Monday, December 31, 2007

gilt



so it's new year's eve. there's my perfunctory nod to all the hoo haa i should be feeling on this glorious new year's eve. i mean, the weather's gorgeous today (near 50), the sun is shining, and my view of manhattan is utterly gorgeous. but it's no better than the great day that was yesterday, or the day before that.
ok, i know tonight is the last day of 2007, but unless your year was riddled with iniquity, addiction, or chemotherapy, i don't see why passing into the next year should be heralded with such acclaim. and i'm done with that.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-

now, the real topic of today's convo is the slew of nature shows we all of high intellect find ourselves drawn to on uneventful weekend afternoons that don't involve a trip to the beach. they're really terrific, actually. just think of the wide range of content; one show will be solely based on the huge range of insects that inhabit the jungle's floors, while the next hour encompasses the vast array of rodents that live on the arctic tundra. some are heartwarming, such as the birth and post-natal nurture of kangaroos and other marsupials, while others are downright horrifying, like when an entire pack of ravenous lions attack a single, formidable elephant.

but what really ruins it for me is, after spending an entire hour marveling at the unseen world of what lies three meters below the brazilian rainforest canopy, that little hidden public service message rears its fugly head. sigourney weaver's voice happily trails around the cute capuchins playfully romping in the trees, then suddenly drops to a solemner note, saying, "but we mustn't forget about the endangered capuchin's main enemy--man," and as she says, "man," the screen abruptly changes to a screaming monkey, all bloodied up as its fur is brutally torn off its still-living body. or perhaps a two-hour feature on the majestic whales of the deep, entrancing visions of the gargantuan creatures weightlessly flying around the water, and just as you're about to nod off for a reflective nap, the harsh reality sets in and chunks of whale blubber and mustached russian men in chunky skullcaps now dominate your screen, while poor james earl jones narrator man struggles to keep his shit from crying.

is this absolutely, crucially necessary? i mean, we all know the planet is in a pretty shitty position. it's no secret, and yet our generation, and those younger than us aren't doing a damn thing to help. my 18 year-old brother, who should be at the apex of environmental awareness, continues to ignorantly throw plastic bottles out of his car window, as if the very roads he drives on publicly serve as his own personal trash receptacles.

we watch these nature shows to observe the beauty of unbridled nature. why must they be tainted by such poison at the end? even though it's reality, i think these clandestine public service announcements should be presented as such, and perhaps at the tail end of commercials. after watching a presentation on the albino wolves of northern sweden, and upon hearing about how deforestation threatens their habitat, nobody's going to rush off their couches to buy thousands of acres of swedish forest in the hopes of opening a wildlife preserve. it's bad enough we have to see the harsh reality of one animal savagely devouring another. to cringe like we're in the amusement park funhouse and waiting for the chainsaw people to pop out, in that constant state of tension, just anticipating that horrible little message at the end, is no way to watch the discovery channel.

i'm out, kids. see ya next year.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

more carol grievances



so here goes yet another grievance with yet another traditional Christmas carol. the old classic "mistletoe and holly," that goes, "oh, by gosh, by golly--it's time for mistletoe and holly..." and then the line of question hits, "...tasty pheasants, Christmas presents, countrysides covered with snow--" wait a minute. who eats PHEASANT for Christmas? maybe at one time it was the norm for those backwater people who also happen to consider rats a hard-to-catch delicacy, but not even ina makes pheasant. and if paula deen stays away from it, you know it's not normal.

so stay away from pheasants and weird Christmas songs.

i'm out.

and p.s. it wouldn't kill you to post a commment or two.

Monday, December 17, 2007

the mwt of the year?



so like most people this time of season, i was listening to Christmas music on the way to work (not weird, i swear--i peep at ipod screens all the time and even superficial bitches in louboutins are humming to nat king cole) because it puts me in the mood and drowns out such subway adversities as old people, fat people and horrid little children. anywho,that classic andy williams song, "the most wonderful time of year" came up, and everything was sing-songy normal until a certain lyric caught my attention as being severely out of context. it goes, "...there'll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago..."
hmmm. last time i checked, ghost stories were reserved for halloween which, incidentally, is MY most wonderful time of the year, but i digress. WHO tells ghost stories on Christmas?! maybe pagan people and witches of all sorts, but they don't celebrate Christmas in the first place, which clearly makes the answer: NOBODY!

i've been called morbid in my time, and i do wear a lot of black, but i've never in my life told a ghost story on Christmas. not even the ouija board's come out. i don't even think of dead people and their potential earthly manifestations (aka ghosts) on Christmas. this is a problem, people--a real problem. it's one of those overlooked anomalies (kind of like alanis morissette's 'ironic,' where her use of the word was grossly inaccurate, but the fact that it sounded good and clicked off the tongue in three syllables somehow made it work).

i highly encourage ya'll to raise ruckii about this every time ya'll hear this song--there's no way to stop it completely--it's about ingrained into american culture as trans fats, but we can raise awareness and sound a bit more intelligent upon doing so.

and for heaven's sake, don't go telling any ghost stories this Christmas.

i'm out.

Friday, December 14, 2007

wtf weather?



ok what the f happened to the good old snowstorms so special to new england for so many years? the pillowy, soft snow that yes, eventually turns to a toxic slush all over the streets, but the fall of which evokes images of snowmen and norman rockwell?
now all we have in disgusting new york is disgusting, kind-of-frozen sleet-ish rain, that's cold as a bastard. and what really gets me is that when the weekly call from the parental units came through today, they were enjoying the very aforementioned joie de blanche, despite the fact that they're just over three hours away.
has new york suddenly become a sub-tropical region? and i don't want to hear a friggin word about global warming, please. that's all i hear anymore--people blame everything on global warming. "oh, the summer was unusually hot because of global warming!" as they toss cigarette butts on the ground (you know, 'legal littering') and cease to recycle their four-bottle-a-day poland spring habit.
listen up, people--while global warming is this impending matter that will, undoubtedly, melt glaciers and affect one or more of us on some magnanimous scale some day, it happens a heck of a lot slower than that. a degree or two a year, as a matter of fact, so if the third week of august just happened to be twenty degrees over the average, global warming is not to blame.

yet that doesn't help my weath dilemma, does it? why can't nyc just get one sonofabitch of a snowstorm that cripples the mta, thus preventing us civilians from commuting to work, leaving us with a full day of lifetime and luscious take-out?
instead we're stuck with this bipolar, ambivalent cloud shit that doesn't help anybody. subways run on sched (albeit filthier than normal), uggs get dirty, and tourists wear that perplexed look of, "why on earth should it rain while i'm in new york city?" like it's some climate-controlled amusement park.

ooh i'm in a rottenous mood today. that could be, in part, due to the snot faucet that's set up camp on my face and clogs my nosering. or maybe it's the hangover headache i've been nursing since 8 a.m. either way, my sleeping pills are kicking in and this boy is turning in early tonight.

p.s. i'm in SPIN mag this month, page 108, so check it out, biiiiitcheeeees!


i'm out ;-)

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

the most annoying shit



hmmm, nothing grinds my gears more than when people say annoying things in a serious manner that implies they don't have an alternative way of stating that very thought.

for instance, where i come from in pennsylvania (for more info on that lovely vernacular, please refer to the past entry entitled 'she don't talk right'), a certain medical condition known as diabetes to the rest of the world is referred to as 'the sugar.' so it's not uncommon to hear one sauntering through the mall, discussing with their feathered-hair companion what a tragedy that wound that won't heal on carol's leg is. and then, like clockwork, it'll be supplemented with, "well, you know she has the sugar."
now, correct me if i'm wrong, but even if you're an avid user of the many sorts of artificial sweeteners; even if the potential carcinogenic side effects of saccharin doesn't scare you enough to completely dissuade you from using nutrasweet; even if the lack of research on the long-term effects of splenda consumption doesn't keep you up at night; even if you live and breathe and have made it your life's mission to extol the virtues of artificial sweeteners, you do, in some capacity, 'have' the sugar. you can't bake without it. not that i'm an avid baker, by any means (i'm not even a sometimes baker), but even in my cupboards, somewhere behind the jungle of high-fiber wasa, whole-husk quinoa, and organic wheatgrass bars, there exists that noteworthy yellow box of domino sugar. even i have the sugar.

diabetes is a horrible thing (even though patti labelle has taught us that the revolutionary one-touch can, indeed, change everything) so let's not equate it, and inevitably create a synonymous relationship with something so crystalline, so precious, so sweet.

next up--that damn phrase "she's expecting." a fat girl walks into a room. the second thing you notice (the first, obviously, being that she was fat--we are, after all, human) is that she's only fat from her boobs to her pelvis because of a certain large-scale lump subsisting on her midsection. you conclude she's pregnant. great. just what this world needs--another damn kid to run around, spread germs, cost money, get sick, ruin shoes, piss me off, clog up human traffic patterns in the subway, and cry for no reason. but i digress.
the girl is pregnant, and when her gaze meets that of the ladies' coffee clutch sitting in the corner, they begin to whisper to one another, "oh she's expecting!"

well, yeah. we're ALL expecting something. i'm expecting. you're expecting. everybody on this earth is expecting. some expect money. some expect retribution. some expect sex. some expect a bowel movement. if one were to look up the infinitive 'to expect' in the dictionary, one would be met with a definition along the lines of "to assiduously await the planned arrival of something; usually the effect of a certain cause put forth by the individual." (i should so work at a dictionary. i could rap to my coworkers "i'm a bitchin' lexicog...like a prince that's a frog..." well, anyway).
so i've just established that we're all expecting something in particular, making it so that we're all expecting. so you damn pregnant ladies who steal our seats on the subway need to think of a better way of describing your current 'situations.' i recommend starting with knocked up. it's always been one of my faves.

i'm out, bitches!

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

it was so not right



ok something awful happened tonight. something really, really horrible. more terrible than a bacterial infection. more graphic than an episode of 'house.' and certainly more immorally horrific than that dancing girl with cerebral palsy that made the rounds on youtube.
and before i tell you what it is, i'll provide some background. it's a website that's been on the internet for some time now. it's certainly not new, nor is its graphic content. but it's the first time i saw it, and the fact that the recorded reactions to it (also quite famous on youtube), from which i culled the priceless image above, horrify potential viewers to the extent they don't watch it at all, must mean it's pretty damn bad.

and let's get one thing straight: nothing freaks me out. i've been around, kids. i could be the fuckin' president of the john waters fan club. i've seen it all, and invented more of my own. i was the badass who got straight a's and sneaked porn behind his churchgoing parents' backs. i've run naked around my building more than once, and i've done my own version of the rain dance on my roof. i've thrown up and swallowed it again (not part of pledging, it was kind of involuntary, born from the necessity to breathe, and the mere realization of what i had just done made it all come back up again anyway). i've willingly peed my pants (at last year's heatherette spring 07 show, i wasn't giving my third-row seat up for anybody). i've almost eaten out vaginas before (i'm aware the gross factor of that one may be contested by some). i've thrown up blood (tonsilectomies ain't pretty) and i've eaten cuticles.

but nothing prepared me for this.

it's this little website called "2girls1cup.com." now don't go racing to it this minute. this is serious business. i've seen some pretty raunchy porn, girls squirting and all, and those asians can put out some nasty-ass flicks too, but damn--this isn't even porn. this isn't even raunch. this...this, well--you'll just have to watch it yourself. it's beyond appalling. it's beyond frightening. it's beyond horribly disgusting. it's special.

now go watch it and leave a friggin comment when you're done.
and don't say i didn't warn you (even though i clearly didn't.)

i'm out kids.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Friday, November 16, 2007

the good ol' days



sad bryanambition.

so how do we hold onto our fondest memories? i was abruptly prompted with this question while riding the V-as-in-vagina train home tonight, and on the shuffle mode, my ipod came upon 'it feels so good' by sonique.
damn, the memories flooded in. cut to me in my freshman dorm, getting ready to go to the tunnel on a saturday night, dressed in some skimpy ass shirt, ripped up jeans, no underwear, drenched in cologne, decked with a fake tattoo and donning candy bracelets and self-applied highlights.

i've come a long way.

but i can still smell the gilette deodorant and see the tartan bedspread and actually be reassured that trey was driving us there in his lexus, and that my oxygenated rehydrating spray would be in the back seat.
oh, and that some fellow twink would happily be awaiting my eager tongue and wandering hands in the kenny scharf room.
or riding six in the back seat (of the lexus) en route to lucky cheng's, where i'd sing vogue karaoke and poke the drag queens to give this underage ball of fabulosity a pink pussy (it's a drink) or two.

Being 18 fuggin ruled.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

what did you expect? condams?



so i got really inspired today and sent this purely fictional story to my esteemed coworkers. since they were all fictitiously involved, i think many of them were prompted to ask, "wait--did it really happen?" duuh, no.

submitted for the approval of the midnight society, i call this story: CONDOMANIA

last year logan thought it would be a good idea to bring in a "condom [or, if you prefer, condam] tree" and place it on her desk in the hopes that it would encourage everybody in the office to shamelessly 'prune' the tree as they needed, hence promoting sexual safety in and around the office. (she later told me she planned to take a polaroid of the person who took each condam and make a wall collage of prophylactic bliss). and it was a good idea. a great one, actually, until the day that brian kantor came in with that can of "spray helium" and thought it would be an even better idea to fill up the condams with helium and watch as people in the office panicked as condams floated their way, shuddering as they passed, as if they were filled with some questionable substance. then una, the animated one she is, took a big red marker and drew lips on the floating condams (lips, but no eyes!) and giggled with glee as she saw her creations bounce airily around the office. so of course the insidious perversions of tamara and beth couldn't be quelled by the sheer thrill of all of this, and they began to catch the floating condams and continue to make them anatomically correct. ears, noses, vaginas, penises (but still, no eyes).
one may ask, "where were the authorities?" well, jyl was working from home. steve was on a break. kathy was on vacation and ari was still at vibe. but never one to just sit around, amy gets up with her camera and starts to snap away! and away and away and away, taking many rolls of film to capture this incredible moment in blackbook's history. and so it went, until bryan (moi) got up and decided to actually put on one of the condams (did i mention he and brian kantor sniffed the remainder of the spray helium?) and the office was petrified (and somewhat turned on) by what they saw, that the buzz kind of deflated, as did the floating condams, and the random moment of fun came to an end.
now, what, you may ask, happened to the thousands of pics amy took? well it just so happened that bryan wore a jacket that happened to be magnetic that day, and as he embraced amy for her good photographic work, the magnets inherent to his jacket overexposed all the film, and the memories were left to be cherished by the mind.

epilogue:
and though i wasn't going to mention it before, john was there, but saw the action from a smaller angle, as he got this splendid idea to "decorate the elevator," which involved decking the small, movable hall we called an elevator, in festive lights, garlands and ribbons, and he was so adamant on this idea, not even floating condams could lure him away from his work.
john is a good man.


good times, right?

Friday, November 09, 2007

it's offish!



i'm running the ny marathon next year. totally.
for the past four years, i've vaguely followed the ny marathon; a tad on the radio, tv coverage, and one year, i was even unfortunate enough to be amongst the fast-paced mayhem on the day of the show (ya'll).
and every year, i say the same thing: i run; i like to run; i can run relatively great distances; i should run the marathon. and so i hike to the b&n and indulge on training books and get myself psyched and run for a few consecutive days, carbo loading by night and detoxing by day, and then the weather gets increasingly colder and the thought of running at 8am during the bitter winter months gets older and i eventually abandon my marathon endeavor (no pun intended) and concentrate on mastering something else (which is, incidentally, how i've since ended up with the entire library of rodney yee yoga dvds, but i digress) and Christmas comes and i go home and think of how cool it would be to tell all my relatives that i ran the marathon and all, yet retaining that loser feeling that i never actually did.

this year, howev, all will be different. i'm going to train the shit out of my body, not paying any attention to the winter brutality that lies ahead (maybe we'll get lucky and this will be the year of global warming, providing us with an unseasonably warm clime) and i'll run daily through december and january, dressed merely in a sporty fleece to brave the nipply-but-not-altogether-horrific 50-degree weather and it won't snow at all and before i know it, it'll be may and gorgeous.
and then the summer will come and i'll have to cut my alcohol consumption by at least half to preserve the tip-top shape my body will undoubtedly be in by that time, but it'll be ok because i can just provide the excuse that never gets old, "oh i'm training for the marathon."
and then november will come and i'll run the 26.3 miles and wear one of those fancy schmancy shiny coats (reminiscent of yetta on 'the nanny') and thousands of my friends will come out with "GO BRYANAMBITION" signs and i'll be symbol of hope for all and all sorts of great things will happen.

but for today, i'm eating a juice-based diet because the thai i had for dinner last night, while it tasted simply delish, didn't exactly have passionate sex with my digestive system and so i'm making for a speedy recov today.

so i have to go get juice from the juice bar.
now.

so i'm out.
later.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

since when...



did having a 29-inch waist become a felony?
i went shopping yesterday for a basic item--a staple, really--a normal pair of grey plaid pants. i was overjoyed to find several different varieties at several terrific stores, but the story was the same at each--i shuffle around the rack looking for the ever-elusive 2-9, and to my dismay (possibly even horror) the smallest i found was a 33 (not altogether a loss, for i learned the valuable lesson that 33 is an actual size, but i digress). grant it, this particular style of grey plaid pants may have been around for quite some time, allowing for most of the smaller-sized inventory to have been purchased, but for heaven's sake, every where i went, no 29s, no 29s, NO 29S!!

btw--i eat. a lot. tremendous amounts of food on a daily basis. where doe the weight go? i don't know. i've had 22 years to discover just what happens to what i eat, and i've yet to find the answer. but a fact is a fact, and the fact is that i'm a boy with a 29-inch waist who can't find a damn pair of pants in this whole rotten city!

and it's raining.

i'm out.

Monday, November 05, 2007

Saturday, November 03, 2007

today is dedicated to...



people who pronounce the word 'chocolate' as if it had a "g" instead of a "c."
eg: "i love me some chog'late!"

and while you're at it, check out this terrific blog i came across that features 52 of the most influential photographs in history: http://lukeprog.com/52-influential-photographs/

i like whatcha do, when ya do, whatcha do...ya make me wanna shoop.
i'm out.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

whatthefuckwednesday

why does madonna look so sad?



i'll tell you why--because the boy inside all that glitz and glamour is per-itty pissed off.
so last night was halloween. i dressed up as madonna blond ambition (vogue set) and went to a multitude of parties. fun, right? yeah...you'd think. hot body. hot costume. hot parties. good times. if only that were the case.
is it me, or is the blond ambition tour really that old?!
as far as i knew (or thought i knew), 1990 wasn't that far away. and when you think of madonna's tours, what's the first polaroid that comes to mind? that tartan-clad punkish mess of drowned world? or the edgy, highly provocative and visually stimulating wardrobe of blond ambition? i'd rest my case here, but i'm not done.

any self-respecting, legit, educated (or not educated) person would clearly know who the bitch in that picture is. DUH!
but last night, i got anything but, "whoa! it's madonna!" no, instead i heard, "what are you, a telemarketer?" yeah, sweetie, one who wears gaultier cone bras to go sit on their wilkes-barrean ass at corporate express all day. [i should also note that this came from a man whose costume consisted of a business suit, accented by a tie with a hard-on].
the next was, "omg you're hedwig, right?" and i think to myself, 'as in ...and the angry inch?' who the f would dress as that in 2007? i'd recognize a delta burke 'designing women' costume faster than that!
the NEXT ambiguous insult came from a rather intoxicated, middle-aged man with a hairline that could've only been justified with a razor, when he yelled, "medusa!" at first, i was taken aback that he could actually have been an enlightened one, referring to the mockumentary movie by the same name in the mid-90's, that parodied madonna's "truth or dare," and featured a disillusioned, yet convincing woman dressed in similar garb prancing about in diva fashion. but when he began to babble that it would take a simple mind to order such a beer, the truth reared its ugly head like a keloid. this man thought my carefully coiffed wig was snakes. he was old--no doubt he'd totally seen 'clash of the titans.'
the next, and by far WORST came in the form of the deceased, yet not so dearly-departed, anna nicole! when did she dress like this? when did she wear a headset? when did she FIT into belted biker shorts? case dismissed!

so, you see my friends, in all my 22 (or so) years, never have i endured such a disappointment. and here, i thought the blond ambition tour was as eternal as the woman herself.

thankfully, it's the one day a year that i actually attempt anything close to drag, and this experience may very well have spelled a definite end to that.

next year, i'm so enrolling in the traveling production of 'the rocky horror show' as none other than frankenfurter himself.

i'm out.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

brenda



my new obsesh. seriously. i've memorized it. you should call me and i'll recite it for you over the phone. hmm hmm.

Monday, October 22, 2007

fucking chickens



so i have a major ish with eggland's best. while watching my usual lifetime (television for women...and queens) morning lineup, during which the commercials have become so routine, i can basically sing them, from the bouncy 888-2300-Empire! to "who's your bra?", i noticed a newcomer: an eggland's best commercial, extolling the virtues of daily egg consumption (and the newly-discovered nutritional value contrary to the high-cholesterol verboten egg of the past).
it basically said, you know, "eggs are great. eat eggs. look at the pretty chickens that produce the eggs" and at the end of the commercial, the screen displays the three types of eggs produced by eggland's best: the 'regular' eggs in the thin styrofoam carton; the cage-free eggs in the clear plastic carton; and the extra omega-3 eggs in the fancy carton. sounds great, right? all this variety from the seemingly ordinary chicken.
but then i got to thinking.

one company. one chicken. three different types of eggs. if there's only one way for a chicken to produce an egg, then that must mean that the eggland's best farm includes three distinct sections: the cruelty caged section, the free-range liberated section, and the fucked-up injected chicken section (those extra omega's don't come from positive verbal reinforcement, honey). am i right, or am i right?

and how fair is it that the caged chickens (who, btw, suffer such horrible cruelties as beak cropping and toenail purging) get to look out the window at their cousins who are allowed to roam free in the fields and flap their wings? and furthermore, what about the extra-omega chickens, getting injected and shit all day long? they're not in there for acupuncture, ya know.

what's worse is the fact that i highly doubt the three varieties of eggland's best eggs garner their own separate accounting departments, so when the eco and humane-conscious egg consumer purchases their cage-free eggs, they're actually supporting the cruelty brought on by the production of their lesser-priced (and immoral) counterparts, so what's the damn point? it's like a vegetarian purchasing garden burgers made out of meat!

so here's what i say: call those bastards at eggland's best several times a day and ask about their little arrangement: 800-922-EGGS. i'd recommend you call several times a day, and tell all your friends to follow suit. we probably won't end up changing their procedure (i've stormed enough puppy mills to know a dent where i see one) but at least we'll drive a few brainless people crazy.

and with that, bitches, i'm out.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Oh, do i love her



so my newest obsession, besides mark ronson, has got to be sandra oh. i know she's not new or anything, and grey's anatomy has been around forev, but watching her on jimmy kimmel tonight created a newfound obsessh in me!

more to come, i prom.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

people...



who need people.

isn't it weird that there are people in this world who you knew years ago that helped mold you into the person you are today? and isn't it weirder that you probably don't talk to 97% of them? and isn't it even even weirder that you probably attribute certain characteristics you exhibit that help to compose the person you are at this very moment to friends/acquaintances you met as of recent?

and what really gets me is that some of the former aforementioned people are still in your cellphone, despite the fact you probably haven't called them since new years 2000-2001.

well it's time to take a shot of the nearest hooch you can find to loosen things up a bit and call/text these people and let them you you're thinking about them.

and that's that.

Thursday, July 12, 2007

it's 1:33 am



and i can't sleep because i'm consumed by the fact that i have a crush on somebody.
it's somebody i know reeeeeeeeally well, and i feel that if i tell them, it'll ruin things. ok, fine: it's me. yes, i've got a crush on myself, sort of.

so last night, i had this really intense dream where i was back in college, and because it was a dream, i omnisciently saw over everything, while also kind of participating in it. but i also ended up falling in love with the character also known as moi...isn't that weird?
[the following is SO not me stroking my own ego or anything, or being conceited--it's merely my expression of my thoughts concerning this matter]
so he was really cute. tall, tan, thin, nice and scruffy--and he had a huge nose. a gorgeous nose, and the left nostril---HIS left nostril--was pierced, which is such a huge turn-on for me. and he had one of those, "i don't give a fuck" attitudes, which i've always found so alluring.
but his name was bryan...and through the course of my dream, despite the fact that he ended up being a total homebody who'd rather pass up a game of flip cup with his [hot] roommate and his [also super hot and somewhat questionably gay] fraternity brothers, he had a roaring social life.

ok i'm not sure if the above is fabricated, and if it is, how much. and if how much, how little? i mean, have you ever had a dream about yourself and ended up having a crush oh him/her?

i'm out.

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

i smell...



sweat and cologne! so today was, undoubtedly, the hottest day of the year, and i couldn't be happier. not because i got to spend it bathing in the icy sea at the beach, or lounging in a pool somewhere, slaking off the oppressive heat with a troupe of hot swimmers, but instead because I got to sit on the subway during on-the-way-home rush hour…a situation that allows me choice sampling of my favorite fragrance in the whole, wide world: sweat and cologne.
As someone who slaved through his college years working behind fragrance counters, I’ve whetted my olfactory abilities to detect the preferential essences that make certain fragrances extraordinary, and, in fact, wear many of those exact fragrances. But I’ve learned that the only thing that can seriously enhance a fragrance is the addition of good, old-fashioned perspiration. Some may call it b.o., but I call it o.k.
And I’m not alone (or weird). It’s a known fact that contained in the beads of sweat we perspire human pheromones are in abundance, and if you're a homo, read THIS. This is evident in those situations when you’re getting all hot and heavy with a guy, and he suddenly shifts his body so that you get a whiff of HIM, the real bodily essence, and you find yourself getting even hotter…your pants (if you’re wearing them) tighten even more…your breathing increases…your ears get hot and red, you begin to pant, your fingers race over every inch of body you can find, shirts are ripped off, pants are desperately slid down legs, revealing a less-concealed pelvic region, another source of even more concentrated pheromones, and a certain musky aroma that invites even the pickiest ‘giver’ to keep on going, and all of a sudden the two of you are entwined in a cyclonic maelstrom—a MALEstrom, of sorts, arms and legs and body hair and thick fingers, and roaming tongues wagging out of yearning mouths, all doing whatever it takes to bring you to that final moment when the pheromones that both of you secreted rejoice!!! For their mission has been accomplished.
I’m out. Way out.

Saturday, June 30, 2007

wavering faith




so two weird things happened today, and before i tell you about them, i have to express my severe exhaustion.

anywho. so the first was that i was not only nice, and furthermore hospitable, to a small child today, but i may have even felt a reluctant pang of enjoyment! so this girl at work brought in her daughter who's like, 4, and i have to say, despite the fact that she's a child, she's really cute and nice. so before today, she didn't like me very much. not at all. she'd give me dirty looks everytime our glances would meet, and a smile was definitely out of the question (even one of those vague smiles that appear on children's faces, just because.
but anywho when logisha and i got the idea to apply makeup to the child, the job of course landed in my lap (thankfully, the child didn't follow) so i used this as my chance to make something of the situation. so i put on the rupaul 'supermodel' video on youtube (can i just say--youtube is the most amazing thing ever?!) and taught this young girl who, just minutes before, was innocently singing the score to 'annie,' to strut and say the three most important words a girl could hear: YOU BETTER WORK.
now i don't really hate kids all that much. but i still don't like them.


so weird thing #2: i've broken my fidelity in the belief that children are born gay. i saw this child on the subway today, couldn't have been any older than 12, and all i have to say is God help him when he gets to high school, 'cause the pansy is in for a beating!! but it's not because he was physically manifesting typical gay behavior (which he kind of was), but because his parents, who had to have been the WEIRDEST parents i've ever seen, dressed him up like a little fag. he had floppy hair, this horrid printed short-sleeved dress shirt, wrists occupied with faggy watches and friendship bracelets (that he, no doubt, made himself), red shorts and sandals. not to mention the child-size rayban wayfarers he was wearing. it was uncanny. when our gaze met, both our gaydars went into overdrive. poor kid probably rusted his zipper.

and the way the WEIRD parents cottled and held him was what lent me to the conclusion that they turned him gay. the parents are probably members of some spectral rainbow color worship society, and bought him "liza sings the Christmas classics" CD for his first holiday. the father probably emphatically volunteered to drive him to tap lessons, only if he promised to stick with the community boys choir.

all in all, it made me really naush.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

she don't talk right



so after hearing, or should i say, overhearing a tourist say something today, i shuddered at myself when i realized i could most likely identify where they were from, regionally, if not to the actual town. and maybe even their specific block!

--i can totally feel this turning into a rant fest, so if that's not your cup of tea, i suggest you close the fuckin' window--

so yeah--thinking about such things as accents and dialects, and what i like to call 'dereLECT,' i realized that i hate them. (get it--derelict+dialect=derelect! go me)

growing up in pennsylvania (northeastern pa, to boot) it's a wonder, and nothing short of a miracle, that i didn't adopt the horrendous derelect. the use double negatives and incorrect participles (i.e. "we don't got none of those") and completely abandon the functionality of "to" and "from" in favor of the completely futile "up" and "down" (i.e. "we're going up the mall" or "we're coming down your house) regardless of whether the direction one is, in fact, traveling is north, south, east or west.
and the worst--the absolute most horrible--is the lack of the letter "t" which forces one to pronounce words such as "bottle," "mountain," or "rotten" with huge phonetic gaps in the middle. try saying these words without t's, and when you hear it, and think "oh, it can't sound that horrible," remember that yes, it can. and does.

so what really gets me is regardless (or, as the northeastern pennsylvanians might say, 'irregardless') of the classlessness of these people, the majority of them tune in to the six o'clock news at night, on which, after their local stations broadcast whatever 60th anniversary or shooting has occured that otherwise mundane night, the national news inevitably follows. and they don't talk in derelects on the national news. whether it's tom brokaw or that poor katie couric (God bless her--she tries), you won't get a double negative or incorrect participle out of that shit! ohhh no. and night after night they hear the dramatic introductory sequence. and night after night they get the same perfunctory greeting. and night after night, they hear the national news delivered in crystal clear, perfect english.
now, if you spoke like you learned english off the back of a cereal box (which, based off all the cereal boxes i read in the morning, wouldn't teach such anomalies as double negatives, but i digress) wouldn't you hear the difference in tom brokaw's monologues? wouldn't you perceive that he doesn't say, "them people in india don't have no water again," but instead, "the denizens of the indian subcontinent are once again faced with a devastating drought."
it's there, people. listen up.

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

something else



so i just realized just now, almost 30 years since it debuted, and 10 since i discovered it, that the terribly ambiguous blondie song "atomic" is, in fact, solely about hair.
that's right--hair. and i find that really wierd.
i mean, i suppose the word 'atomic' is a really powerful adjective. blondie uses it again in the song "rip her to shreds" to describe the fashionably tragic subject's nose job ("her nose job is real atomic...) but it's no surprise that the term 'atomic,' when used as an adjective outside of its natural explosive confines, is as ambiguous as the song in which it's contained. it can be good and bad.

so what's atomic?

i think that coffee is atomic. i needed it today, on the rare occasion i drink it, but it definitely proved itself to be fiercely atomic.

penises are atomic. not because they're solely sexual, but because this ingenious ksubi apparel company has decided to characterize its eyewear look book with penises dressed in little wigs and sunglasses to make them resemble faces...faces with really long noses.

*67 is atomic. otherwise known as the ubiquitous caller ID block, dialing *67 before your desired number and voila! the receiver won't have any idea whose calling them, which means you can prank away, a la serial mom, "is this the cocksucker residence?!" hahaha

of course, those three aformentioned embodiments of atomic are both bad, and good. coffee, while a tasty, legal stimulant, can also be an addictive little devil.
penises, while stamens of procreation and outlets of sexual pleasure, can also be a virtual beehive for chlamydia and other not-so-fun std's. (note: std's are not atomic)
and *67, while providing a million ways to avenge people and terrorize your officemates, can also turn into an unhealthy addictive disorder and if you get caught, well, the ball's in your court.

so have an atomic day! ;-)
i'm out, bitches.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007

p.m.



post meridiem; latin for 'after-noon.' this is used to disambiguate hours of the day, in the 12-hour clock system. also, in english, it stands for 'pre-midnight.'

but in bryan time, it stands for 'phuck me' because it's the most boring time of day. even when i'm busy, the afternoon is perpetually excruciating.
i don't drink coffee (often--just on edit meeting tuesdays), or do coke, or allow my body to be jump started by any other sort of artificial energizer.
today, howev, might call for a more drastic measure.
i find myself at this very moment, 2:57 p.m., listening to 'california dreamin' but only making half the effort at singing it, just enough to support the chorus. so it goes like this:

all the leaves are brown
(the leaves are brown)

and the sky is grey
(the sky is greeeeey)

i went for a walk
(went for a walk)

on a winter's day
(on a winter's day)

and you get the rest.

i swear, if paris hilton ever does a version of this song, i'll launch a worldwide attack against the blond bitch AND those annoying flats she always wears. has nobody noticed they completely ruin the outfit? i'm not knocking flats altogeth, but for her, they're no valid excuse. they're a total cop out, and for that reason, i feel the need to temp assume the title of fashion police and perform a totally mitigated citizen's arrest.

and speaking of gross,



am i the only one to notice that salma hayek's hair is absolutely disgusting?! or the only one sane enough to admit it? she looks like she's wearing a hat made out of cocker spaniel! somebody spray that bitch with some FRONTLINE! i'm getting itchy!

i know she's pregs and stuff, but nobody lets themselves go this much, and in this manner. and yet tabloids and gossips blindly proclaim that she looks absolutely fantastic, and has that telltale glow pregnancy typically induces. does she? i can't tell--there's a wooly mammmoth on her head that's kind of blocking the view.

now, don't think you're smartypants susan yet--i know there are plenty of you bastards out there that think this hair thing she has going on is only the most recent style to hearken to the 80's, but you're terribly, horribly, and remarkably wrong. let's set something straight: this is not a trend. this is not a fashion statement. this is bad, understyled, overprocessed hair. and true, the extra, uh, volume may, in fact, be due to an ethnic thing, but sal, you've got more money than a third-world country, and that's where flat-irons are made. get with. penelope, please pick up our girl and haul her ass to a sally beauty!

and that's the f-ing truth.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

another day off



{NOTE: THIS IS NOT, I REPEAT NOT AN IMAGE OF MY OWN THROAT. I STOLE IT OFF GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCH FAIR AND SQUARE}

so today marks day two (2) of my at-home ailment marathon. my throat is on fire and none of my beautifully-colored mystery pills has alleviated it. let's get one thing straight: i already have one cock--i don't need two; the second, of course, being the streptococcus bacteria (although if, by chance, i did have two, today would no doubt be the 78th day of my at-home marathon...with an end nowhere in sight!)
i'm sick, and neither the golden girls, ab fab, nor the pleasurable musings of craigslist personal ads have made me feel better (although guiltily aroused is a far different story). and what's worse is this is, quite possibly, the first time that i find myself actually, dare i say, wrong. i was utterly convinced that any lucky recipient of horrendously painful tonsillectomy proced would, for the remainder of their immunity-boosted lives, remain free of any further throat infections. well, as it turns out, i was...uh, not right.

but thank heavens for new york magazine.

so let's talk about how women's advertising is far shameless than men's. would you EVER see a commercial for a men's urinary tract infection treatment? or a laxative specially formulated for men?
and the actual delivery just kills me. one women's lax commersh is a cute little cartoon with ribbons metaphorically (and in a quite vulgar manner) representing the supposed, uh, movements, and then hugging the woman in 'question' by the end of the commercial. so basically, this gentle, benign commercial involved the representation of the #2 moving through its tract, and THEN just getting all over the woman! and what's worse, the verbage is just horrific, containing all sorts of words, like 'cramps' and 'irregular.' i have one word for that: TMI.

so let's translate that to a man's version.
man's deep voice: when i find myself irregular (which a man would never admit), i choose the gentle choice: man-o-lax. it doesn't contain harsh stimulants or cause cramping (a reeeeal masculine word) and you can take it at night (what, with a beer?). for my irregularity (there's that never-used word again), i choose man-o-lax.

i mean...can you even?



the other day, in my ever-evolving crusade to revolutionize the world of metaphors, i came up with a real doozy. while giving a dear friend some rich advice while sipping the most incred semi-organic mojito i've ever experienced, i used the following phrase to make sense of the situation, which involved two people: one is romantically interested in the other, but, unforch, the other doesn't possess reciprocal feelings, valuing more of a friendship than a romantic venture. so i said, "it's like you're fishing with the wrong lure--trying to catch a bass with a marlin decoy. and besides--he's just in the wrong body of water!" can you STAND it?!

and lastly, thank heavens for tupperware.

i'm out, and this time, my promise of fidelity will hold true ;-) i'll write SOMEthing tomorrow.

Friday, April 20, 2007

perfunctory bitch



i think all the problems of our great nation culminate with one thing: mayonnaise.
found in virtually every cupboard in america, whether in regular, light, organic or even vegan form, there's nothing good about mayo. even the olfactory appeal dissipates when one considers what's really going on in that jar.
who woke up one day and thought, "let's whip up some oil until it congeals into a white, viscous mass and eat it! or even better, let's spread it on bread and enhance the sandwich!?"
so i know the stuff originated in france and all, but it's here in america, with such celebrity chefs as paula deen touting it like water, where it makes it biggest splat.

now i'm too tired to write anymore. it's that late-afternoon slump, and if i drink coffee today, it will make it the fourth day in a row that i'll have consumed the stuff, which will undoubtedly cause the spark of addiction and i'll end up with a huge headache at this time tomorrow (which, incidentally, i'll get anyway if i have to come into work as rumored).
so i can't drink coffee.

and you know what else? some stupid shit happened on the way to work today. the subway that came was a mystery subway--it was completely devoid of signage (a word, by the way, only validated by the purveyors of outdoor advertising--look it up in the dictionary--ya'll ain't gonna find it). so anyway, this subway had no colorfully-encircled letter or number on the front and back cars, and all digital signs on the cars themselves were blank!
so i thought, "well who am i to deprive myself of a little serendipitous adventure?!" and i got on!
i knew where it could inevitably end up, because, after all, only three different trains stop at my station, but whatev. i was as bond as it gets.

patti lupone scares me. her mouth doesn't close and her eyes look like they're always pissed off. like the front of cars--they look like eyes, and some look happy, some sad, some solemn, some mournful, and others very angry.
and some even look stupid. like hyundais--they always look stupid.

i'm out.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

doin' it at work



so i've never had a problem with people having interoffice relationships. no, i don't mean your cubemate and your cheeto-swap days. i'm talking about two people who work in the same office, or for the same company, culminating their feelings in a lucrative, romantic relationship.
it's been called unprofessional, unethical, and immoral, but i've got a few adjectives of my own: how about natural, ok and completely human. just because two people who have reciprocal feelings for each other happen to share the same profession and employment location doesn't mean that same convenient circumstance should prevent them from pursuing the very serendipitous passion that exists!
that's like not allowing two african-american people to date because they're black. or two romanians because they're in the same esl class. or two italians because they work at the same trattoria.
these 'reasons' are completely unfounded, and should be disregarded, especially in spite of the [completely unconstitutional] rules that exist in many corporations, preventing the formation of such bonds.

now i'm not completely stupid--i can obviously see the complications that could arise from such a situation, such as disputes weighing in on the couple and affecting work performance, or even arguments spontaneously raging right in the work place. but i feel if one is able to pursue such a venture in light of such societal adversity, they're special people to begin with, and not subject to the aforementioned irrational behavior.

more [if not most] importantly, i think that, in this situation, there is a major lack of recognition of our uniform and innate humanity--that's right--we're all human beings, and we all have needs and desires that don't conform to societal boundaries, no matter how liberal or conservative they might be. it's like asparagus pee: you just can't avoid it, no matter what you do--if you eat it, your pee is going to smell two hours later; if you're human, you're going to love.

end of story.

Monday, March 05, 2007

drunk on the train I

Now, I ask you: first, the sanctity of marriage is challenged by those fervent homosexuals; now not even death is a final rest. Anna nicole's body has been through more processes than her living body's undergone plastic surgery procedures. I'm surprised it hasn't already decomposed into a poly-vinyl skeleton. Now they don't even know if it's going to remain buried in the Bahamas. What's worse is now, amidst this maelstrom of rotting upset, the father of her son Daniel has requested that his body be exhumed and relocated to Texas!! (Not a pretty sight, I'd presume...would that be considered passenger or cargo? Maybe this will be Jet Blue's redemptive chance).
This world is getting increasingly unnatural. Limbs are fake, boobs are plastic and the word 'exhumation' is tossed around as nonchalantly as appeal.
Maybe I shouldn't complain-at this rate, I can stay 22 forev and get all the sun I want, and when it comes time to care, such words as 'face transplant' and 'astral projection' might be just as common. Hmm...something to think about.

Sunday, January 28, 2007

west knows best




so i was just thinking, if we're all meant to coexist on this planet--and by we, i'm referring to the multitude of different cultures, races, sexes and species--why is it that some of these groups aren't thriving, why they're living in extreme poverty, their everyday life challenged by some unseen force?

i've concluded that it's because western peoples use their own above-standard values as the point of reference--a completely normal habit when judging the activities partaking in one's own back yard, but to the rest of the world? it's a bit arrogant considering our nation is one of the youngest--we don't have enough experience to accurately make these conclusions. but i digress.

to question whether or not these people are as 'dirt poor' as the western perspective deems them, we have to ask ourselves--what is poverty? what concrete conditions provide the ideals that cause the situation known as poverty? is poverty NOT having a 7,000 square foot house with a solid oak front door, marble countertops, subzero appliances and top-of-the-line berber carpeting? or is poverty not having a fully-stocked refrigerator and an absence of restaurant receipts littering our boudoir? or is poverty having less than $100 in your checking account at any given time?
these examples i've given all fall into three centric categories: material possessions, food, and money. and if a lack of one or all of them constitute poverty, then i'm up the fucking creek! i don't have a large house, an oak front door, marble countertops (they're granite), subzero appliances (ge), and my carpet is from pottery barn. there's rarely food in my fridge (who has time to eat at home?) and hello--anyone who's resigned to stridently follow their dream is well-versed in the woes caused by the lack of funds that accompanies happiness.

so am i povertial?? they say that nyc is exclusively for either the very rich or the very poor, and my bank of america account will gladly inform you to which end i invariably fall. however, what about people living in those nations that were around long before the bank of america, and new york city and subzero appliances? like romania. true, they've endured a government coup or two, and a generous portion of the population are gypsy (roma), and the people are all referred to as peasants, but they're really not that bad. would they prefer one of those ready-hot spigots at their sinks instead of gambling whether or not they'll have hot water that day? sure, and so would i, for that matter. are many of the denizens of romania even aware of the convenience such luxuries would afford? maybe, but they're concerned with other pressing matters--and i think we can all relate to that as well. just as we aspire to future wealth, such as houses, cars, wardrobes and burgeoning social lives in america, the scaled-down aspirations in a scaled-down economy can amount to a larger house, a car, a goat, what have you. and that doesn't mean that their aspirations are any less important than ours, or deserving of any pity, but instead it means that they're just different, and didn't our daily dose of childhood sesame street teach us that different is good?

are these people really as poor as we think? are they really living in poverty?

now you think about that.

Tuesday, January 16, 2007

the hills are alive with the sound of sitars!



and so the world has become a brighter place!! two of the biggest names in bollywood have announced their engagement! abhishek bachchan and aishwarya rai are getting hitched, and i'm sure with no less splendor than the grandest of indian weddings. the hottest man in india and the former miss world deserve only the best. i'm seeing elephants, headdresses, and an entire wardrobe's worth of those intricately detailed saris from dolce & gabbana. nothing but the best for the planet's most regal race!
i'm hoping kal penn gets an invitation...and takes moi as his date. has anyone seen him on 24 lately? a little older, yes, but nonetheless HOT as usual! good stuff.

so down to the wire of the day. i'm really pissed at mario/aka perez hilton. he may be the 'queen of all media,' but the queen of all fashion he is not! i'm sick of him making completely unfounded conclusions about fashion related topics. let's start with his referring to the new miu miu campaign as one of "the worst fashion campaigns ever."

one look at this vibrant, strong ad and there's no contesting it's incredible! i'm no fan of lohan myself, but it's fuckin hot! and miuccia obviously didn't choose her to rep the brand based on her reputation or questionable habits. (please--if drugs were an issue, there wouldn't be such thing as fashion week). she was chosen because of her look. i highly doubt they speculate posing lindsay as the face of miu miu that they'll sell more clothing. the average lohan fan from tacoma can't even afford miu miu. but i digress.
it's a gorgeous ad, and who is perez to say that it's not? this coming from someone who wears circus tents as jackets.

issue number 2 is, quite personally, the worst. don't knock my cam.



SHE LOOKS FUCKING AMAZING!! cameron is channeling marilyn monroe meets snow white, and she more than succeeds! perez says that she must've borrowed her dress from bjork's wardrobe. HELLO, it's VALENTINO! of course there's going to be ruffles! of course there's going to be organza! of course there's going to be a gawdy lot going on! it's haute couture. not juicy couture, perez. there IS a difference, and if you knew the first thing about high fashion, beyond your macy*s subsidized wardrobe, you would clearly have seen cam's point and lauded her choice as the success it is.

so there, i said it.

Sunday, January 14, 2007

the situation




so i just got home, and i have a situation. after an afternoon of shopping in the second most affluent section of nyc, and getting an incredible pair of jeans on sale, something awful happened on the subway; either that, or something wonderful didn't happen. here's the deal:

i saw this homeless woman who kept making eye contact with me--just me--and an incredible idea popped into my head. why don't i take her back to my apartment, let her shower, wash her clothes for her, and then take her out to dinner? i could even give her a really warm coat that i don't wear anymore. and just as fast as the idea appeared to be wonderful, it faded into the reality-driven, "well people just don't do that." so, in usual bryan fashion, i contested that notion and decided that i would be the one to do that. but just as fast as my stop approached, i handed her a dollar--the last one in my wallet--a gesture to which she responded, "thank you." it was then that i realized what a terrible mistake i'd just made. this woman, just as down to earth as me, just as alive as me, just as human as me, is in the worst condition i could imagine. and what's worse is that i could have alleviated that. i could have offered her a chance to clean up, soothe her irritated skin, wash her clothes, and filled her stomach. i could have reminded her of a life she once had, and maybe motivated her to seek rehabilitation via a shelter.
what's more is that a certain event in 2006 really showed me what wealth was. i gave up a job--a thankless, pass-the-time, job that got me nowhere but to the bank because it paid incredibly well--to pursue my true passion, which came as the job i have now. it pays a lot less, like welfare less, but i'm happy. truly, undeniably, and absolutely happy and fulfilled. and i learned that money is not what matters--it's your own personal fulfillment of goals and such. ok, enough oprah. what i'm trying to say is now that i'm not as financially free as i used to be, i see what a struggle it is to make it month to month, with rent and bills and food and what not. and i often wonder what would happen if i couldn't make it--if i just happened to be $100 short. what would go unpaid? rent-no. bills-no. food-well, why not?. food is the only thing i don't have some harassing voice remind me about. no collection agency will come after me if i dont' eat. and in the land of the free and the home of the brave, that's fucking sad.
what's even sadder, is that in this same great nation, at the same exact time as that poor woman sat on that R train, some rich family is sitting around a table eating off plates that cost more than my year's rent. i'm not saying that wealthy people don't deserve what they have--many (but not all) of them work for it. what i'm saying is that it's pathetic that they can allow themselves to indulge in such a manner, to go so excessively overboard, while R train lady can't even get a pickle to eat. what could that dollar i gave her bought her? in new york? not a burger, not a bottle of water, not even a pack of gum. don't people have a conscience anymore? our government taxes us left and right for social this and right-to-work tax that, yet where is the tax that could actually BENEFIT the human race? where's the homeless tax? the small constituent of money that goes toward building shelters and paying staff members that show these fellow human beings who currently happen to be down on their luck that there is another option than sleeping between buildings.
the mayor can have a $2 million inaguration party, while close to 14,000 citizens of his presiding city wait outside in the cold.

WHAT IF

the mayor decided to be brazen and said, "why don't we take that $2 million dollar allocation in the budget and use it to buy a whole bunch of food that we'll spend the night giving out to the homeless--individuals and families alike!!

i'll tell you something--even if caviar didn't taste like cold cum, i'd prefer to be handing out food to people who need it than flanking some 5'4" stuttering fuckhead whom we refer to as the mayor at some stuffy, overstaffed party.

AND WHAT IF

the mayor, whose surname is not derived from a random phonebook listing, but instead the eponymous multi-billion dollar financial institution, were to say, "seeing as how i'm worth billions, why not take the mayoral salary and donate it to, say, the bowery residence committee! let's help those who can't fathom money past the teens!"

what if that happened? i'll tell you what--there wouldn't be as many children reporting to a parking lot after school, wondering why there's no refrigerator on which to post their drawings; there wouldn't be as many people trying to sleep as we step over them on the way to work in the morning; there wouldn't be an army of mentally ill people roaming the streets, potentially putting us in harm; and there would be a fucking LOT LESS people going hungry.

i know to expect such things to happen is not only far-fetched, but virtually impossible, but just imagine. and you know what else? i feel like it would snowball. once tight-ass bloomberg loosened his wallet for the good of his fellow man, i truly believe it would spur others of considerable financial comfort to follow suit.

all i know is that i was raised in an extremely modest household, an experience i will always covet as one of my most prized possessions. i've always related with marginal people--different races, sexualities, and social groups. i was never the popular bitch in high school (though college i can't speak much for), and i was always the one who talked to the black kid in class. and i not only found it the 'nice' thing to do, but i also found it extremely empowering. the fact that i possessed the fortunate ability to rise above everybody else, as insignificant as it seems in retrospect, and talked to the one person they so intently ignored, made me one with the marginals. i don't think of myself as marginal, though. you have to have at least four people in the margin to be considered marginal. they say "three's a crowd," but the next verse is, "and four is marginal."

but enough about me.

here's about you--they say, "charity starts in the home," so what you need to do is commence being charitable. do five things a day--five meager deeds--to benefit your fellow human beings. it could be giving a homeless woman a dollar--or even better, the address of a homeless shelter! remember, the homeless don't carry blackberries--they can't access the internet with the convenience we can! or order an extra entree to go and give it to the guy lying outside the overpriced, overcooked restaurant. even better--cook a little extra next time and put it in a disposable tupperware--voila! instant meal to go for a homeless person. next time you're in the duane reade, go to the aisle that sells travel sized products and buy a few to constitute a care package that you can give a homeless person.

remember one thing--aside from the brc, and other homeless agencies, nobody else gives a fuck about the homeless. sympathy gets you nowhere (now that flattery does), so act up and go fucking help someone! GO! NOW!!!


try these agencies for encouragement:

bowery residence committee (brc)

nyc dept of homeless services

and one of my faves,

robinhood

so get with the picture people--act up, 'cause nobody going to do it for you.

Saturday, January 13, 2007

dancing with myself/week of crazy bitches



ooh i feel like gargamel from 'the smurfs!' it's all going according to my plan! ha ha just two weeks ago i professed my rational devotion to cameron diaz, and look what's happened--she's splitting from justin!
now it's definitely not my style to herald their breakup as some wonderful event--breakups are hard and they always suck, especially when you've got a long-awaited movie coming out, as in justin's case. but maybe it is for the best...maybe justin's embarking on a really lucrative film career, and cam is taking some time to just relax with a good book and a fabulous friend...which is where i, undoubtedly, will come in.

but back to seriousness--this has been the week of crazy people. on monday, perez brought us an exclusive look at james brown's crazy ass widow, who channeled tammy faye when she triumphantly questioned, "did GOD come down and tell the globe that it wasn't james brown's time to go?"


and then just days later, this!


how about a lotta you comin in-it's a wild party where you are!! straight up now tell us, paula--was it coke? tequila? maybe some leftover cliquot mixed with several antidepressants and ssri's you had lying around the coffee table? this is definitely a page in our his-to-ry!
i feel like this sort of behavior is too much for those poor seattle anchorwomen to take!! i mean, they kept their cool like dav-o back in '94 when little old madge fellated a cigar, but they were visibly disturbed, like they had to revert to a mental script in the emergency "what to do if your second-rate guest star is intoxicated" file. and a special toast to paula's hairstylist! her two hands must've really liked the feel of white rain extra hold!

i'm out, bitches.