, 4 May 2004: cigarettes-0 (v.g., even though don't smoke), calories-200 (v.g., lunchtime achieved with minimal hunger), blog visitors-430, I.Q.-147 (no doubt soaring due to HTML revelations).

Am gifted. Surely am approaching genius levels, having taken online I.Q. test on iVillage and landing at 147, am solidly in "gifted" range. Combine with genius level manipulation of HTML in Blogger templates to achieve hyperlinking and text emphasis, and am undoubtedly making strides toward MENSA membership. Perhaps latent genius was reason for high school social ostracization. Or perhaps permed hair was reason for high school social ostracization. On second or third thought, high school social ostracization needs no reason. It just is.

Impending intellect makes one hungry. Must engage in cessation of web self-publishing and indulge in some caloric intake. Perhaps metabolic rate will wake and achieve gifted status. I live in hope.

STILL ANOTHER LETTER FROM THE YESHIVA GIRL TO THE MATERIAL GIRL

Dear Madonna,

I saw today’s news about Britney, and totally had to write you. What is up with her copying your idea to get Kabbalah-inspired tattoos? She is such a wannabe, even more than any of those girls my age who copied you in the 80s…But did you hear? The Kabbalistic karma bit her in the well-sculpted ass! She had the wrong letters inscribed, and now that tat has to be surgically removed! ROTFLMAO!

But seriously, Madge, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this Kabbalah thing for a while. This isn't quite an intervention--I'd NEVER do that to you--but I’m worried about a couple of things. I’ve been doing some investigating into what makes this Kabbalah Centre tick, and while I’m all for helping you explore Judaism, that doesn’t seem to be what the Centre is about. They claim to be the center of the struggle against Satan, but do any of us really know what that means, and if it has anything to do with the Jewish mystical traditions?

When I was growing up, they always taught us that women couldn’t study Kabbalah, that it was so intricate and complex that even men couldn’t study it until after they were married with children and in their 40s…which I always found to be an antiquated and misogynistic ruling. But now with Britney reading Kabbalah poolside at age 22, it makes me think that it can’t be the same text that, as a female, I was forever and automatically banned from studying!

From red strings to thwart the evil eye and scented candles to improve your sex life to blessed Kabbalah water with curative and baptismal properties, and extending the notion that the Hebrew letters themselves able to accomplish what the most advanced gene therapy cannot and alter the genetic structure of DNA, perhaps the Kabbalah Centre is going too far? I’m sorry to say it because I know it means a lot to you and Guy, and I know Lourdes loves her new string bracelet, but this doesn’t sound like Judaism to me, Madge.

I’m all for exploring spirituality, and I know you’ve been around the religious block a few times. But I’ve been Jewish my whole life. And while I welcome modern touches that make an ancient religion more meaningful, IMHO, when it morphs so much that it’s no longer even recognizable to lifetime adherents, maybe it’s time to reassess that movement’s truth…I certainly hope you take this suggestion in stride—I only want to make sure that you’re getting the authentic product…

Let’s get together soon…maybe Shavuos? I’m teaching at my shul on the Upper West Side—maybe you’d like to join me as a co-speaker? No pressure, totally let me know!

Your sister in Judaism,
Esther

WHY OUR SOCIETY IS DOOMED (Part Two of a Continuing Series)

In addition to the constant media presence of William “She Bangs, She Bangs” Hung, itself proof of a coming apocalypse, now I have to deal with the fact that Friends, Frasier, The Practice and Angel are ending. Enter The Simple Life 2, The Swan, I Want a Famous Face, Extreme Makeover and, my personal favorite, Superstar USA.

What’s Superstar USA, you might ask? This show is loosely inspired by American Idol: people audition to be America’s next big name in pop music, but here’s the twist—they send the good singers home, and keep the awful ones. Then, they tell the inescapably untalented ones that they’re amazing and then force them to compete against each other.

What is this, some real-life, adult version of Heathers? It reminds me of the time in camp when a girl in my bunk—let’s call her “Bitch,” because I did—told me that it was her voice on a tape of the song “Tom’s Diner” (since it was a cappella and I had never heard of Suzanne Vega, I had no reason to do anything other than take her at her word). Then she tricked me into singing for her (“Heaven” by Bryan Adams), told me I was really great, almost as good as she was, and then ran off giggling and pointing as she made fun of me in front of her friends. Someone eventually clued me in, but obviously, Bitch never apologized, and I entered a decade of having a complex about my singing voice that I only managed to overcome by embracing a karaoke lifestyle and competing in front of indie thespian Liev Schreiber at a bar on the Upper East Side. But I digress.

The ending of these stalwart shows can only mean that we should forget about companionship, mental health, law and ridding the world of evil, and focus instead on making ourselves over from the outside so we more closely resemble socialite thoroughbreds, and then we can all prey on the congenitally gullible—once we’ve given them our approval, we’ll yank it out from under them. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Coming right up…one apocalypse, with a side of Bitch.