The Semitard Who Went Pro in Creeptardaree

It’s no secret that I’m Jewish. Anyone who reads my Jewchives from All The Way From Oy to Vey or my new site/blog right here, knows that I’m a proud Heebalicious Heebareena. Certainly, it’s not written on my face. Though I’ve been told that I look Jewish on many occasions, whatever that means. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding, I can spot 90% of my people within a one mile radius. Still. Some of us really don’t look Jewish, but we remain the Jewiest of Jews.

Recently, I had an opportunity to visit a place I hadn’t been to since I was a kid, a Schwartz landmark, if you will. After walking the grounds (patch a’ grass), the new owner, gem that he is, came outside to greet us. We met him at the bottom of his stoop.

To say that I was rattled by his appearance would be an epic lie. I could get past the faded, trying-to-be-blue Dickie’s and the grey, green flannel shirt, as well as the baseball cap worn so high, it was flirting with his forehead. I even overlooked his tooth. Yes, tooth, not teeth, one single solitary tooth and the ginormous mole on his forehead with two protruding grey hairs. What I absolutely could not get past was the dire situation manifesting between his legs, which I am convinced wanted to come out for show-and-tell: Elephantitis penis (EllyPeen). Or, perhaps it was Elephantitis ball sack (EllyB-Sack-Relidhj). I really don’t know and didn’t think I should ask. Though, as you continue reading, you’ll probably think what I’m thinking right now, “Bitch, after the way he behaved, ya shoulda fuckin asked.”

EllyB-Sack-Relidhj who hadn’t seen the light of day or spoken with humans outside of his four walls in at least 30-years, explained that he bought the SL (Schwartz Landmark) from a couple a’ Jews. “Lot’s of them Jew people were here before we arrived.” I wanted to scream, “Hey, fucknard, I hate to break it to you, but you happen to be standing in front of two a’ them, Jewesses, to be clear. Lil fuckin’ FYI for ya. Oh, and PS: instead of Jewhatin’, you might want to tend to that creepy fuckin Ellypeen protruding from your never-been-washed Dickie’s, OVERWHELMING and TRAUMATIZING my lady balls for life, I assure you.”

Of course the writing on the wall screamed Don’t go into the house, don’t, don’t, don’t do it. History’s pull outweighed our intuition. And so we entered. Inching our way into the foyer, memories flooding back for one. Sport nausea for both. Fab. After decades some things remained intact, exactly as they were remembered, those elements were resplendent.

As we ventured into another room, out popped the semitard who truly went pro in creeptardaree (SWWPIC). And I’m not kidding. Imagine a 5×5, 40-year-old man stuffed like a sausage casing into a white tank top designed for women. His only pair of Lee jeans, streaked with food stains, urine droplets and oil smudges, as well as, acne, backne and arm acne. And thank God, I will remain forever in the dark about his other body part acnefestations. Oh, and he had two teeth — that makes three between them. I have every confidence they jointly chewed and faught over who got the swallow.

In a high pitched, I-never-talk-to-people-unless-I-force-them-to-so-I-can-kill-them-with-my-screwdrivers-hammers-and-wrenches-in-the-basement, hiding under at least 30 dead women, buried underneath concrete, he eerily repeated, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, while folding his thick, unwashed clammy hand into mine.

The tour didn’t end there.  Terrified, yet incapable of walking out, we peered into each room, until we hit a two-room pocket with no exit. The SWWPIC was inching so closely behind me, I could feel his unflossed, never been rinsed breath on my neck.

Everything came to a halt when the other gazed at the ceiling and saw a ravishing, simple fixture, from their childhood. Memories as important to me to see and hear as they were to the other. Ellypeen reminded us that them Jews put it in, not them. After snapping multiple pictures, it became evidently clear that we needed to make like a leather clad republican, snorting Crystal Meth, while fucking two she-male hookers before getting caught. Or, in this case, killed.

Traversing around them to extricate ourselves felt like we were playing the last game of the final 4. Worse, As they followed us out, Ellypeen said, “Them Jews left a Jew thing on the door. We smashed it with a hammer and burned the thing inside.” Seeing the front door before us, and seething from their audacious hatred, holding my tongue seemed moot. Stupidly, I said, “You are telling two JEWISH WOMEN that you destroyed a Mezuzah.” The Other looked at me with that what have you done, child, look.

Of course Ellypeen didn’t care. Of course he didn’t hear me. He was preoccupied, flaunting his EllyB-Sack-Relidhj and spewing ignorance and hate. The Other grabbed my arm and dragged me out, willingly and gratefully, I’ll have you know.

The house reeked of piss. I am convinced they dragged their cocks out for Daily Battle of the Urine Stream contests performed in each room, for variety sake, you know, to keep it fresh. And when they weren’t doing that, they were decpitating barbies, setting them aflame and jerking off in watermelons, gumming Hungry Mans and deuling for the final gulp.

Safely in the car, the freakshows followed us out. The driver, a yummalicious Dominican, got behind the wheel as we drove off and ranted like banshees. Though he was quite familiar with cursing, he’d never quite heard cursing like this. Fortunately had a great sense of humor.

In a weird way, I felt bad for the SWWPIC. He never really stood a chance. Raised in an insular, hateful world with no formal education, friends, or social skills, to speak of. What choices did he have?

As far as that day goes, it was one of the most surreal, beautiful, haunting days of my life that I will treasure forever.

The Vey B-Roll (links) will be addd throughout the week, lovers, don’t break up with me and don’t think I’m dissin’ ya’s, cause I ain’t.


I Love You, Now Listen

First of all, I will get all of my peeps link posted. I am linkdating with a lot of you. Give me a few days, at least until next week. Can we do that, please? Is that fair? Fabulous.

Okay, I have an announcement and I am hoping you will hear me, please. Dear Thyroid just received our first family of letters. I am asking you to hop on over and read them. Posting them brought me to tears, really. This family’s strength and love for each other will take your wig off. As you know, I have Graves’ disease, well, so does this incredibly brave woman, Rachel. Of course her letter amazed me. Similarly, to read her family’s letter to Rachel’s thyroid and see what was taken from them because of her disease – alls I can tell you is that I was in tears while I posted each. I implore you to read them.

Have I hocked enough? Okay, here are the links:

Dear Thyroid, I will be the last one standing, not you (Rachel’s letter)

Christopher’s letter to his wife Rachel’s thyroid

Susan’s letter to her daughter, Rachel’s thyroid



A Bragging Rights Shit

For three days, I have been bunged up like an overly stuffed red pepper. I think I have to attribute this to my hummus addiction, which I have now stopped OCDeating for fear that I’ll find my human ass in the hands of a veterinarian begging him to express my anal glands.

I can see it now, Schwartz on all fours atop a silver table while a cheek spreading tool is inserted, as a vet digs his made-for-canine claws into my rectum. Lovely.

My ass feels like a sausage casing ready to spontaneously combust. Similarly, my stomach is distended, out to the moon, really, only exacerbating my shituation.

I’m officially in ASS HELL.

Sure, I can blow a harmonious tune from the twin cheeks that would make Beethoven jealous, but I can’t seem to go the distance. I need an asstastic movement that will do my porcelain goddess proud and severely piss my cunting neighbors off.

What the fuck? I thought being vegan meant I’d be as regular as Sands through the Hour Glass. I thought garbanzo beans; beans being the operative word, would yield a rectalrific experience. Fuckin ell was I wrong.

If there is a rectal God, I have news:

Dear Rectal God:

Thank you for your time, I appreciate it. Real quick, I promise.

I know you’re busy with other asses, but I am begging you to move heaven and earth for my Jewass.

In reciprocity, because I’m an ardent fan of give and take relationships, I will give you a shout out on my blog, so everyone knows how assalicious you can be and that all it takes is a friendly request.

What do you think? Are you in?


Katie Schwartz

PS: To be clear, I’m the Jewish Katie Schwartz from New York living in Los Angeles, the writer. I knit, speaking of; I can knit you a hat. Would you like a hat? I’m also the vintage tchoch collector. You can’t miss me in a crowd. I temporarily skew Jew x 4, and have dark brown hair. I’m always in glasses. Am I ringing a bell?

What the Fuck, Katie Schwartz

Change, though not always planned, doesn’t have to suck the ass of a geriatric patient with bleeding hemorrhoids. That being said — Schwartzy has a new joint. BREATHE. I’ve decided to consolidate. I’m not giving up All The Way From Oy To Vey, NEVAH. Thanks to Crionaberry, that’s where my blogventure began. The Vey is home to three years of my life with my near and dear online and offline friends. We’ve laughed, cried, and lived super out loud there, so it ain’t goin’ nowhere.

However, BREATHE, I will be blogging here now. Still breathing? Great. I need a central website, one place where I can blog and also update what’s going on in my writing life and with Dear Thyroid, which (knock wood), seems to be really moving its story forward (yahoo), etc. etc. etc. With the help of Bit Depth, if he can stand my ass painery, I’ll map my domain to WordPress properly.

So, why haven’t I blogged in close to a month? Fuck me and suck my ovaries, what a month this has been, seriously. Mostly good, mind you. Some if it overwhelming.

Let’s start with the fucktardaree that is my home life, shall we? I am officially living in Moushewitz. My kitchen wall is shared with psycho Cindy who now scratches the walls when she smells anything to her disliking coming from my apartment. To be clear, I collect and wear gorgeous perfumes — sorry, but it’s true. I do not burn incense. I have been known on occasion to light a scented candle, but not often. The building next door is a few feet away. Off my kitchen window, we have Saphareena and her mother, cunteralla. Convinced that I stare into her windows, which is impossible unless I have X-ray vision, considering she has thick curtains covering her windows, has resurrected two HUGE 3 ft long plywood barriers with slats in them. Why, yes, it does resemble the haunting vision of a train en route to Auschwitz. Between the scratching and that, I’m done. I can’t run fast enough. For the past two weeks, I’ve been house hunting. Last night, I found a great house for rent that I’m super crazy about. I’ll keep ya’s posted. I think I’m done with neighbors and need some space from people in a home setting. Rents have dropped like mad, yo! I hope to be outta here by mid-June, July 1st at the latest.

Up next, I’m down 45 pounds (still a sphere), and my thyroid has now been balanced for 3-months straight, yay. Love Endogirl, she’s tits to the tenth. I’m mentally and physically healthy, so there’s that. Things are going a-okay. I think I’m on the right track. If you click here and scroll down, you’ll get the gist of what’s doing.

Oh, before I forget, I will be adding all of the links on The Vey, to this blog. If I inadvertently leave anyone out, spill. I want every one of my peeps here with me. Kindly start linkdating with me here, please?

Helen Wheels of Just Ain’t Right fame, who also happens to be one hell of an amazing woman, I’m not kidding, helped me out of a canine sitch, which I am eternally grateful to her for. She also told me about movies at cemeteries that I’m now jonesing to attend.

I’m grossly inappropriately behind on my blog reading, I am so sorry. I will catch up.

The Three Dames With A Clue show was a smashing success. I’ll be posting about that tomorrow, I hope, with pictures and all. We’ll also be announcing June’s show. I also met Dusty from the Siren Chronicles, she’s tits.

Other things that have kept me busy, well, getting out of seclusion and back into my life…

I have missed you all terribly. Thanks for not breaking up with me. I’ve tweeted with a few of you, Frannygirl, Utah and Grainylish, and I’ve e-dished with Cormac, Jin, Zipgirl, Bubbsie.

A proper post about Lewch is forthcoming, along with an interview with my cousin, Dorian, the edgiest artist in San Francisco.

Sprawling Creativity at the Compound


When Bubbsie was here with Nora for the Fangoria Spookesmodel Competition, I had the privilege of noshing with them at Junior’s restaurant in Westwood.

I met Bubbsie, Nora and his youngest daughter at Pilcrow Lit Fest last year. We’d been e-buds and blog buds for about a year.

After meeting the majority of the Bubbsie clan, I fell in love with them. They’re the most creative, talented family. Bubbsie not only blogs Sprawling Ramshackle Compound, he’s also a published writer at Farmhouse Magazine and 6S, to name a few. Nora is a horror make-up artist with mad skills, lemme tell ya, this broad is the horror diva of doom. Out of respect for Bubbsie’s youngest daughter’s privacy, “H”, I won’t discuss her, except to say, that she’s equally extraordinary. Though I haven’t met Miz Bubs, I am dying to meet her. I know we’d be insta-bff’s. She makes jewelry! She gave Bubbsie the most gorgeous necklace and earrings, to give to me that I am still plotzing over. See? Stunning, right? I hope she sells her jewels. I would love to buy her jewelry.

Do you believe this family?!

Is There A Farm In Your House?

I am very proud to announce that the good folks at Farmhouse Magazine have made me a Contributing Editor to their wonderful magazine. Farmhouse is one of my favorite reads. They’ve generously published my work online and in their first forthcoming Anthology, The Best of Farmhouse, on sale November 10th. They were also the first to review Emotionally Pantsed. They’re the dandiest of dandyrific folks and a very talented group of writers and editors.

Speaking of November, don’t forget to vote… for Obama/Biden.

Book Reviews

Farmhouse Magazine Interview, Katie Schwartz

Interview with Editor-in-Chief, Mike Dell’Aquila of Farmhouse Magazine

Your own writing style:

You mix comedy with very serious, cutting insights.  Do you think that making people laugh allows you to dig a little deeper toward the truth?

Though I love projecting because it’s such a no-brainer callisthenic, I’ve trained myself to focus more on self-sport guilt and shame to avoid making others feel like I’m speaking for them.

When an idea is couched in comedy, it’s easier for me to digest. My writing is an extension of that. I hope people who read my book, Emotionally Pantsed feel as connected to others as I did when I wrote it.

I’m drawn to subversive comedy and writing about phobias, life, the inane, death, sickness, marriage, divorce, illness, abortion, menstruation, sex, etc. etc. etc. The caveat was writing about my Graves’  disease (a type of hyperthyroidism), my dog’s death and winding up in a psychiatrist’s office, things I wrote about in my book. Thank God for my editor, Amy Guth because she helped me find balance between honest humor and honesty without humor, something that was more difficult than I realized.

As a kid we relocated a lot, no, we turned it into a lifestyle. Attending up to as many as three to four schools in a year some years, if I wanted to make friends, and I did, being funny was the only way to go. Having hilarious parents and extended family cultivated that. Comedy was a coping mechanism, okay, it still is I admit it; the difference is that I’m aware of it. I figure, if I need a coping mechanism, there is an upside, comedy is fat free and doesn’t leave needle marks. Additionally, Graves’ shifted my perspective, to look at myself and situations with patience and greater objectivity, which is apparent in my writing, I think.

How has your writing style/voice evolved over time?

When I first started writing, I wrote jokes for myself and a few other comedians. At first, the material was primarily about shock value. I was young and performing at mostly gay venues, which was an extraordinary and fortunate experience. I could be as blue as I wanted to be and feel embraced for saying whatever I wanted to. That freedom helped shape my voice. I also learned that it wasn’t the performing I loved, it was the writing.

When I write essays, I’m interested in non-fiction. If they are fiction, I prefer they be rooted in a degree of truth. The plays I write are both fiction and non-fiction, mostly non-fiction though, and other works are completely fiction. Knowing all of that has also helped. Basically, I know what I really want to write.

Have you always set out to be a humorist, or has it been a transformation as a result of painful events?

There has never been a day in my life when I didn’t want to write comedy. The difference is that I used to write about embarrassing things, whereas now I can also write about the painful things. I once wrote a dramatic piece and it read like a soap opera peppered in Hallmark card one-liners, infused with overly dramatic cliches. It was that awful. Shame. Shame. Shame.

I’m most comfortable writing comedy; it feels like a healthy beating heart that can’t stop. An organic, healing and liberating style of writing, which is why I think I love it as much as I do.

Who are the writers that you love?

Ooh, child, there are so many writers and song writers, where do I begin? Oy, okay. Charles Bukowski, Adrienne Rich, Jenny Bicks, Whoopi Goldberg, Gloria Steinem, David & Amy Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs, Neil Simon, Michael Patrick King, Cindy Chupack, Eminem, Woody Allen, Reinaldo Arenas, John Waters, Norman Lear, Nora Ephron, Pedro Almodovar, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Margaret Atwood, Virgina Woolf, Aretha Franklin, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, Alice Walker, Gertrude Stein, and I could go on for days.

What are the landmark works that inspired you along the way?

The two that stand-out the most are Women by Charles Bukowski because it was fearless and irreverent and that inspired the hell out of me. If I see that I’m hedging when I write, I recall Women for a snap-out-of-it slap in the face. It usually works. The Dream of a Common Language by Adrienne Rich marks a celebration of the strength and beauty of a woman’s voice, intellectually, physically and romantically. It’s unflinching in that commitment and has influenced me to bring those characteristics to my work.

In Emotionally Pantsed, you maintain an almost post-modern version of feminism; do you feel that honesty and humor are more effective methods of communicating ideas of equality than aggressive rhetoric?  If so, why?

Gosh, thanks.

I think both have tremendous value and importance. Had Suffrage and Women’s Lib been any less aggressive in pursuing their agenda, I don’t think I would have the landscape of opportunities I now have.

It is my preference to utilize humor as a vehicle for communicating the vitality and spirit of feminism and equality. As a society, to achieve equality, awareness and education are imperative.

I hope that each person expresses their idea of feminism and equality in a way that is most comfortable to them.

What are your feelings about modern feminism?

I’m not seeing as much camaraderie amongst women as I’d like to see. There’s a lack of sisterhood and that makes me blue. I’ve noticed that teenage girls and young women lack a strong sense of themselves as women, not realizing how much power they have. There’s a misconception that feminism is comprised of man hating militant chicks, which is completely untrue. I think that comes from lack of education and awareness. There are so many positive women who represent varying degrees and aspects of feminism. I know a lot of feminists and not one of them hate men. I’ve never dated or relationshiped with a man who didn’t love and respect women and feminist ideas. Some women I know in their thirties have abandoned feminism because they think it’s a turn-off to men. That irritates the fuck out of me, I admit it.

I love women, I think we’re fabulous and I want more women to love women. The majority of my girlfriends are feminists by their design and they love women as much as I do.

I’ve never trusted women who say, I only have male friends. Or, I don’t like women. How can you not love women if you’re a woman?! How does that make sense? I want to understand it, but have difficulty doing so. Would it kill us to demonstrate a semblance of love and appreciation for each other, is that so much to ask?! I’m not saying all broads should walk down the street saying, Oh, she’s a V, we must BFF right now. That’s not a reality, but you don’t have to stab a girl in the back or behave like a cunt. What does that achieve?! Throw a broad a bone, you got nuttin tah lose and everything to gain. You feel me?

You’re Relationship with Technology:

How do you feel that the Internet has helped writers?

Established writers have broadened their readership and new writers have garnered an audience. It’s a flawless medium to get your work out there. Writers have had their work published in print, online and sold manuscripts look at me. I sold my manuscript to So New Media Publishing, an incredible indie publishing company that publishes web based writers, both established and up and coming. They’re wonderful. Television shows and films have been developed and sold based on viral videos and blogs it’s a breeding ground for burgeoning talent. For budding magazines, zines and indie press/publishing companies, the internet is equally opportunistic. Viral tools and social networking enable content creators to reach millions without spending a dime, that’s sweet, yo. The websicle is also a wonderful place to connect with individuals you might not have access to via phone or post. Send out a lil e-stalk inquiry and chances are the e-stalk-ee will be more receptive to what you’re hawking. If I wasn’t so commitment phobic, I’d marry the internet. Is that creepy?

Do you feel like it might also have its drawbacks?

Sure, it can be addictive and isolating. There’s also a false sense of security. It’s important to be careful and smart. Feel a person out before giving them your personal info, even if it is for networking or a writing gig.

I don’t know if AA has already come up with an internet addiction program to 12-step your way out of it, but I did find this juicy dish, A Free Live Online and Offline Help & Support Group for Internet-a-holics & their Loved Ones. I don’t know anything about the website, but shouldn’t support take place offline? Seems like a cruel joke if the net is an addicts drug of choice. It would be like asking me to discuss my addiction to dairy in front of a buffet with my favorite cheese centric foods. I’d be crawling the walls, ready to shoot up brie.

Not all writing opportunities offer payment. If you’re seeking exposure or credibility, there are a ton of magazines and zines that are worth pursuing, even though you won’t get paid. Farmhouse is one of those magazines (not to shamelessly plug the hand that feeds me). In all seriousness, you support promising writers and truly get their work out there. That’s the spirit of the internet in a nutshell and the kind of prospect writers should pursue.

Do you believe that the blogs and online magazines community leads to further segmentation/isolation of the literary world, or that writers and organizations can truly form a cohesive, coherent community?

I think that a cohesive community can and should be cultivated. I also think it is happening, perhaps chiefly in indie circles. We all gain so much more as a community online and offline. I know some no-joke brick and mortar folks still reticent to jump on the i-wagon. It’s worth taking the plunge, I say go for it instead of fighting it.

What are your feelings about the transparency of social networking websites?  Does the false sense of privacy scare you?  Are you willing to accept that it’s just the way our culture is moving?

Social networking sites, like Facebook, Twitter, Okurt, etc. are outstanding tools for introducing your work to people. As I said before, you have to be smart. Don’t post your phone number or mailing address. If you’re meeting someone, get together in a well lit, highly populated area. Be smart and safe. Capisce? Capisce!

Thanks for having me, toots. Love the House of Farm! Always have and always will.

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