Thursday, March 31, 2005

How I Learned to Love da' Bomb...



...and by "da' Bomb," I mean, of course, my pal Clifford Meth, who writes a kick-ass weekly article for Silver Bullet Comic Books, which bills itself as "The Internet's Most Diverse Comics Webzine" (which may well be true, I don't visit frequently enough to confirm or deny anything). His article is called Past Masters, and in it, Meth invariably details his own murky misadventures amid the corrupted, sludge-filled entrails of the ever-mysterious, ever-ubiquitous Comix Underground. This week Meth talks about his ongoing relationship with Dave Cockrum, the beloved comics artist/writer who designed and drew so many of the X-Men that we all know, love, and take for granted these days (such as Nightcrawler, Colossus, Storm, etc.), and about Cockrum's ongoing health problems, which have driven the Author to at least start thinking about taking his own health issues at least a little more seriously... I always catch a faint whiff of nitrous oxide wafting from Meth's prose, as if he somehow intends for his readers to cackle hysterically, trip-out disorientedly, and also not notice that their teeth have been bloodily wrenched from their gaping mouths till much, much later... And now that I think of it, the name Meth sounds like it well might be a corruption of Emeth... hmmm... does that mean the man himself could be a corruption of Truth???!!!

Tough Questions For Tough Jews: Leslie West



Coming Next Week to The Pig of Death...

Remember "Mississippi Queen?" One of the chord-crunchinest fuzz-metal rock anthems of the 70's, written and performed (and recently re-recorded with the great, the only, the imperishable OZZY OSBOURNE) by guitar legend Leslie West and his band Mountain?

Stay tuned to The Pig of Death, where special literary correspondent Hank Magitz (author of controversial short fiction piece "The Man Who Hated Lubavitchers") will grill West (a.k.a. Weinstein, naturally) on the upcoming Rock n' Roll Seder he'll be conducting for VH1, his days as a scrappy, misunderstood Jewish youth in Long Island, and his highly-anticipated new tribute album to that Great-Grandaddy of all rock-n-roll Yidden everywhere, Bobby Zimmerman (wink, wink -- hamevin yavin).

Coming next week!

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Jewilicious Rocks!



Have I mentioned Jewlicious yet?

It may be a few days too late to mention it, but they gave The Pig of Death a rave last Thursday! Check it out here.

I enjoy their articles and comment boards. I log on to them every single day.

I wanted to give my own rant about the coolness of the concept (if not the execution) of Jewish Impact Films, but they beat me to it. With an interview with David Sacks to boot! Bastards. Clever, hooked-up bastards.

I actually saw that they gave me props on Thursday, but I wanted to be humble. That phase is over now.

Creepy Skeletal Alien Invader!!!



Newest sonogram of Jerry and Sarah's SilverSpawn, 5 months along. Spine-tinglingly creepy pics. I mean, I love the kid unconditionally... it is, after all, my own flesh and blood... but G-d help me... I can't help but be reminded of Stephen King's Creepshow...



"I... WANT... MY... CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE!!!!"

Bar's Random Rantless Emes (Vol. 1)



Brought to you by Bar, special literary correspondent to The Pig of Death:

• In the glorious Five Towns, located in Long Island, New York a man is Selling His Leavened Flour (chometz) on Ebay to fulfill the Torah Commandment - you gotta love this stuff.  I always say we Orthodox Jews are getting crazier and crazier, thank Gd.

"Hiding and Seeking - Faith and Tolerance after the Holocaust".  This is a movie i really want to see, but i can't seem to get it re-run where i live.  maybe i'll break down and buy the DVD...sure.  

• A terrorist's home is to be turned into a museum - Guess who? the Palestinians. Guess where? Gaza City.  no politics here, just the facts.

CBGB's to Close Down - i had no idea.  anyway, in case you were wondering what  CBGB-OMFUG means now you can finally expire in peace.

• Blog of the day:   Cannabis Chassidus Blog

NEW WEEKLY SLOP



Greetings to all of my faithful, squealing, wallowing PigHeads...

In addition to the occasional burst of insane, sociopathic short fiction from the diabolical literary archives of Hank Magitz, The Pig of Death is now delighted, nay, tickled to be hosting a new, weekly meta-column known simply (yet profoundly) as Bar's Random Rantless Emes. The author, a blood of mine from the south central Riverdale 'hood, has offered forth this brief introduction to his new column (about which we wish him the greatest possible success):

"As I've been given the golden opportunity to join The Pig's gaggle of contributors, here I go.  I'm a 28 year old husband and father, and bassist for Pey Dalid. I read my e-mails and surf the web so you don't have to, as well as send out random nuggets/garbage that I find interesting."

Coming in the next day or so, exclusive to The Pig of Death!

(Props to LetterShin.com for the photo -- scary, eh?)

"I'm As Mad As Hell..."

And I'm Not Gonna Take This Anymore!!!"



"There are no nations. There are no peoples. There are no Russians. There are no Arabs. There are no Third Worlds. There is no West. There is only one holistic system of systems, one vast and immane, interwoven, interacting, multi-variant, multi-national dominion of dollars! Petrodollars, Electrodollars, Multidollars, Reichmarks, Rands, Rubles, Pounds and Shekels. It is the international system of currency which determines the totality of life on this planet. That is the natural order of things today. That is the atomic and subatomic and galactic structure of things today! There is no America. There is no Democracy. There is only IBM and ITT and AT&T and DuPont and Dow, Union Carbide and Exxon. Those are the nations of the world today. The world is a college of corporations inexorably determined by the immutable bylaws of business. The world is a business, Mr. Beale. It has been since man crawled out of the slime."

Go Paddy, go! Who said that nevuah died with the Tanach? That Jew was callin' the shots 30 years ago, right on the money. If you haven't seen Sidney Lumet's Network, made in 1975, I want you to get up out of your chair right now, go over to your computer... (uh... heah...), and put this movie at the top of your Netflix queue. Right now. In the meantime, check out this review, courtesy of Ruthless.

Friday, March 25, 2005

Cricket-Activated Defense System



See this lumberjack? He is EVIL. He must be STOPPED. He must be BLOWN UP! KILL, CRICKETS, KILL!!!!!

"Ad D'lo Yada" Rhymes With...

...Pina Colada.



Thanks to Rabbi Yaakov Moshe Poupko for that wonderfully giggle-inspiring realization. It gets me every year.

And thanks to Ezra for the above picture, which was taken on what was probably one of the best Purims I have ever had, (holycrapitwas) 7 years ago in the village of Bat Ayin, Gush Etzion, Israel. The guy on the lower left is Rabbi Natan Greenberg, who, along with the freiliche Rabbi in the center, co-conspired to isolate and engineer a micro-strain of super-Ba'ale Teshuva who, once properly indoctrinated, would stealthily infiltrate the teeming masses of society, germinating tiny (but highly effective) seeds of tikkun olam everywhere. They made us solemnly pledge, all of us, that Purim day sitting in the sandbox in the R. Natan's front yard. Call it zany, call it cultish, call it weird science... but it worked. And it was 100% Kool-Aid free!

Thursday, March 24, 2005

"My Grandpaw Went To The Beit HaMikdash...



...and all I got was this lousy T-shirt!"

Still hot on the trail of any dirt concerning the new so-called "Purim Movie" that's coming out, which I am growing more and more convinced, the more I think about it, has its origins with the other "Jewish" institution whose key members deserve a few well-aimed bullets, I stumbled across something hailing from my old stomping grounds of Orlando, FL -- something all vigilant truth-seeking Jews should be duly informed about:

Bayit Shlishi -- right there on Interstate-4, 20 miles from Disney!!!

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

The Man Who Hated Lubavitchers



An Exclusive Work of Short Fiction by Literary Correspondent Hank Magitz

Harold wasn’t the smartest guy in the world, but he wasn’t the dumbest either. He couldn’t precisely explain why he felt the way he did, but Lubavitchers gave him douche chills, right to the bone, like watching a buddy marry an unfaithful woman. Or biting into a rotten fruit. There’s nothing worse than finding the promise of truth and beauty infested with worms.

It bothered Harold to see them in his shul. It wasn’t really his shul; he only went there once in a while, now that his children were grown and his wife was gone. All things considered, he’d had just about as much religion as he needed in a lifetime, but every now and again the urge hit him and he’d venture over for a piece of gefilte fish with horseradish and answer amen to the congregation. Tradition. He didn’t even like gefilte fish.

Each time Harold returned to shul he’d notice more of them. At first just a few had wandered in and stood in the back. A few months later, they brought their own special prayer books, which were just a wee bit different than the standard ones. The books were nice and new and they were donated to the shul. Harold knew what that meant. A few months later, they were practically running the place.

More...

A Hollywood Movie about Purim?!?!?!????



Hell-o?

What in God's (hidden) name is going on around here?

Why didn't anyone tell me that Hollywood was making some big-budget re-make of the Purim story, with John Rhys-Davies as Mordechai, Peter O'Toole as Shmuel HaNavi (uhhhh...was he even in the Purim story?), and Omar Sharif as... ha ha ha... MEMUCHAN?!!!!!???!!!???

Wow... that could actually really be something... couldn't it? Does anyone else know anything about this? About the company who is making it? Have any predictions? I tend to approach these types of projects with all kinds of halting trepidations, but... who knows, man... who knows.

Click here for their website and trailer. Mad props to Shimmy Shinri for the linkage!

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Who IS this "Hank Magitz?"



You (all four of you, my loyal readers) may have been wondering to yourself, after the last post: "Who is this 'literary correspondent' and 'top field correspondent' I've been reading so much about lately, who will supposedly be publishing all these exclusive monthly interviews with famous tough Jews like Goldberg (the wrestler), Harlan Ellison (the SF phenomena), Geddy Lee (the Rush bassist) on The Pig of Death (and on The Pig of Death only), and whose virulently anti-Meshichist fiction will soon be gracing the pages of The Pig of Death (which I've been rabidly visiting at least 13 times a day since March 9th)?"

Well, before I post the first of Hank's short fiction pieces for this blog, I figured I owe my teeming, overbustling readership a fractionary glimpse into the biography of a man whose prose will leave you for the rest of your days, nights, weekends, holidays, bar mitzvahs, weddings and funerals contemplating their dark, foreboding, and sometimes prophetic visions of a world occupied by vigilanties, heretics, and snake-oil salesmen posing as spiritual leaders... anyway, here it is:

Hank Magitz was born Henry Thoreau Magitzowski in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Following a scandalous incident involving Eva Peron and a midget, Magitz fled his native country in 1951 and arrived in Brooklyn Heights, NY, where he was befriended by minor Beat poet Greg Corso (rumor has it that Corso’s seminal poem “Bomb” was an ode to their sordid friendship). Some months later, Magitz came under the tutelage of Stella Adler and studied both “the method” and Russian punch-needle embroidery but was asked to leave The Actor’s Studio after a brouhaha with Marlon Brando, which left Magitz with a permanent lisp and Brando believing, years later, that he was a Native American. With 46 novels to his credit, all written in his adopted language of Esperanto, Magitz currently resides near the fortress of Rumeli Hisar in Istanbul where he leads a grassroots movement to decriminalize the exportation of cheese made from mother’s milk. You can visit him at www.jewsforcheeses.org.

Hank Magitz Fiction



Have you ever felt the need to "go all Bruce Lee" on those guys on your street corner who try to strap you with tefillin?

Do you ever fight back the unimpeachable impulse to wedge a many-pronged and/or incendiary object into the open orifice(s) of your local Meshichist rabbi?

Do your kishkes involuntarily convulse at the sound of a MashiachMobile cruising your neighborhood?

If so, you might want to check out an upcoming fiction, exclusive to The Pig of Death by literary correspondent Hank Magitz that may ameliorate, or at least provide a temporary sense of surrogate relief for, those impulses that I know all of you have been keeping bottled up inside for so long now...

Coming very, very soon to The Pig of Death...

The Rollerskate Murders



'The Rollerskate Murders," a thrilling, spectacular new work of short fiction coming soon to The Pig of Death from special correspondent Shimmy Shinri, will examine, critique, parody and celebrate the recent central-Floridian suburban mayhem surrounding sinkholes, videogaming consoles, multiple homicides, public-school pedophiles and rollerskating rinks...

Coming to The Pig of Death in Spring/Summer 2005...

Monday, March 21, 2005

HaJomel l'Hayavim Tovoth...



1882: Yemenite Jews come to settle in the village of Silwan in the outskirts of the city of Jerusalem. Their kooky pronunciations of the Hebrew letters "Gimmel," "Chet" and "Taf" as "Jimmel," "Hhet" and "Thaf" notwithstanding, they were able to live and coexist amidst the other Jews in Jerusalem, who were toiling so hard for their survival in the shadow of the Ottoman Empire that they neglected to spend the energy required on helping the Yemenites to correct their nutty pronunciations. Much to their eventual surprise, historians and linguists later proved that the Yemenites' pronunciations, though admittedly more wacky, were actually a lot closer to ancient Biblical pronunciations than their transmogrified, Europeanized pronunciations had been for generations. Round 1, better late than never, to the Yemenites.

1991: I come to Jerusalem for the first time ever.

Thanks to these two occurrences, God blessed me to discover Schug, or as most internet search engines would have it, Zhug. Thank you God, and thank you, Yemenite Jews.

I'm depressed...



Just for the record, I would just like to record my opinion here (where else?) that not only is Hayden Christiensen a hrumphy, pouty, whiny, obstinate, corn-fed little mama's-boy without a single solitary iota of ability to convey even the remotest shred of the deep, soul-stirring pathos required of ANYONE playing The High Dark Lord of the Evil Galactic Empire, and not only has he repeatedly been given on-camera opportunities to make-out with our holy sister Natalie (get your Dark-Side-shmutzy hands off our Israeli Princess, you, you... Christensen!)...

But dang-nabit! The soulless little ingrate gets to headline a full-length feature motion picture that includes the world's first and only Army of Wookiees. And that, my friends... that's just a travesty of intergalactic justice. 'Nuff said.

Third Installment

The following is the third installment of a fiction piece I have been working on, tentatively entitled, "The Yellow Gate." Click here to read the second installment, or just scroll down...



Part One (cont'd)

It hadn’t always been cool to pray. In fact, in his youth, Yermiahu distinctly remembered it being quite uncool, among his peers and role-models, to A) believe in God, B) to speak to others about whether or not you believed in God (that is, if your belief was whether instead of not), and C) to demonstrate any sort of such uncool beliefs through ritual and/or lifestyle. Such demonstrations were for the under-Enlightened, small-minded mama’s boys who didn’t own televisions, who didn’t like Nirvana, and who preached to you without even listening to your responses, like it was all they ever wanted to talk about – God this, God that, like God was the only thing in this world that made any fucking difference! There always seemed to be so many more entertaining things to talk about as a young, American male, things that were so much so much less tedious than God. Anyway, who gave a good pickled shit what the Bible said, anyway?

Here in this settlement, at this yeshiva, among all the good-looking, well-groomed, fashionably-scruffy, nerd-chic, post-graduate American expatriates, it seemed that praying, davenning, and speaking about all of the wondrous handiwork of the One True Lord of Israel had mysteriously gone from profoundly uncool to way, way cool, my man. It was as if all the rules of social propriety had been turned on their ears and made to beckon to Yermiahu -- “C’mon, dude, don’t be a loser – this is the good shit…”

Here, the coolest kids, the ones who knew the most about the Bible, the most about Jewish history, who spoke the best and most fluent Hebrew – they were ones everyone looked up to, they were the quarterbacks who got to snatch the garter belt from the milky white thigh of the (Jewish) Prom Queen with their teeth after the big game… but the garter belt, in this new High School, was the everlasting wisdom of the Sages, and the Prom Queen was the indwelling presence of the High Living Lord of All Hosts, and their teeth were the razor-sharp arguments, tossed like hot potatoes around the study hall, about whose ox had gored whose cow, and how much it would cost, and whether or not there were two believable witnesses present to bring testimony… this was the new standard of sexiness for the Jewish American Princes of the new millennium...

You know what they say about Nostalgia...

It just ain't what it used to be...



Taking a cue from My Urban Kvetch's article about John Delorean's octogenarian demise today (R.I.P.), I thought I'd travel 20 years back in time to do a small tribute to the two best episodes of Amazing Stories ever made, one of which was directed by Robert Zemeckis, starring Christopher Lloyd called "Go To The Head Of The Class" -- pre-Back-To-The-Future nightmarish glee, and the other of which is probably the one of the most uproarious cartoons ever to have graced my pre-pubescent imagination, "The Family Dog," directed by Brad Bird (who won the Oscar for "The Incredibles" last month). When you look at "The Incredibles," you can see all the inspiration coming straight out of "The Family Dog." The whole thing. If I win my current e-Bay bid for the VHS tape, I will (bli neder) rip it to DVD and lend it to you... that is, if you ask nicely...

Friday, March 18, 2005

Yummy Nummy Traif!

The cover of this April's Gourmet Magazine features a gorgeously-lit, lushly-arranged, exquisitely-photographed bowl of... yup, you guessed it, shrimp.



I don't remember where I read it when I was in yeshiva all those years ago, but there's a Chazal (trans: an wise adage offered forth through the annals of ancient history by our Sages of Blessed Memory) that, I assume, was engineered with the express purpose of consoling those of us Yidden who struggle with looking at things like the April Gourmet cover, or at the above image of Shock-Tarts, the most deliciously sour-sweet candy that Wonka, Inc. (who brought us Nerds, Everlasting Gobstoppers, etc.) ever concocted, which, as you can probably guess by now, also lacks a certain "Kosher Certification" which would make it permissible as a Shabbos treat, or a weekday treat, or a treat for anyone other than those of us whose dietary decisions abide by the strictures and regulations ordained by the aforementioned Sages of Blessed Memory and their contemporary disciples:

"Don't sneer at non-kosher food, saying, 'Oh, how disgusting -- I think shrimp cocktail, barbecue baby-back ribs, pepperoni pizza, bacon-double-cheeseburgers. and Shock-Tarts are gross, gross, eww, yucky-poo, go away and leave me alone...' Rather, you should look at it and say, 'Dang! That sheeyite looks amazing! And if it's amazing, how much more amazing must my reward in olam HaBa (otherwise known as the Afterlife) be for not indulging myself!!! Wow, boy O boy, I sure do love the Lord!"

In all frankness, I think it is a much harder struggle to make myself reiterate this adage to myself when I come across yummy-nummy traif than it is to avoid eating the traif itself. There are enough tests of my emunah (faith) out there without having to put myself on Auto-Cheer everytime I come across another kashrus-related struggle. Whatever. I'm not supposed to be doing all of this for the divine Reward anyway, am I?

Good Shabbos...

Thursday, March 17, 2005

The Daily Israeli

subtitled Ofer's Revenge...



That's right, pals and gals, thanks to a delicious inspiration from jewschool.com, whose RadioBlog (aptly titled JewJockey) has some truly cutting edge offerings from the often-way-too-Heimish wellspring of Jewish musicalness, I have decided that The Pig of Death's daily (or weekly) musical soundtrack must, at long last, be offered forth. It is dedicated to Ofer, who, as I've mentioned, is the badass Israeli mofo who sits next to me all day, creating kick-butt grafix for the broadcast design industry and playing some of the nuttiest tunes heralding from the farthest-flung archipelagos of coolness, Jewish or non. Scroll down (to the right) to sample today's lovely offering from Lemon Jelly, or click here.

Wednesday, March 16, 2005

There Goes My Lunch...

The Jewish Music Cafe in Park Slope has hosted quite a few class acts from the Jewish music scene over the past months (including my Riverdale homies Pey Dalid), which has managed to relay the impression to me that their proprietors/booking staff could actually be class acts themselves (which, considering my continuing hate-hate relationship with the vast majority of music that calls itself 'Jewish' these days, is quite a monumental achievement)!

So why, oh why, would they aver to spoil, in one fell swoop, this highly coveted reputation by inviting these unbelievable boy-band sissies onto their stage?



O Lord, please look down with Mercy on your people Israel and forgive them their grievous bad taste!!!

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

BeeeEEEEEEEP!

Dave Dobson is an evil, evil, evil, evil, evil, evil, brilliant, genius, evil man...



I have played 486 games of Snood in my short 29-year life so far, without paying a single red nickel to that conniving SOB in registration fees, because as far as I am concerned, Dobson should be paying ME back for the untold hours that have been subtracted from my life that I will never get back now...

Wasn't there a Next Generation episode where the whole crew gets strung-out on some Snood-like videogame headset thingy? A whole Hi-Tech NIGHTMARE!!!!!!!!!!


Dobson: "Go ahead... knock out those blue ones there in the corner..."
Me: "Almmmmossssst..... got them......"


Dobson: "AH HAH HAH HAH, YOU ARE MINE FOREVER, HAH HAHAAAAAAAA!"
Me: "I defeated the Evil Level! Yayyyy!!!!!!!!!"

Monday, March 14, 2005

Second Installment...

The following is the second installment of a fiction piece I have been working on, tentatively entitled, "The Yellow Gate." Click here to read the first installment, or just scroll down...



Part One (cont'd)

"Shalom, laila tov," came the pre-emptive reply from the Israeli woman, swaddled in what looked like a paisley tablecloth from southeast Asia, her children blinking listlessly through the minivan's dust-covered window at the slack-jawed American dope with his unloaded rifle. He probably doesn’t even know how to load the thing, their drooping eyelashes seemed to jeer. The van lurched away, stopping again a few feet away from the main security bunker to disgorge a portly, bearded little man wearing a black, wide-brimmed Borsalino.

“Hi Oz,” Yermiahu said, covering his nose from the dust that swirled up behind the van’s taillights.

“Prophet of Doom, how goes it?” the man replied, swaggering with the weight of the large leather briefcase in his hand. His voice resonated with the consistency of a buttery porridge spiked with gravel, grinding itself up and outward from the depths of his kishkes with an unembarrassed self-satisfaction that Yermiahu had never quite been able to manufacture within his own kishkes.

“The end is nigh, as always,” said Yermiahu, parroting his Biblical namesake with an unapologetic sneer, “The glass is not only half-empty, it’s leaking all over the fuckin’ place.” He raised his arm to indicate the mountain of rubble before them, and then poked out his thumb with a mock desire to hitch with the receding minivan. “That looked like a fun ride.”

“Dude, that woman was South African,” Oz grinned, gesticulating with a spontaneous fervor that instantly overwhelmed Yermiahu’s threshold for interpersonal attentiveness. Oz’s words, already pouring out too quickly and excitedly to register as discrete sequences of meaning, became a series of frantic, amorphous sonic explosions that shattered Yermiahu’s tenuous ability to piece them together. “Her father was in the R.A.F. in World War II, and was one of the first settlers who made it to Chevron after the ’67 war! And her husband, this even crazier guy, was court-martialed by the Israeli Army after he tried to plant bombs in an Arab village near Shechem during the first Intifada… then he was, like in jail for 3 years, made teshuva, got a full pardon because his uncle knew someone in Begin’s administration, and he came up here and helped to start this settlement in ’91 with no money, no car, just a tent and a generator and a copy of Likutei Tefillos… freakin’ awesome, man…!” Oz was already halfway out of breath, his final exclamation vaporizing the last lingering vestiges of Yermiahu’s train of thought.

“Wow!” Yermiahu cried, into the infinitesimal space just between Oz’s head and the rest of the universe.

“Yeah,” said Oz, shifting his attention to the mountain of brown and yellow wreckage before them. “What in God's name did they do up here, anyway?”

“A whole lotta nothin’, if you ask me,” said Yermiahu, relieved to change subjects, fishing inside his pocket for something. “It’s not like there was any point to the thing even being there in the first frikkin’ place.”

“I know, without a security fence or anything, I guess they just had to comply with the mo’etza’s rules, right? Did someone tell them that they could take it down now?”

“Hell if I know, man!” He stuck a crushed Winston between his lips and continued fishing. “All I know is, a whole gaggle of those dumb-asses were trying to move it away from the road yesterday with one of those freaking Bobcats, and it was the most pathetic thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” cackled Yermiahu, obviously relieved that it was finally his turn to tell a story. “They couldn’t even lift up one end of the gate without the other end swinging around like a fucking boom… it was regular three-ring Israeli circus up here! I just wanna know what they plan on doing with it now.” He struck his match, guarding it carefully from the mountain wind.

“You still smoke?” winced Oz, fanning the oncoming cloud.

“Why, you want one?”

“Nah, I quit. You should, too. You think your kallah will like it if you smoke?”

Yermiahu sneered, momentarily calling forth the elusive, transmigratory vision he had always had, but never been able to precisely recognize, of the gentle, graceful brunette whose sighs and caresses and placations he had dreamt of and imitated to himself endlessly within the paper-thin walls of his trailer at night. “Yeah, I guess I should start coming to shacharis in the morning too, huh. Lots of things I should be doing...”

The Daily Israeli

New idea for a column...

I share an office space with Ofer, the graphic designer/Domo-Kun enthusiast/badass Israeli mofo, who comes into our little two-man space a couple weeks ago wearing (I kid you not) the following vintage windbreaker:



I'm sorry, but in my heart of hearts, I just fall down dead for this kind of thing. Ofer, you deserve your own company, or at least... your own daily column...

Say yes!

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Tough Questions for Tough Jews...

Wouldn't that be nice?



"Tough Questions for Tough Jews," an upcoming monthly column exclusive to The Pig Of Death, from our top field correspondent Hank Magitz, interviewing some of the toughest Jews out there about what it's like to be tough, Jewish, and famous...

Hank, I've got a wish-list for ya, buddy, believe me...

Any other wish-list candidates (besides those pictured) from my loyal readership (yes, that means you, Mom), leave me a comment and, and if it's good, I'll pass it along to Hank...

Coming to The Pig of Death in April/May 2005

Well, Shave My Tonsils!

This quotation by Paul Auster is starting to give me the creeps...

"Becoming a writer is not a 'career decision' like becoming a doctor or a policeman. You don't choose it so much as get chosen, and once you accept the fact that you're not fit for anything else, you have to be prepared to walk a long, hard road for the rest of your days."

How does a writer know when he/she has "gotten chosen?" Can't a writer be "fit" for other things besides writing?



Just finished Auster's "Mr. Vertigo" for the second time, which was just so darn satisfying. Auster's father was Jewish, just like Master Yehudi, but I don't know whether or not he was Hungarian... anyway, everything I've read from Auster deserves mention, but this one deserves particular props, 'specially seein' as how Art Spiegelman did the cover art...

Friday, March 11, 2005

First Installment...

The following is the first installment of a fiction piece I have been working on, tentatively entitled, "The Yellow Gate." It's still quite raw, so provide feedback... if you dare...



Part One

Climbing in and among the newly scattered debris were the dumpster-divers, the howling, yammering ladies-of-the-night, the mangy, disheveled desert whores that Yermi had come to identify exclusively with the land of Israel, the little Bedouin slut-cats and their infinite spawn. Amid the twisted metal and concrete, they appeared to be the lone survivors of some tragic nuclear accident, the ancient feline progenitors of a cannibalistic, humanoid, underground-dwelling species that had thrived in the putrid sludge of the settlement’s septic system. He raised the tip of his M-16 and aimed it toward the gate, sighting an anthill-shaped chunk of cement that clung to the gate's upended mooring, imagining that one of the ever-pregnant slut-cats had accidentally stranded herself there. Moments later, an imaginary spray of caramel-colored confetti blew into the night, as several tiny, squealing embryonic kittens plummeted to the pavement.

A pair of headlights winked over the ridge of the main road, dipped once into a groove in the pavement, and began its furious descent into the settlement with the calculated determination of a smart-missile. Yermiahu squinted through the thin mountain haze and saw, instead of headlights, a pair of glowing eyes bolting down the hill in the darkness toward him, the combined, unmistakably hateful glare of eight or nine terrible, toothless, asswipe-colored Arabs, their shredded fatigues barely concealing their protruding, Third-World ribcages, their eyes glowing yellow with the same type of devolved, feral rage he heard every night in the back-and-forth, fight-and-fuck yowlings of his little Bedouin bitches. He re-sighted the M-16 and plugged-away at those glowing eyes, smelling in the same instant gunpowder, burnt tar and splattered gasoline as the jeep’s flaming corpse tumbled end-over-obliterated-end into the settlement's communal dining trailer. Another series of explosions and mixed-language death shrieks buoyed itself up onto the desert wind in one resounding, stultifying whuppp! which, overlapping with the oscillating whine from an invisible speaker mounted atop the steeple of a mosque on the next hill, announced to all interested parties the nightly call to worship…

I Love This White Man...

Saw "Michael McDonald -- A Gathering of Friends" DVD last night, a 2001 concert he did at the Shrine with Kenny Loggins, James Ingram, Christopher Cross (uchhh, he was bad), Patti Labelle... and Jeff Bridges. Poor, poor Jeff Bridges, whose friends obviously must not like him very much, to allow him onstage with them. G-d help the man.




Self-portrait of one of the most soulful White Men alive. He ain't Jewish, but we'd take him in a heartbeat. There is no comparison to Michael McDonald anywhere, anytime. Amen.

Yes Sir, That's My Blastocyst...

blas·to·cyst (blst-sst) n. The modified blastula stage of mammalian embryos, consisting of the inner cell mass and a thin trophoblast layer enclosing the blastocoel. Also called blastodermic vesicle.



SilverSpawn (slvrspôn) n. The overgrown, post-blastocystic fetus whose expected date-of-birth is August 9, 2005 (see highlighted ultrasonic photo). Spawned exclusively for and by Jerome and Sarah Silverman. B'shah tova.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Uzi Fisher DVDs

I had a pal named Uzi Fisher who was killed in a construction accident in Israel in March 2001. The night he passed away, a bunch of us made videos about our memories of him. I recently put these videos on 2 DVDs along with other footage that Uzi took when he was alive. If anyone would like to receive copies of these DVDs, leave a comment below with your e-mail address. Below are the Main Menus of the two DVDs:



Holy Smokes!

I'm a Creative Director!

G-d knows what this will become, but I'll tell ya this much...
Jewish history is probably one of the most fascinating histories ever...
R. Natan Greenberg's Jewish History classes were always so great... maybe we'll round him up as a consultant...



Thanks, Todd!

My Sentiments Exactly

This was taken from the front page of the McSweeney's Website, and echoes my exact thoughts about people like Sting (who once ruled the universe but whose music now resembles Michael Bolton's) and Meg Ryan (who was once beautiful but whose lips now look like someone took a bike pump to 'em)...



"Precisely how much of the joy one takes in reading J.D. Salinger's work comes from the knowledge that he has chosen to withdraw from the public eye for the past five decades? The books would be no less beautiful—not a word would change—but if, for instance, Salinger had spent the past few years drawing a paycheck as a staff writer for Vanity Fair, mightn't that dim the appeal of Franny and Zooey just a bit? Or what if he'd written four sequels to The Catcher in the Rye? What if he'd been, however briefly, the host of a late-night talk show? A guest on The Muppet Show? The center square on Hollywood Squares?"

Kool Komix Koncepts

Not for the faint-hearted (or tzniyus-hearted), but Ezra just sent me the link to it once more... thanks Z!

He probably found it from Scott McCloud's website, which is cool in its own right -- his books, "Understanding Comics" or "Reinventing Comics," are splendid.


Patrick Farley's site

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Industrial Tile-Layer by day...

Industrial Tile-Layer by day... KOHEN GADOL BY NIGHT!!!



Must... keep... looking... down....
Must... not... look... at.... AAAAAHHHH!!!!!!!
(soundFX: melting face)

Courtesy of Machon HaMikdash (who, incidentally, rock -- thanks to Barry for the link!)

jesus christ

I seriously cannot tell if this is a joke or not... here's a juicy excerpt that definitively proves, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that some Lubavitchers deserve nothing less than eternal desert-island banishment:



"It is well known that once Yudel was in the Rebbe's office and there was a chocolate Danish on a plate on the Rebbe's desk. Yudel asked the Rebbe "Are you gonna eat that?" and the Rebbe replied "No, actually I was going to give it to Leibel." Yudel wondered aloud if the Rebbe didn't have someone better to give it to and the Rebbe asked him who he had in mind when he said "someone better." Yudel fell very silent and looked down at the ground and after a long pause he slowly lifted his hand and pointed to himself. Anyone who knows this story will realize that, in his very modest manner, Yudel is clearly identifying himself as Moshiach."

(link found at the website of the inimitable Clifford Meth -- thanks, Clifford!)

I hope He thinks it's funny too...

This is old, but I just can't resist trudging it out... the Kalazhnikov AK-47, is a nice touch, not to mention the Hallowed Cloak of Invulnerability...

Can the OU really make fun of itself?

Can anyone tell me about the real people behind this freaking hilarious thing? (Windows Media required)



Thanks to Michael Chananya Aryeh Rose for the link -- where did you find this, anyway?