“The six juices, numbered and meant to be drunk in a particular order, looked so tasty. What’s not to like about spicy lemonade, or pineapple with mint? Cashew milk flavored with vanilla and cinnamon was a little cloying, but… I mean, c’mon, cashews, the George Clooney of nuts. When it came to the green juice, I read the label and tried hard to concentrate on the ‘lemon’ and ‘apple’ parts of the equation: romaine, celery, cucumber, green apple, spinach, kale, parsley, lemon. Bright side: no beets. Here’s the thing. That green juice? It was like drinking everything bad that ever happened to me in high school.”
 — The Times’ Judith Newman tries out the popular Blueprint Cleanse Diet.

“It’s fantastic for the brand.”
 — MSNBC’s Lawrence O’Donnell offers perhaps the most succinct and appropriate analysis of the Jon Stewart Rally For The Jon Stewart Show I have seen thus far.

Ladies, how many times do we need to tell you to freeze your ovaries? I know right now you’re all “career, career, career,” but life moves so quickly and all of a sudden you’re forty and you can’t get knocked up even if you have a man in you’re life, which, let’s face it, if you’re forty and you’ve spent that last twenty years being all “career, career, career,” you probably don’t. We all know the purpose of being a woman is to make the babies, so seriously, freeze those things now, while you’re in your early twenties and they’re still good. If you are already past your early twenties and you haven’t frozen your ovaries yet, uh, sorry. Sucks for you, spinster! Maybe you can be the cool aunt.

by Andrew Piccone

Tell me about your job.
I just started an apparel company called Inshallah about 4 months ago. I created a line of clothing that I felt, me being Muslim, would bring unity through fashion. I say that because I am an American, I was born Christian, have a lot of Christian friends, I have a lot of Jewish friends, and I see so much going on in the media, and I wanted to create a brand that would speak positively about my religion, but also something that just represents me.

Are there other Muslim apparel companies out there?
Not really, not at all. There are a lot of t-shirt companies, but there is no real line of clothing on the level that Inshallah is. It’s hard because it’s new and there is so much going on with my faith, but that’s a positive because what I’m doing here is something that’s a reflection of my faith, but also something that’s universal. It’s almost like music, it doesn’t matter what your race is, you can listen to whatever music you want, I see this as kind of the same thing. It’s like an lifestyle brand, like American Apparel, Hollister, American Eagle, it has that type of feel, but with Islamic twists to it. If you look at it it looks cool, or similar, but you see these little bits of Muslim culture within.

Are the clothes available in stores now?
Our website is going up November 1st, and we’ll be selling on there. I’m working with a partner who’s launched two companies in the past, created multi-million dollar brands, and so he has a lot of connections, so we plan to use that as much as possible and get into retail stores soon.

You’re faith seems to play a big role in this, are you very religious?
I’ve always been very close to God, very spiritual. I didn’t always go to church, but I always read the Bible, I always prayed every day. I don’t know if I would call it a religious thing, but I was always very close to God. And now, with converting to Islam, like a year ago, it’s still the same thing, but I read the Koran and the Bible. I practice my religion more, I pray more, I got to mosque more, I do more things in regards to my faith. Islam means to submit to the will of God. God told Noah to build an arc, he did it. There was no religion, it was God. That’s what being Muslim means to me.

Islam has been in the media a bit recently, from Obama being accused of being a Muslim by members of the Tea Party to the controversial Park51 community center in Lower Manhattan, to Juan Williams being fired from NPR after talking about Muslims on Fox News. Is it hard to be Muslim in America in 2010?
I think it’s hard but it’s not hard for me. It’s not hard for me because I have the benefit of understanding both sides of the coin. My dad is a Christian minister. I understand Christianity and I understand the parallels between it and Islam. I’m able to defend it easier then maybe some other Muslims because of my background. When you know the Bible and you know the Koran it helps when people come at you with discussions. There are things that are in the Bible and in the Koran. Some of the things that we teach and based directly off things that are in the Bible. For example, the prophet Mohammad, you read that you can’t show his picture. One of the first commandments of the Bible is to not worship any false images of God, we believe that we shouldn’t have any likeness of our prophets. That’s the path to idolatry. Another thing is the hijab, worn by some Muslim women. Look at the images you see of the Virgin Mary, look at nuns, it’s right there in your face, it’s the same thing.

Will the public’s perception about Islam change?
I think people will learn because of people like me. I have tons of friends of every religion that I can have dialogue with. I think the problem is that people don’t read. They listen to whatever they hear, but they won’t take the time to seek. The people who take the time seek will learn that what’s being shown isn’t what’s real. I’m not afraid to create dialogue. I have no problems doing that. I don’t have to be hostile, I don’t have to be aggressive, and the clothing company plays and will continue to play a big part in keeping that positive dialogue moving forward.

Andrew Piccone is a photographer in New York.

The Revolution Will Not Be ‘Liked’: “The fact is, there are too many bands in the world. We’re talking about thousands of misguided people who are making everyone around them broke and miserable and overcrowding this wonderful city. I mean, you talk about process, about sharing a process. What process? What is the process, Jerry? Do you know the process of actually learning how to play an instrument? Do they? Do they know how long it takes to actually become good at playing an instrument? TEN THOUSAND HOURS, Jerry.”

by Kate Mickere

There are some words that should never be combined with “sexy.” “Clownfish,” for example. Yet the “Sexy Clownfish” costume is a hit at the Halloween superstore in my neighborhood. I’d like to meet the creative team that came up with that brilliant idea. Did they just pull words out of a hat and attach them to “sex?” A sexy clown would be terrifying and a sexy fish is… just gross, yet “Sexy Clownfish” gets the green light for production. Some stores market the sexualized fish as a grown-up “Nemo,” but in the end it’s just slutty get-ups modeled after a character popular with children. Just like provocative Cookie Monsters and sultry Sponge Bobs. But if you are dying to put a mini-skirt on a childhood icon this Halloween, why don’t you try going as one of my favorite idols? Like those four independent women you know so well. They were aspirational, successful women — as well as sexy, spooky and magical.

Oh yes. The four “It Girls” of primetime television in the 1960s were campy, delightfully dark women, and I adored each of them. Samantha Stevens, Morticia Adams, Lily Munster and Jeannie…did Jeannie have a last name? Jeannie, the Genie? Yeah, I dunno.

I remember watching these old shows in my grandmother’s apartment, reveling in these beautiful, supernatural women while I ate macaroni and cheese off of a TV tray. I desperately tried to twitch my nose like Samantha. I dressed up as Morticia Addams three times for Halloween during my childhood. At age seven, I went to a party filled with girls dressed like Disney princesses and kitty cats and there I was, in a skin tight gown made out of some cheap plastic, pretending to speak French in a husky voice. I developed elaborate fantasies involving me as Jeannie getting ready for my long-time-coming wedding to Major Nelson. And Lily, wasn’t she just lovely? I was upset, however, to discover, while watching the feature film Munster, Go Home!, that her skin was actually green and not the translucent skin of black and white television.

Morticia was my absolute favorite. I knew her best from Addams Family Values, a movie that I rented from Blockbuster about forty times. Angelica Huston was so dark and divine. My mother told me that as a child, she had thought Carolyn Jones, the 60’s Morticia, was the most beautiful woman in the whole world. Whatever her incarnation, Morticia was wild and exotic. She may have been a little kooky, but she had a millionaire who adored her, appropriately psychotic children and the financial freedom to pursue all of her passions.

Lily Munster was similar to Morticia, macabre and spooky. She was a little more down to earth and a little plainer than her rival from NBC. She fiercely loved her monster family. Comprised of an idiot Frankenstein, a senile vampire, a wolf-boy and a blonde bobby-soxer, the Munsters were way wackier than the Addams Family. These supernatural comedies both focused on love and acceptance. So what if they lived in haunted mansions? Morticia and Lily were strong matriarchs who defended their families’ right to be weird.

Where Lily and Morticia and all of their peculiarities were adored by their husbands, Sam and Jeannie were outsiders, forced by their men to hide what made them so wonderful. Both shows featured mischievous alter egos for the girls. Each actress donned a brunette wig and became sensual, out-of-control trouble makers. If single Jeannie was supposed to represent the idea of “Free Love,” then her alter ego sister represented the sexual revolution. Brunette Jeannie didn’t wait for Major Nelson to notice or appreciate her, she demanded his attention. Even though the blonde versions weren’t the best role models, they were fun. They acted out what most 60s housewives wished they could have; a little romance, a little adventure, a spell to make the dishes wash themselves.

Reality TV was in its infancy in the 60s, but if it had really been in swing, how wonderful would it be if there were a “Retro Real Housewives”? Samantha could twitch her nose and Lily’s weave would fall out. Morticia would go on a drinking binge after Gomez started lusting after Jeannie. Jeannie would be transformed. Forget Major Nelson, Jeannie would sleep around and her magic would be something truly handy, like a mind-controlled contraceptive. Some episodes would feature the divine Endora, Sam’s witchy mother, for some family drama. Would Morticia and Lily dare risk sun exposure just to brunch at the trendy outdoor café in Sam’s neighborhood? What would the blondies think about that bakery on Mockingbird Lane? Would they be disgusted or would they embrace their dark side and join the goth girls in a toast, drinking the blood of the men who tried to love them?

This Halloween, instead of seeing a bar full of vampires, Lady Gagas, Slutty Paralegals and Whorey Tubes of Chapstick, I’d like to see a few more of my girls out there. Smart, spooky and sassy, these icons of the 1960s are sure to turn a few heads. And if you’re planning to go as Lily Munster, I’d do it this year… before the bound-to-be-awful NBC reboot pilot gets picked up.

Kate Mickere is an actress, writer and sketch comedian living in NYC.

Can branded content be funny? Several branded content providers say yes!

by Jeff Hart

“You’re angry,” said Paul Fennel.

“You’re observant.”

In a back booth at a LES greasy-spoon renowned for the historic amount of orange Department of Health stickers scraped off its windows, I stared at Paul. He stared down at his pancakes, refusing to make eye contact, making like another motley patch on the upholstery. Yesterday morning, Paul asked me to infiltrate the Walmart of self-help to rescue his soul-mate, a girl he’d never actually seen but that’d almost literally burned her way to his heart. By nightfall, I had an unhinged marine waving my own gun in my face, conscripting me into a murder plot against the seemingly harmless misfit who sat across from me now, daintily nudging a syrup-free lightly-buttered short stack as if it might object to his eating it.

“Are you sure you won’t have more than coffee, Mr. Mullins?”

“Yes.”

“It’s on me.”

“The man upstairs not picking up this tab?”

Paul sighed, took a small bite.

It was a new day. Outside the diner, intrepid New Yorkers shoved their way to work, ignoring the piles of Chinese garbage that crowded the sidewalks like snow drifts. I hadn’t slept well. I’d dreamt of a towering shirtless white man with the doctored features of a certain self-help guru clutching me to his muscular bosom. I’d woken before sunrise feeling breathless and violated. A man in my profession finds it useful to cultivate a controlled paranoia, but the pins and needles of an unwanted gaze between my shoulder blades had become overwhelming.

I’d circled Alphabet City before meeting with Paul, doubled and tripled back, making sure I wasn’t followed. I still couldn’t shake the feeling, a hollow ache in my spine that couldn’t be blamed on my futon.

“Your friends from the service visited me,” I told Paul.

“I know.”

“Told me a story about you.”

“Do you believe them?”

I watched Paul fight back a tremor and tried to reconcile my idea of him, as dangerous as a kitten in a microwave, with the bomb spotting military clairvoyant that Yossarian had described.

“They say you killed a man.”

“That part is true.”

“That’s the part I find unbelievable.”

Paul pushed his delinquent glasses back up his nose with the back of his hand. I think he flicked a glance at my face from between his fingers.

“Why not?”

“You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t have known where the bombs were.”

“But I did know.”

“How?”

“I can see His plan, Mr. Mullins,” said Paul, with a quiet sincerity that sent a renewed throbbing through my vertebrae.

“Whose plan?”

“His.”

“Oh, I see. Capital H.”

“Yes.”

“Capital B. Capital S.”

I thought back to what Dot had said about my instincts, how they were slipping, how I was over my head. Down the rabbit hole was more like it. Living in the city my entire life, I had no shortage of encounters with wide-eyed soothsayers claiming a direct line to a higher power. Typically, they later asked for a quarter toward a cup of coffee, or cleared a subway car with furious masturbation. I usually ponied up the quarter, but I never let these derelicts send me off on a case. Yet here I was, getting jerked off. Dot was right.

“Maybe instead of buying my coffee, you could slip me some lottery numbers. Give me a tip on the horses.”

Paul’s busy hands picked at the front of his cardigan, worrying a loose thread.

“That’s not how it works.”

“Pray tell.”

Paul pursed his lips. His hands steadied, began tracing a careful path across the front of his sweater.

“We are all part of His intricate design. I can see the pattern. Occasionally, I can alter its direction.”

His fingers returned to the loose thread. He yanked it free.

“Sometimes, like in the case of Derek May, I can snip a string.”

“Your metaphor is played. And you sound like a lunatic.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok,” I said. “I quit.”

Paul looked up at me for the first time, his eyes watery. Immediately, a blush spread across his face.

“You can’t quit,” he said.

“I can. I just did. Apologize to your invisible friend for me, tell him I’m sorry for reneging. If he’s real sore about it, I look forward to the lightning bolt.”

“No,” said Paul, shaking his head. “I don’t mean it like that. You can say you quit. That’s fine. But you actually cannot. I’ve seen your place in the design, Mr. Mullins.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You’re a knot.”

I nodded. Stood up.

“Go fuck yourself, Fennel,” I said.

From above us came a tearing sound. The ceiling tile cracked and caved, a recently constructed nest of garbage spilled onto the table, along with the family of rats that called it home. A waitress screamed. The vermin scattered, running for cover, leaving Fennel’s half-eaten pancakes buried in plaster and plundered rot.

Paul laughed, slow at first, and then hysterical.

“Behold,” howled Fennel. “A sign from on high.”

I fled the diner while Paul was still catching his breath and wiping tears from his cheeks.

I had no destination in mind as I shouldered my way through the morning commuters. I planned to just keep walking until I was out of New York. Something in Fennel’s laugh had shaken loose the feeling of detachment necessary to keep living in this city. It wasn’t so much what I was feeling — a mix of dread and humiliation I’d need a thesaurus to put a name to — but the fact that I was feeling anything at all. I needed to escape. With every step, the ache in my spine intensified.

I didn’t notice the black Lincoln until it had swung into my path, its tinted back window hissing down to freeze me in the spotlight of Wayne Maker’s beatific smile. There he was, the self-help guru torn free from his book jackets, rendered all the more handsome in three dimensions. Here was the ostensible cause of all my current problems, appraising me with revolting sympathy.

“Hello, Mr. Mullins,” he said. “You look like you could use somebody to talk to.”

“Deus ex machina,” I replied.

“I’ve been called worse.”

Maker swung open the back door of his car, mightily tugged on the metaphysical string attached inexplicably to my stubborn knot, and reeled me in.

Jeff Hart lives in Brooklyn. His other writing can be found over at Culture Blues.

Photo by Fabio, from Flickr.

Director Christopher Nolan has revealed that his next Batman movie will be called The Dark Knight Rises, and the villain will not, as expected, be The Riddler, but rather The Condiment King, whom actor Joseph Gordon-Levitt is expected to take “to a very dark place.”

“Since that first meal, in 2000, so many customers have uttered some variation of ‘Give us what the president had,’ that the restaurant has started serving a mixed-meat sampler — a one-off prepared for Mr. Clinton and his guests — as a nightly special. The Bill Clinton platter, as it is known, is an aromatic spread of mixed meats, lentils and oven-baked bread.”
 — The Times’ David Segal leaves the matter of how many of those customers at the New Delhi’s fancy Bukhara actually meant ‘an orgasm’ up to the reader’s imagination. Regardless, the story about our lovable ex-president’s reputation as the world’s greatest gourmand is nice to read. Clinton has been on a vegan diet, supposedly, since having heart surgery in February. But, you know. “He had the filet mignon last time he was here, four months ago,” says Javier Blázquez, son of the owner of Casa Lucio in Madrid. “The doctors tell him not to eat it, but he does anyway.”