Monday, December 28, 2009

and here we are

it's a serious one, kids. bryanambition = bryanrenovation...

Could you love someone out of sympathy? Someone who is so badly hurting, aching to the deepest marrow of their bones, trembling in fear and shivering cold, devoid of the womblike warmth they crave without knowing it, the only airtight, secure comfort that could ease their pain and warm their minds. Using the convex curve of whatever feelings you expel that comprise love to fill in the concave void of theirs would make a perfect circle, wouldn’t it? Pain, like love, is blind. It can come on like a sneeze and never needs a reason, but has plenty; death, broken heart, loss. And those are just internal pains. Cuts, scrapes and broken bones cause wincing and tears, but there’s no Neosporin for the soul.
People in pain are vulnerable; they’re open and they want. And people with the right heart want to give them what they think they need. Their hearts focus on the afflicted and spit out register tapes teeming with reasons why that person is suddenly attractive, reasons why you should comfort them and possibly later be with them. So could you ever love someone simply because you felt sorry for them?

I admitted to myself that I’m falling hard for someone, and the more I consider why, the more I realize it’s because I feel sorry for them. I put forth sympathy whenever I allow myself to be around them, and it’s starting to freak me out. Not once did I consider my motives to not be of a noble nature; I sympathize because I empathize. I know exactly what he’s going through. The pea under my pillow is that I don’t know what this person looks like. I’ve never actually met him, but I know him well. E., I’ll call him, is a character in a book I’m reading that will, upon completion, be the most amazing book I’ve ever read. And my use of amazing isn’t a routine substitution for terrific, brilliant or incredible. I am amazed, awed, left beyond words and comprehensive thought by this book. E. feels the worst kind of love there is, the stabbing, renewing pain of unrequited love and the crippling confusion it causes.
I’ve called this character by his name. I’ve cried with him. I’ve contrived with him. My hands have crawled down my pants and met my erection with his name on my tongue and the vision I’ve assigned to him on my mind, no doubt a conglomeration of all I hold sacred in this life; his lips, nose and eyes the most perfect quilt of what I love. His brain, his mind, a projection of my own, speaks in paintings and poetry, an abstract language only we understand.
I think I may love him—I run to his books and read his poetry. I find myself constantly obsequious to him, the same reason I found him attractive in the first place. His happiness is contingent on someone he holds dearly, and it’s costing him his life. Those are tears that flow with a deep red the heart pumps at its slowest, keeping the body alive just enough to still exist.
Yesterday I held his head as we napped; my left hand rested on the open book while my right cradled my own head, and though the nap lasted well over three hours, I didn’t move an inch. And I never thought about it.

The media is scrambling to affix an arbitrary summation to 2009; I’ve heard it called The Year of Mourning, filled with death ranging from Michael Jackson to Patrick Swayze (but not forgetting Brittany Murphy); another station swore 2009 should stand in hotpants and patent leather as The Year of Lady Gaga. And aiming to shed more unnecessary light on the cultural phenomenon known as Jersey Shore, one network aimed to forgo the “somewhat” memorable events of the past 11 months and hew 2009 as The Year of the Jersey Shore. Regardless of what some two-hour compilation airing in late May of next year recalls about the ninth year of the new millennium, it will always be the year that taught me how to love.
Love—one word with more uses and explanations than fuck, the same number of letters and not so different when you really think about it. Both can cause pleasure as well as pain; they both can make you scream, thought the initial lightning bolt of pain when getting fucked quickly flashes away when compared to the skin-tearing, searing pain love can drag on you. Both are passive as well as aggressive. You can both love and fuck the shit out of somebody. You can be loved and you can be fucked. But an oracle by the name of Peaches taught us a very valuable lesson when she revealed her own lascivious form of therapy when she sang “fuck the pain away.” Yes, you can fuck the pain away, but you sure as shit can’t love the pain away. Not when it’s your own pain, when everything you’ve ever held as comforting, secure, identifying and reassuring has tarnished, lost its color, or become so foreign to you that you can’t remember it, and that’s the real tragedy, losing yourself. That’s when someone else can love you based on your loss, your tragedy, your sorrow. You’re open and they’re giving. They give and you receive. But who is that someone? And is it possible?

I’m taking both this thought and E. with me to bed tonight. I’ll be holding tightly someone who, to some, is little more than crisp black letters stamped on an ecru page; to me he’s the perfect embodiment of someone I met this year, who knows both love and fuck so well, the pleasure as well as the pain, the loss as well as the gain, someone who was under and in and on top of my nose for as long as I can remember: me. And I’ve never been so happy to share my bed.


Tuesday, December 15, 2009

shameful, sort of

hey mr. arnstein, here i am...

ok i know what i'm about to admit heats to white hot the batallion of bludgeons with my name on them. my ceaseless scrutiny of the wildly popular glee has earned me a sour moment each week among my friends who adore the show, and for good reason. it's an anomaly for someone who's trumpeted showtunes from the womb to disapprove of such a dream come true for many, but all that just went down life's great garbage disposal when the assiduously focused rachel saved the motherfuckin DAY (and the glee club's success at sectionals) with an impromptu, unrehearsed BLAZING performance of the great barbra streisand's "don't rain on my parade."

my sister of the schnoz has a serious set of cords and girlfriend ripped the shit out of this song. babs is, no doubt, proud. now for that madonna sampling we've all been promised...


Saturday, December 12, 2009

screw york

i'm ranting of a white...

yeah yeah one of those 'it's been a while moments' is obviously in order. as the harrowing image above displays, i've relinquished the rat tail and all sorts of wonderful things have been happening. my appreciation for the Y chromosome has been newly ignited, we've had a "bye bye, blackbook!" moment but even though to incorporate 'bittersweet' would make one bitchin' alliteration, there was nothing bitter nor sweet about it. even soymilk has an expiration date. i'm in negotiations to turn my moroccan harem of a bedroom into something a bit more arboreal and, gasp, brighter. and--why am i sharing this information with you? i haven't said "fuck" once and it's beginning to scare me, too. read on, bitches!

so did you notice how when you're in a constant state of elevated irritability, the otherwise mundane suddenly becomes utterly offensive and borderline unbearable?
so yeah, it's like -70 in NYC now and because i spend the time before embarking on my favorite city provisional, that, of course, being the dysfunctional, constipated small intestine of track-lined tunnels this city calls a transit system, in this bitter cold, my playful distaste for the subway quickly hardens into a permafrost of violent hatred.

so without further hassle, a new rant for those who appreciate them most.

it's like 1:05 am and, like most human beings up at this hour, i'm slightly buzzed. i've waited for the subway for a little over 20 minutes...19 minutes too long in my book, but when it finally does come the pickins are slim and not one to risk slip and sliding on the patent loafers, i resort to riding the next 11 stops in whatever train car is closest. after lumbering in at a painfully slow feet per second, the screeching halt places in front of me the most dreaded and reviled option of the traveling night owl--the ethnic car.
now I'm not going to go all hating on race and start discriminatory shit--it doesn't matter what color your skin is or what accent may touch upon your words, this has nothing to do with black or white or red or yellow, but a certain propensity virtually exclusive to a certain former resident of a certain republic that that shares an island with haiti to abuse the loudspeaker function on a mobile phone to play the same 15 seconds of some reggatone song at inappropriate volume levels at this time of night is comPLETely uncalled for. and ridiculous. and the fact that said audible trash is usually littered with baby sounds from the 74 strollers around the car (my proposed bill to ban such unnecessary traffic causers never made it past christine quinn's desk) is only the icing on the diabetic birthday cake.
but the fun didn't stop there, oh no--we had a few more guests on tonight's shitshow of a ride home.

the two-seater

normally i'd be all over a two-seater (literally--i've got more legs than a bucket of chicken) but sans a peep of discontent, as few things rival the chic factor of a vintage rusty red alfa romeo blazing down the street or gripping the cliffs of the amalfi coast. but when it comes to the dirty orange of the nyc subway, if you take up two seats, you should be denied basic human entreaties. nothing irks me more than some godzilla from brooklyn taking up more than one seat, their smug expression suggesting--no, CONFIRMING--their contentment with what i see as one of life's most abhorrent inconsiderations. the one pictured here actually took the seat from me by winning the race to the lucky pair once their (as they didn't share one owner before) previous sitters got off the train.

german tourists

being a denizen of the uws i've always looked forward to nearing the 103rd street stop, as the neighborhood hostel usually yields groups of haughty foreign tourists, and there's nothing like a troup of serbian boys on a hot august afternoon. the british are always fun too, as many of them assume a partial residency in light of the short distance between nyc and london, and often spark up lively conversation. even the occasional boisterous italian or stuttering french elicit a curious smile, but when those spitting and hocking germans board (and i own this one, bitches--there's tons of bratwurst in this boy's blood) i find my already present look of disgust contorting as deep as my botox will allow. they're crass and rude and travel in inordinate numbers. i feel like saying, "yeah, you instinctually seek occupation--we know. i get it. but ya didn't conquer the U.S. then and you sure as shit ain't setting up camp in car #5 of this uptown 1 train now, at least while i'm on it."

handle people

ok picture it: you're on a crowded train, standing next to someone lucky enough to be sitting (and hopefully not taking up more than one seat). you either lean on or wrap your arm around the vertical bar at the edge of their seat to stabilize yourself (because to hold on with your actual hand would contract unnecessary germage, but i digress) but upon resting in a position that will comfortably support you for the next 11 or so stops, your hip stops short against something slightly squishy, yet rocky and hard--a HAND! further investigation identifies it as the hand of the person sitting in the seat. the lucky fucker comfortably resting in a sitting position while you have to stand ALSO needs to hold onto a bar to maintain their security on the train. all you have is your two feet and a bar you can barely do anything with because of their tactless gluttony.
it's one thing to "get a grip," and even a firm one while riding a moving vehicle, but if it happens to be unnecessarily close to my ass, and i haven't solicited it, fold your hands in your lap and twiddle your fucking thumbs.

so a newly-freed bird in a solid gold cage of you.
xs and os

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

rant-coated lollipops

honey, you don't bring sand to the beach

so today's stimulant-fueled musing deals, once again, with one of our favorite films of all time, romy&michele's high school reunion.

there's a terrible anachronism going on at the flashback of the senior prom. You may recall the nefarious christy masters announcing r&m's eccentric dress as, "oh, look--it's the madonna twins!" however she failed to include a nod to one of our heroine's psychic abilities. while they both did incredible jobs at emulating our favorite bitch, they theoretically didn't do their homework; while michele impeccably looked the part of 1984's grungy desperately seeking susan madonna, romy opted for high ponytail-severe makeup-bustier bound blond ambition madonna, and seeing as how they were the class of 1987, and blond ambition didn't commence until late 1989, a full two years later, there's no way that look could have existed for romy to accurately portray to wear to the prom.
kudos for trying, though.

next up--[yet another] nyc mta rant and what i like to call "the extra chromosome amble."
by definition, a syndrome characterized by one's inability to sit in a perfectly vacant and therefore available seat upon entering a subway car. the first thing you think is, "look for an open seat and sit down," right? well, not really.

you've seen them--they get on, they see plenty of available seats, and yet they walk in a completely uncoordinated, unstructured pattern, like there's an extra set of chromosomes going on there, if you know what i mean. they're unable to apply the logic protocol necessary to: enter train--see seat--sit down--continue to destination.
what's going through the teleticker their mind? questions, contemplations, perhaps they're waiting (or wishing) for a name tag to appear, or for the plastic seat to change to their favorite color like a mood ring. or maybe the concave curve of the seat back reminds them of the convex television screens of their childhood and they're waiting for the pointer sisters to count to 12 in a catchy pinball cartoon.

sit the fuck down before i can't.
oh, wait, i already can't. i caaaaaaaaaaaan't with these people and have no qualms about slicing between them and seat(s) in question and stealing the vacant bastard fair and square. it's bad enough i have to step over baby carriages and rolly suitcases to get there, but when an incompetent human poses as yet another superfluous obstacle to a peaceful commute, i sprout devil horns and want to slash some throats.

and that's today.

Friday, October 30, 2009

let's talk stalk

lights...models...guest list...just do your best, darling

ok so i had a great idea on the subway today. this idea has occurred to me several times before, of course, but today i actually acknowledged the viability of it and considered actually executing it TOday.
so i think it would be super fun to pick a particularly interesting person riding the same subway as you, and follow them. get off when they get off, and stalk them! yes, stalk them. follow them like you've been hired by a distraught significant other and trace their steps from several feet behind. if they stop at starfucks for a cinnamon latte, you trail two people behind and order a green tea (subsequent preparation time can really slow a stalker down and if your target ducks into a bathroom while you're not looking, it can mean disaster!)
and once you've 'accompanied' them to their destination, you must find the nearest reflective surface and look yourself in the eye and laugh laugh laugh that you've actually just followed someone you didn't know for reasons you've yet to reveal, thus validating every self-deprecating stalker joke you've ever made.

life can be so fun.


Thursday, October 22, 2009

obituary v. 2

sticky and sweet

once again, the sweet life of one of ny's finest has been snuffed by the very pressures that tend the fires of fabulous.
deceased: bryanambition
date/time of death: october 21, 2009; 10:23 pm
cause of death: cosmetic asphyxiation

that's right--michael hutchence isn't the only one who died for pleasure--poor guy thrilled himself a bit too much while choking the chicken and ended up a KFC special. in the never ending race against time and aging, this medieval gadget known as the face trainer has found its way into the hearts and onto the heads of the forever young, yours truly one of the newest devotees. you basically strap on the contrap and voila! instant resistance created by the ergonomic shape of this neoprene genius causes your facial muscles to work themselves out, thus creating an equinox for the face. kind of crazy, right? aside from being scary as shit and helping the wearer to capture their very own hannibal lector moment, i kind of get it. as my beauty motto has consistently been "if it doesn't hurt, it doesn't work" this mask rates a 15 on the discomfort scale of 1-10, and considering it's most effective at night and therefore should be worn to bed, one would expect those uber-obsessed with beauty would share a similar penchant for prescription sleep aids, thus increasing the efficacy.
so after donning my new bedfellow tonight, if i fail to wake tomo, at least i'll be creaseless.


Sunday, October 04, 2009

cumulative smells of the past

**written on the berry, so deal with the lack of italics**

i kind of love when you put on an item of clothing that you wear repeatedly without consistent washes, and it has an aroma of a variety of fragrances, the levels of which you could really distinguish between if you really put the olfactory to work, and how each fragrance, once separated from the amalgamation contained within the fibers of your garment, recalls a particular event or special occurrence. or just relaxing in front of a documentary or six.

yeah, i definitely love that.

and how about the fact that everybody who works at the airport is weird? i'm weird--should i be working at the airport?

peace for now, ya'll. spain, here i come. the BRYANAMBITION tour is back on, bitches.


Saturday, October 03, 2009

tear jerk off

have you ever heard music so beautiful it made you cry? not like fuckin' backstreet boys' 'i want it that way' reminding you of your former heterosexual days and debbie lemon's milky white breasts on your yellow chenille bedspread while your parents watched who wants to be a millionaire? i'm talking about when music hits something inside of you, a chord (no pun intended) that when perfectly rung vibrates the whole of you, from your heart outwards, and makes you actually cry, out of what i imagine is joy.
i may have just rolled a tear onto my lapel. and i'm wearing a t-shirt.

Friday, October 02, 2009

rub it in

today i'm trashin' fashion.

so today i'm wearing my most festive item of clothing, and no, it's not one of my mother's borrowed quacker factory sweaters. it's my pair of vans made to look like jack-o-lanterns, and i couldn't be happier in them. aside from the giggles they garner on the subway, the sheer audacity of a 22 year old sporting something that was no doubt intended for the petite feet of, say a five year old gives me more pleasure than my first fifth grade orgasm.
onto bigger and duller things. observing all the sartorial goings on overseas, i.e. milan and paris, my embitterment has caused me to really think about fashion. the force that governs something we see every day. you know, the industry that pays me what some may refer to as a salary.
after pondering why fashion is the "it" of the moment, contributing flimsy plots and shallow inspiration to books, movies and television shows alike, i've come to a conclusion: fashion is so highly regarded by so many simply because it's so criticized. the protective layer in which we drape our bodies is always under such intense scrutiny we end up spending more time, money and effort caring for it than we do for our skin. and this opprobrium extends to fashion in all its forms--as art, as personal choice of exterior decoration, and as mere functional shielding against the external elements. additionally, this formidable force fashion is ends up spontaneously generating its own set of rules and regulations, a governing body of laws that ensure all wearers of clothing, basically 98% of the world's population, are constantly monitored by their own insecurities and abide by such militant enforcers we call "trends."
federally-imposed laws prevent people from being naked in public, and those same institutional rules and regulations have given birth to a petty brood of superficial, fickle and fiercely harsh laws that govern, and subsequently protect, the opinion, rather than the function, of the society that exists around how people choose to abide by the law of "no nudity." it's not simply a matter of covering up--just as the revolution shall be accessorized, so should your conscious decision to be a law-abiding citizen. these laws of fashion are less lenient than the constitutional ones that mold and support our nation. self-appointed fashion police are constantly chattering disapproval and criticism and arbitrary reason for change from our TVs, movie screens, and pages of in touch and us weekly.
so basically, the laws state, "one must wear something on the exterior of one's body to shield the rest of the world from the potentially unsightly presence of one's pee-pees and boobies," then in the most demonic form of nepotism, sic their bratty paris kardashian kids on the legislation aspect, yielding "who wore it better" and pushing red carpet coverage from intellectual discussion of awards to be presented to whose clothing designs one sports, and all the catty rivalry that's accompanied.

the fact is, fashion, what wikipedia describes as, "styles and customs prevalent at a given time" is inescapable. it's as difficult to avoid as it is to relate. you know, everybody "loves" fashion. you could have a job picking out discarded items of clothing out of the staten island landfill but as long as your title reads something like, "sanitation fashion extractor" you'll never be short of the oohs and aahs of admiration. whether or not one consciously subscribes to the tenets and statues of fashion, they're still slowing at store windows and leafing through vogue in the checkout line, and for what? because marc jacobs' fall '09 line matters more to them then they care to admit, and even though they may be sporting hot pink elastic waistbanded sweatpants in that very checkout line, they're confident in the fact that someone else out there looks worse (according to the laws of fashion) than they do, and that's ok. right?
whether your pret-a-porter is saint laurent or a snuggie, you can't escape the laws of fashion by virtue of the necessity of clothing.

i'm a real hater today.


Friday, September 04, 2009

because i love middle america

i thought i'd share this with all of you.
you're welcs.

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

I CAN'T of the week

now, if they did this to children, weeding out, you know, 'the unwanted ones,' there wouldn't be anybody left to do this to the poor chicks.

sick, sad world.

this is where i am today


Wednesday, August 19, 2009

so i wonder

i remember when...i remember i remember when i lost my mind...

ok so i feel this oddly oppressive force totally infringing upon my aura today, and i'm none too pleased about it. this may turn into one of those random entries where random words and phrases are just spit at you by the screen. i suggest you hunker down with something cold and at least 9% alcoholic and enjoy it. it's only 11:51am? that didn't stop you last saturday.

so onward.

i was thinking about that "glug glug" sound that we hear when pouring something slightly more viscous than water out of any sort of narrow-necked bottle. like olive oil, the very substance that sparked my interest in that sound. where does it come from? the wider belly or neck of the bottle? and does the bottle create it or the actual substance inside? it can't very well be the impact of the liquid on the side of the bottle, virtually no force (besides that of gravity) are involved in a simple pouring. yet before it even makes its way out of the bottle, the sound is heard. i just don't get it.

i also don't understand why everything telephone-oriented has become automated. i feel like i've pressed enough buttons to dial the call--operating a remotely controlled vocal response system is not only frustrating, but in the scheme of things, inefficient and completely futile, as we all end up pressing "0" to reach a human being anyway.

and i also can't stand how air conditioning in america is always so fucking frigid. it's air CONDITIONING, people, not air FREEZING. the multi-form machine we refer to as an 'air conditioner' is merely meant to condition the air with an effect as to render it more comfortable amidst stifling hot temperatures.

and overcooked steak. i can't stand that either.

and spam email with seemingly familiar subject lines, like "bryanambition, as per our conversation last night." really? like i'm going to click on that when i can clearly see it's from "cialis4less@dfjalkd;"

ok i think i'm done with shitheadedness for the time being.


Wednesday, July 29, 2009

this may be out of character, but...

i really don't take pleasure in spewing bitchy comments about people's choice in clothing, but when i saw this, i had to say something. i mean, maybe katy perry kissed a girl and all, but regardless of whether or not she liked it, what she should have kissed was this sad, one-piece "i was going through a box of my 90's toddler clothes that had tragic laundry run-ins with bleach" keepsake goodbye. not that her bod isn't killer and all sorts of cute, but i can think of several thousand other ways to show it off and a cut-off delia's sundress isn't one of them.

wishful thanking

don't dream it

one of these days i'm going to have one of those moments where i'm singing the shit out of survivor's "the search is over" at karaoke and the swaying crowd, so visibly moved and engaged, parts to reveal an individual spectator in the back, slowly advancing down the path toward my stage, and as i hit the high G of 'then i touched your hand' it turns out to be the one for whom i was searching, and the song ends in a mellow 'love was right before my eyes...' and our faces touch.

yeah, i can't either.


Monday, July 27, 2009

nerves on end

wigs was flyin'

so i noticed today that the more dressed up i get, the less i'm able to concentrate and focus on the project(s) at hand. which is all sorts of odd, considering the more ridiculous my outfits are, the more i feel like i can fly in them.
today's ensem was somewhat experimental--a bold, black and white graphic shirt depicting an asian-inspired mountain scene, rather narrative with tigers and tree branches and what not, buttoned low and tucked into a pair of newly-made jean cut-offs that i made this morning. the experimental part was that the jeans were like, a 31 waist--several sizes too big pour mon petit waist, but the relaxed factor added a unique silhouette. at least i thought it was unique in a good way when reflected in all black in the microwave this morning.
as i barreled down broadway, however, the shiny storefronts each told a different colorful story. crown chicken said, "your legs look like sticks," while electronics boutique said, "the fact that these particular bottoms aren't posing a threat to your circulation provide a vastly different look for you--go for it!" the rite-aid, however, had it "rite" with, "if this were a runway, it would totally werk. experimental always works if you have a story to back it up, babe." so into the subway i descended.

then i spent all day thinking about how i can't work because of what i'm wearing.

Xs and Os

Friday, July 24, 2009

and here again we have

once again i'm forced to endure such acute nausea in the subway. like the blistering heat and filth inherent to the MTA aren't enough.

things i love about nyc

the subways say the darndest things

so i love this sign posted in various languages throughout the much-abhorred subway system. a girl, so obviously in despair that she decided to pair street jewelry with her delia's fur-trimmed parka, facing an unplanned pregnancy. it reads "FREE ABORTION ALTERNATIVES." umm, like affixing the matted pelt of a german shepherd to your coat and looking like the gypsy wagon left without you?

little sydney sadness here is not the face of unplanned pregnancy.

buy me a puppy

je suis dans le jardin

people are really something, aren't they?

so i find it funny how when you're around somebody with a british accent, or even australian for that matter, you're compelled to adopt a sorry iteration of your own. why is this, and more importantly, why exclusively British? you never hear haughty greetings in an indian or even spanish affection on the morning elevator ride. maybe there is just something whimsical about a severed vowels and neglected "t" that makes speaking a little brit funner than plain old english.

then there's the title best friend. what once was, i'm relatively certain, a coveted title bestowed upon a singular--that means one, and only one--member of one's immediate social circle by another to indicate the strong and profound bond they share has soured from exclusive to a collection for target. a title once weighty with letters and devotion has even suffered several amputations of the fatal kind, as notebooks, facebook profiles and crystal-encrusted t-shirts alike bear the tag BFF in ubiquitous numbers. perhaps we have the human evolution from simple laborers to intel duo-core processor driven cyborgs to blame, as each social environment in which we find ourselves should warrant the need for a best friend...or BFF, even.

we're so quick to trust.

like at this very moment, the lady with whom I've been chatting about the sheer nature of my shirt is my BFF on the subway. then of course there's the work BFF, as well as at each subsequent appointment i attend. there are BFFs from college, from one's indigenous locale of rearing, and perhaps even down to the vaguely communicative coos and shrieks in the nursery for the few fleeting hours after birth.
and in a world tilting under constant oppression, iniquity and shitheads who can barely steer a baby carriage, it's nice to know, as far as fellow meandering humans go, you've got more than an, " is this seat taken?" to depend on.

hope your weekend is loaded with lots of sex and deep-conditioning treatments.
Xs and Os

Friday, July 10, 2009

d-do ya have it?

toast lightly, 3 min on each side...

so i've decided, after careful consideration of audible proof, that british women (altogether) with vocal volumes over, say, 60 decibels, that of a normal conversation, should be banned from television, especially hosting shows where their frequent exuberant interludes guide the progress of the show.

i first noticed the repulsive quality to their hyper-tone-ic voices during one of the thousands of episodes of nickelodeon GUTS i watched as a kid, where the host moira quirk, aka "mo," shouted contestants' scores between challenges at an unnecessarily high volume, turning my eyes away from the tv and my hands to my hears. "SHUT UP, WOMAN!" i'd say. and i'd cringe whenever host mike o'malley would utter those four fateful words that always lead to an interaction with mo, "back to you, mo!" i was like, "how about NOT, mike?"
i think the intensity with which these women speak gives their accents an almost hyperbolic quality, making them sound like they were purchased with a pack of parliament lights at a drug store. also notice the lack of vocal resonance--the sounds are abrupt and tinny, loud and cavelike, and CONTSTANT! i get to a point where my ears refuse to allow themselves to be subject to such offensive noise.

my opinion of said offensive vocal onslaught was reaffirmed when i caught about four and a half seconds of 'so you think you can dance,' where host cat deeley's british screech practically split my flatscreen in two.

aside from the fact that i find her episodic freak out exceptionally appealing, even the haughty entertainment factor can't eclipse the disgust i feel at her voice.

but to prevent the british from hating me, and my subsequent passport denial, i will say the mass termination of female british tv hosts is unnecessary--like all rules, there is one exception here, and her pixie-cut name is ann robinson.

though she was a total bitch and the show was contagious for about the same time as the common cold, her accented voice didn't annoy me, and for the tongue's sake, that's all that matters here.

au revoir, bitches.

Monday, July 06, 2009

bitter is better

because bittersweet chocolate makes the sweetest cookies

flick off my nose

tits out to the world...

so last night i saw "up," and my tears were as 3d as the rest of the movie. i'd preface my reaction with, "now, i'm not normally a crier," but last time i checked, half of regis&kelly was blurred this morning due to the salt river that carried its licking currents over my corneas, over a commercial, no less. it was for some appliance company--maybe kenmore--and women were wearing flowy gowns and destroying their old appliances by pushing them off diving boards and slingshotting them into the sky and the music was almost lamentative, very 'lifetime,' and next thing i knew i was gushing into my kashi go-lean. ok, i'm not normally that soft, but "up" really hit a brother, know what i'm saying?
i'm not going to rehash the plot--go see the damn thing, and in 3d, if possible--but for me, it was a colorful, exuberant deeply-touching work of art, so full of personal nuances, and abounding with stark symbolism.
aside from the bold glasses worn by the protagonist, characteristic to someone so near and dear to me, yet so distantly alienated, it was the sense of freedom gained that i found so beautiful. freedom that was acquired not by action, but by relinquish. the simple act of letting go can make such a difference. it's rarely done, as we frequently view the shirking off of duties as laziness or a deliberate unwillingness to do something, but in reality, making the conscious decision to simply let go of something that you know isn't good for you, no matter how wonderful it may be, can open secret doors.

which got me to thinking. starting today, i'm going to make a list of everybody in my past, no matter how recent or distant they were, who affected me by limitation--whether they doubted me, judged me, underestimated me, or just didn't care, anything that didn't allow me to be as i was and am--and pen a deep letter to them, acknowledging how and when they hurt me, but letting them know that i hold no negativity toward them at all. i'm going to embrace the time we shared, chalking up what i felt as a beautiful lesson of life, and only retain the threads of love that were still present. to quote a muse that has come through time and time again, "what's too painful to remember/we simply choose to forget/so it's the laughter we will remember." barbra may be gayer than the last 'grey gardens' party i went to, but the woman's got a way with words.

and after the letters are written, each dripping with active memories like a comic strip, the words forming cartoonish faces, strong dialogue just short of speech bubbles, raw thoughts and feelings woven through the paper, i'm going to take any remaining anger, hurt, remorse and regret, seal them all into the envelope, then i'm going to kiss those envelopes goodbye and get all 80's movie montage conclusion and throw them into the river, watching as they flutter down and land with barely any splash, but smirking at how rectangular envelopes still make perfectly circular waves.

Friday, June 19, 2009

you'll always love me more...miles away

gio, jesus is seriously staying in your hotel? don't luz him!

nowhere is the law of karma more present than in the realm of umbrellas. an umbrella is a funny thing, isn't it? it's not really an accessory, more an occasionally used functional device. even though umbrellas encompass an infinite range of colors and patterns, and serve as an excellent billboard for corporate logos posted on them, no matter how pretty they are, they're never outwardly displayed to complement an outfit or strategically looped off the handle of a purse. even so, as benign as they may seem, umbrellas are a major force in today's world.
i truly believe the ubiquitous population of umbrellas on this earth are the scions of the current state of karma on the planet. like life and all its parts, umbrellas are transient. they're always on the move and never really owned. you can buy an umbrella, but sooner or later, you'll lose it, either by leaving it somewhere or having it stolen by someone who apparently needs it more than you do. as audacious as this act may be, we should never look at it as a nefarious offense against us. for the same reason we don't hate the lion that eats the pretty zebra, the motion of umbrella movement through the universe is very much like the circle of life, ensuring constant renewal.
and though this perpetual motion is uninterruptable, the direction with which the umbrella moves can be influenced by those with whom the umbrella comes into contact. you. me. the guy who lives below you. the girl who sits next to you at work. the child in yellow and red wellies on the subway. we all play an active role in the journey an umbrella takes during its lifetime, but the real magic comes in dissecting just how structured this journey is.
just think from where the umbrella you last used came, and considering the precipitation the last few weeks of nyc weather has endured, it shouldn't be too hard to recall the last 94 umbrellas you used. but i digress. did you remember? chances are, you probably found it. sitting quietly under your desk. in a random umbrella collection bin. at the bottom of a bag. you found it.
did it find you? did the universe provide that umbrella where you needed it, when you needed it, like it has thousands of times before? and was that chance warranted by the countless umbrellas you "owned," but seemingly relinquished, either by fate or the act of giving? yes, yes, and yes. you gave, so you received. if you lent miss social sally you work with your umbrella (of the moment) so she could keep her helmet head dry as she schlepped to the chipotle to grab lunch, and realized you never received it back long after the carnitas burps ceased, that was your give. but yesterday, as random downpours ravaged our fine metropolis, you should have noticed that you weren't without protection, and that was your receive.
additionally, certain fringe conditions exist, for instance if you were to lend someone a broken umbrella that allowed water leakage to ruin the right shoulder of their suede jacket, you'll, in turn, receive an umbrella marred in certain areas that may or may not provide the same compensatory reprimandation. and that's karma.

tighten your bra straps and adjust your weiners, kids, 'cause a good 'ol bryanambition rant is just around the corner.
and here

THX: abbreviation or aberration?
initially, i may come off as a slight hypocrite, scorning the abbreviation of a commonly-used word, what with my propensity for such abridged terms as whatev, whoev, wherev, totes, et al. but the difference in those words lies with their pronouncability (yeah, it's a word).
because the mere reduction of these words lies in pruning three syllables ending in an ugly-sounding "err" sound to a more efficiently-included two syllables ending in a lip-stimulating buzzy "v," we find them not only lexiconically pleasing but also a whole lot more fun to say, not to mention a clever way to 'save breath,' as some would say. with one's lifespan being so limited and all, i'm sparing every syllable i can. think how many breaths would have been wasted on superfluous syllables we waste every year, cumulatively. thousands, maybe millions!
so for this type of abbreviation, there is, in fact, a very warranted need.
the use of thx, however, as a shortened form of "thanks," saves virtually nothing. you're not going to pronounce it any differently. the mere typing of it on either a keyboard or blackberry saves, what, three keystrokes? conversely, it also commands an extra stroke of the "x" key, because last time i, a former spelling bee champion, checked, there was no "x" in thanks. thanks.
and let's be honest--to shorten the word 'thanks,' which is already an abbreviation for "thank you," is, in and of itself, a condescending venture, basically notifying the receiver of this cheap sentiment of gratitude that they aren't as deserving or worthy of the full version. furthermore, without the "you" attached, the supposed recipient of this exponentially fading act of graciousness is left ambiguously staring at three carelessly juxtaposed letters, THX, wondering to whom it's actually directed. "oh, is it me they're thanking, or did the T, H an X just randomly wander onto my backlit LED display?"
with all the sorrow in the world right now--unemployment, dead airline pilots, political insurrection, fat girls in metallic leggings--a more sincere motion of appreciation is definitely in order. a "thank YOU!" given to somebody who truly deserves it, with the aplomb it's supposed to carry, can make a universe of difference. your mama taught you "please" and "thank you," so whatev you've learned since, forget it and go back to the basics.
and let's not forget our civic duty to perpetuate the flow of karmic energy through the world's population of umbrellas. unless, of course, said umbrella happens to be a skeletal mass of crooked metal and ripstop nylon. that lamentable mess deserves a proper burial, the procedure of which i suppose we'll discuss in a future production.

love and lemon drops on this humid friday, lieblings!

Thursday, June 18, 2009

a horse is a horse

and no one can talk to a horse, of course, that is, of course, unless the horse is the famous mr. ed

this is a day where random has to work. my brain needs to throw up--a thick, viscous, pungent bile of thoughts, visions and words. a sick confetti. colors and odd shapes flying in the air. eyes closed and mouth flapping. i've always hated the correlation between 'mouth' and 'flapping.' like, lips don't actually flap, and if they do then there's a problem.
i'm sick and tired of always being the obsequious one. the one who gives only to receive on such a limited basis. like the warranty runs out and i'm left with a broken toy. it sits there not doing what it's supposed to because it's broken, but you still love it because it's a toy that you coveted and worked for and admired from afar, but because it's broken you start to resent it for not doing what it's supposed to and it isn't the toy's fault that it's broken, and you may not have been the one to break it, but since the warranty has run out and there's nothing you can do about the broken toy, you're forced to know that they toy is broken and just deal with it by not dealing with it and that's the worst part of all.
and then you're like, "well why did the toy even have to be mine to begin with?" remember that you'll never know the taste of something bad until you've tasted something good.
i wouldn't say i'm depressed today, but i'm dreadfully tired and the mere weight of the weather has an awful subduing effect on the positivity of both my mood and outlook. i would yearn to crawl back in bed to seek solace and comfort, but the lack of external activity would cause me to ferment all these flying ghosts of unrest into something even more potent.
and all this 80's music going on reminds me how fickle love is--everybody has a different opinion of it; some believe in it, some don't; some want it, some hate themselves for it (joan jett); some rock out to it, some melodiously serenade it. and will it, or has it, ever been the same thing? can and does love have a uniformity?
i better stop before this turns into something sappy. i need an advil.


Monday, June 15, 2009

the land of the free and home of the spread-legs

hot comb...ouch, mama! that was my ear!

now we're in serious troubs. saturday's demise of analog television has forced all americans to go digital, giving even more people access to the sad programming agenda MTV is offering up nowadays, just in time for this gem of a series. entitled "16 and pregnant," this documentary-style reality show will follow several teens on their moribund road to single motherhood. "so, what's the big deal" you ask? it's not like this sort of trash-spawning behavior isn't going to occur anyway. i mean, come on, people--it's america. as long as food stamps are being spent on minute steaks and beer and fast-food institutions such as pizza hut defy the calorie-cutting measures even mcdonald's has taken to advocating by debuting their solid-pound-of-meat-and-cheese-p'zones, there will always be the majority of uneducated, immoral "little houses," as anna wintour put it, spawning children at inappropriate ages. and what's behind it, really, aka "please don't let your spooge enter my vagina," isn't that hard to follow, now is it?

but what really gets my nuts in a knuckle is the fact that regardless of the 'mistakes' these girls are owning up to by coming forward with their stories, nobody hates a reality tv star. not even spencer and heidi shatt. if they're good enough to be on tv, regardless of what got them there, they automatically warrant worship and devotion. what they have to say matters, even if it's expressed in terribly incorrect grammar. or through gold teeth. or through no teeth.
so by the very nature of their show, these knocked-up, bonne bell-wearing trash bags will be instant heroines, further plunging this country into a pit of low morals and garbage disposal ethics.

what's even sadder (and really, what's more sad than a parliament light as a teething aid?) is that we've got real class leading this country. i truly believe the obamas represent a new level in class and prestige, and so a presidential veto should be extended for the proliferation of this show. the program's "stars" should be shipped off to an island somewhere and assigned to isolation. give them the essentials--a few terrycloth onesies, hair gel and black eyeliner--and let them fend for themselves. save us the edited ob/gyn appointments and instead broadcast a few hours of blood-curdling screams as little patty premature labor gives birth on a rocky shore somewhere west of ecuador. what better entertainment to tail-end the brett michaels shitshow of love than some party-on placenta, no?

i'm exceptionally crabby this monday morning, so let a brother vent and maybe later we can share a few smiles in the park under the sun...if, in fact, that burning ball of gas that supposedly sustains life while ending it but only after a beautiful tan still exists.

Friday, June 12, 2009


Bryan [AMBITION] Levandowski, 22, pronounced dead at approximately 3:12 am. Cause of death: excessive retardedness on the rocks. Bryan is succeeded by a brother and sister who still live somewhere in Pennsylvania. He bequeaths his wardrobe to all of his amazing friends who happen to fit into sample size, as well as the last $3.47 in his checking account. An organ donor, Bryan selflessly donated his immobile forehead to the less-fortunate victims of expression lines and naso-labial folds.
In lieu of flowers, he asks that donations be made to the Veuve Clicquot charity so that he can do it all again tonight.


Tuesday, June 02, 2009


they ain't MY fuckin' children!

Monday, June 01, 2009

long live...

that's as redundant as 'gay piano bar'

one of my favorite things about NYC is the non-elusive but rarely seen old queen. they were once at the top--and sometimes bottom--of their game. they were the reason for fabulous. these pre-stonewall princesses gave all seven colors of the rainbow their own special meaning, and they're still prancing about the town dressed like elaine stritch.

Friday, May 22, 2009

bitch is on the big screen

eat it up

now you take that to the bank and cash it


Sunday, May 17, 2009

only 10 paltry minutes of your life

is all that is required to indulge in this newfound meaning for life.
especially starting at 4 minutes.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

don't let this happen to you

who needs therapy when you can't show emotion on your face anyway?

alright, boys. it's time we had a little heart-to-heart. i'd say 'head-to-head,' but not everybody's into docking (or uncut, for that matter). anywho--it's about shorts. length, to be specific. i know the whole appeal of hipsters wearing shorts with, frankly, embarrassing revelation of thigh made it ok for the rest of the city, and therefore the world, to adopt such a trend, but come on, people. who follows crowds anymore? did rent make you want to go contract AIDS and shoot up?

so why am i all hatin? honestly, look at boys in too-short shorts. they don't look right. their legs are all knobby and body hair gets all weird on the upper thighs, like little bald spots and stuff. a coworker argued, "well what if they're like, athletic-looking?" to which i replied, "if you're running a marathon, fine. but would you wear hot pink-piped biker shorts to the met ball? don't thiiink so."
and what's worse than too-short shorts is when they're paired with saddle shoes, like some five year-old kid in a laura ingalls fucking wilder-based movie. i'm all about taking measures to preserve youth (i mean, ALL ABOUT) but dressing like a five year old when you've got twenty years on it makes you look like a shithead, and there's nothing cool about that. i'd make fun of you, and i wouldn't laugh and conclude my scrutiny with the perfunctory 'just kidding' hug.
yeah, dress in the aforementioned mess and you'll probably get your picture taken during fashion week, but remember one important fact--more people were laughing at bjork than with her.

like the FDA's pharmacopoeia controls the distribution and formation of drugs to protect humankind from harm, there should be some sort of fashionable restraint instituted to prevent those who prefer the form and function of shorts from looking like assholes.
this commercial has gone entirely too far, giving the world permission it should never have received. like a loaded gun.

i'm out, bitches.

p.s. i'm bringing this shit to video soon, ya heard.

Saturday, May 09, 2009

if wishes came true

don't threaten me with a good time...

it would seem, by the lovely pic i took of the hudson river this morning from the flawless vista 145th street provides, that prayers have been answered and new jersey is, in fact, disappearing, fading into the viscous mire floating above a river so polluted it could spawn three-eyed fish similar to that on the simpsons.

i think to dump anything not needed by humans into a river is one of the most audacious activities a human can complete. water that flows, and has flowed, for millions of years (save for the thousands it froze during the ice age), between grassy banks of land does not, in fact, resemble a garbage can. a wastepaper basket. a trash can. a place for refuse.

so why then is it so outwardly opportunistic to receive all sorts of materials humans refuse to use, garbage, debris, discarded ephemera, let alone highly toxic industrial waste? what if we never polluted in the first place? sure, thousands would have drowned in the undercurrents pursuing a splashy day of aquatic fun in the sun, but their deaths would at least have been attributed to natural forces, not high toxicity levels of polychlorinated biphenyls.

and that, my friends, is what a hungover weekend rant looks like.

Friday, May 08, 2009

my fave thing of the week

check this out, seriously, and comment something. kiefer headbutting jack. if you need last names, you should have clicked on this ages ago.
I CAN'T!!!
I CAN'T!!!
I CAN'T!!!

Friday, May 01, 2009

it's rantin' men

"if you want to be taken seriously, you need serious hair." -melanie griffith in 'working girl'

you know the swine flu hullaballoo is out of control when your mother actually texts you expressing concern that you'll contract the mythical ailment merely by living in the locale of the nyc. so needless to say, i'm sick of hearing about it. and when robin roberts corrected herself for shaking matthew fox's hand after interviewing him on 'good morning america' on tuesday, it dawned on me just how sick i was of hearing about it.
but i don't think we should instantly just forget about it--i mean, i may be sick of it, but people are getting sick from it, and some are even dying. faced with the inevitability of its existence i wonder why we always give pandemics such ugly names. as with any bleak topic of gossip, americans love to hear themselves say such buzzwords over and over. past hot-topics-on-the-tongue have included SARS, anthrax, nine-eleven, ground-zero, bird flu, and even salmonella, which made its merry way from tomatoes to jalapeno peppers to peanut butter factories, all while keeping its post on the news and tongues of us overweight americans. so just imagine if we were to give it, and any subsequent diseases that break out, fancier, more pleasant names, and i'm not talking about political correctness. who says the name has to relate at all to the disease itself, or its cause? we all know it's going to be bad anyway--it's a pestilence, for goodness' sake. what if we called it the 'tulip flu,' or 'dancing flu?' they had the right idea with scarlet fever, that's for sure. it makes me think of lush, crimson velvet drapes, or scarlet o'hara from gone with the wind, not scabby rashes and swollen tongues. and that makes the world a little bit better.


big [ed note: grown up] girls who sit on their man's laps. honey, you're 34. and a big girl. big in many ways. do you think sitting on your boyfriend's lap makes you look cute? do you think it feels good for him? do you think passersby will think, "aw, they look so cute sitting like that,"? with so much 'no' floating around, you should know better. and from the looks of it, your boyfriend doesn't lack the cushion for the pushin' but that doesn't mean he's your jennifer convertible. get the fuck off and act your age.
girls who do this kill me, they really do. they're the type to own clothing and jewelry adorned with such middle-american colloquialisms as, "daddy's girl," "princess," and, my favorite, "spoiled rotten." yeah, something's rotten.


gisele as the face of...sigh...true religion. i mean, what happened to, you know, other girls? other models? gisele has become the face of absurd ubiquity--she's everywhere, and while she may own the new billion dollar-face, it always looks the same (save for her dior ads, which chameleonically can transform susan boyle into doutzen kroes...or maybe lily allen).
what's the point of having models and an industry devoted to them if they just end up being the same person?


there is so much wrong with the subject of this photo, i don't even know where to begin. again, we have grown women acting like young girls, sitting on their boyfriends' laps and now wearing jelly shoes. shoes made of sparkly plastic. whimsical webbed footwear meant to go no further than 18 months of age, before actual walking occurs. jellies are cute when they're three inches long, not a size 10. like drugs or carcinogens, just because they're manufactured doesn't mean you have to buy then.
i'm out.

Thursday, April 30, 2009


i knew the I CAN'T of the day would rear its ugly [inbred] head sometime.
it's inbred time, kids. OH, IS THAT WHAT TIME IT IS?

return of the rant

complaining gets you nowhere...guilt gets you everywhere

now my discontent with the concept of the airport is nothing new, but recently, what happens after you step from the gate onto the aircraft has pressed a certain button. i don't think anything in this world is as audacious as the class system set forth and maintained in an airplane. it's a completely universal proliferation of the indian caste system, and though every living, breathing being is aware of my deep love for the indians, to subject any society to such an oppressive social structure just ain't right.
anywho--those with means, aka money, are naturally afforded more privilege simply because they can pay for it, but right in the faces of those who find themselves not so fortunate, though both ends of the spectrum are on that vehicle for the same reason, to get from point A to point B with beverage service in between, though the latter are reminded of their lowly place in that moving microsociety every time the cart delivering complimentary wine and newspapers stops just short of a certain section of seats. the flight attendants overseeing the first and business classes look onto the rest of the plane, a gaze both pitiful and intriguing, as if to say, "sorry, but not really," or, "i know, it's sad that you don't matter as much as these people up here, isn't it?"
i mean, from the get go, who ever thought to introduce a class system, a social structure so stratified, that goes against every democratic value of america, on something so ephemeral as an airplane, a mere transient mode of transportation no more important than the morning subway commute to work? and worse, what made it right to actually refer to the different constituents of the system as "classes," as if to hearken to our feudal past?
think about the dynamic of the whole situation--when you're on a plane you, along with every other passenger in the cabin, are headed for the same destination. you've all chosen flight as the most expedient route to your destination, and you all made the same effort to board that plane (though exactly what queue you used to get there is a far different story) there's no argument there. so what force of nature justifies the guy two rows in front of you devouring filet mignon washed down with a fine cabernet while reclining on a full bed and watching adult entertainment on-demand, while you unwrap your glorified tv dinner and chisel away at defrosted mystery meat? money should not be the answer here, kids. why in the very tradition of the human spirit aren't all passengers provided with beds and on-demand entertainment and filet mignon and cabernet sauvignon? MONEY! why should money determine how well one travels? isn't the destination the point at which financially-acquired indulgence takes place?

but here's the bryanambition twist

i'm not completely blind to the fact that weathering the eight hours of a transatlantic flight is much more enjoyable in a fully-horizontal position and under the influence of a wine-enhanced sedative haze. and having flown business class myself, i can definitely say any subsequent flights in coach are bleak and tedious (see aforementioned subway commute). but think of how the quality of life on earth as we know it would drastically change if we all flew in luxury; if the very bain of long-term movement we know as travel were suddenly transformed into a positive and enlightening experience. if basic human consideration were extended to all, equally. first class amenities for the price of coach. nobody likes flying--it's cramped and germy and the mere anticipation of reaching one's destination clouds everything, so if comfort were there to cushion in the form of beds, libations, delectable food and exclusive attention, that positivity would, no doubt, continue to flourish once the plane landed, exponentially spreading all sorts of love and happiness throughout the world, transcending cultures and making airports the places of excitement and innovation they once were, not to mention lessening the dark circles and epidermal dryness so common after long flights.
and economically speaking, what would this really cost airlines? i've concocted an equation that basically balances profit--better seats are larger than the conventional sardine can seats of coach, so to outfit the whole plane with them would mean less seats per flight. less passengers per flight requires less flight assistance per flight, so staffing could be economized. however to accommodate the same volume of passengers, airlines would have to increase the frequency of flight schedules, giving travelers more options, and therefore cultivating incentive to remain loyal to one airline. airline loyalty means happy customers. happy customers mean more money, and isn't that why airlines charge more for first and business class anyway?
i could be the wizard of oz.

now the only problem that isn't solved is what i like to call the cocktail hour syndrome. there are those people on EVERY flight who treat the plane ride, whether 10 minutes or 12 hours, like cocktail hour, constantly hopping from seat to seat to socialize with whomever they know on the flight.
first of all, you can, you know, request seats together when booking them. and for real, just because we, the fellow passengers that happen to find ourselves beneath you, or the victims of one of your hapless elbows, for which we receive no apology (not even that all-american perfunctory kind), don't say anything in objection, it doesn't mean you're not totally pissing us off. now go sit the fuck down and OD on sleeping pills until we get there!

and with that, i'm out. watch out for more rants on a bryanambition near you.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

misery loves company

you know you've made it when people have to make excuses for your behavior.

so today was originally scheduled to be a total rant day--i had pictures and everything, i swear--but instead, i had a mini-breakthrough thought. when talking about some of my favorite places to just "be," locations that both induce serenity and spark intense bouts of creativity, i thought out of the box and, for that matter, out of the continent and came up with a rather obscure place that streams with initial morbidity, but ends up making complete sense--the pere lachaise cemetery in paris.
the hours i've spent there, perched on some random grave, either idly thinking about nothing and everything, or churning out page after page of what i consider to be ingenious writing, could add up to years.
so yeah, it's a cemetery, a place of rest, and if you really think about it, in more ways than one. the dead rest because, well, that's what the dead do. but visitors also; nobody runs in a cemetery, so pace is, by default, slowed, and it's customary to pause in front of certain graves to pay respect (or laugh).
but what really does it for me is the ironic activity of the place. there's just so much going on at once--the severely uneven topography of the place creates very limited horizons, so you're always intrigued as to what lies around corners and over small hills. the ornate grave markers are a life's worth of architecture lessons--in every glance is a conglomerate of different aesthetics--one mausoleum is fronted by classic roman architecture, warrior-and-chariot frieze and all, the one right next to it smooth, angular art deco, while the one directly across from it is flanked in fluted greek columns. even the surrounding grave stones yield all sorts of classic design in the forms of scripts, fonts and scrolling.
i don't think of my love for pere lachaise as beauty in death, or some other colloquialism of a high school literary magazine, but more along the lines of serenity amidst chaos. just because the people under these monolithic messes of mish-mosh design aren't moving around doesn't mean the world above them doesn't teem with fascination.
and speaking of fascination, i bet there's a subculture of people out there who yearn to get locked in pere lachaise and find themselves forced to spend the night in a cemetery. i also bet this same faction of people share the subcultured appreciation for the humorous side of buffalo bill from silence of the lambs.

rants tomo, i promise.

Friday, April 24, 2009


if there's one thing life has taught me thus far, it's that nothing in life can't be fixed with a little metallic spray paint.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

sometimes i shock even myself

I almost just bought a book entitled, "breakup babe" from an american bookshop in milan.
What does that potentially say about me? Maybe it was just the lichtenstein-esque pop art cover that attracted me, or the iconic cartoonish, raven-haired heroine on the cover that promised a maelstrom of gurl powah within the pages, but I managed to resist and instead gorged on due gustos of gelato, me, the lactard. Nice.

Monday, April 20, 2009

these are a few...

So I love nothing more than the shocked looks of slight disgust I get shot when washing down a sleeping pill with a glass of wine while commencing an international flight. It's like, "that's the kind of shit we see unruly adolescents doing on 'law and order' just before they die and lead chrish and marish on a beautifully-edited hour of intense, climactic forensic investigation."
It's always interesting to contemplate who your seat mates will be, and fantasies abound during this contemplation, like, "will I get seated next to a polyester-wearing spinster with red hair who smells of avon and passes the flight crocheting, telling me about her yorkies and the gorgeous shade of aubergine her rarest of rare bed of mums will sprout this summer?" Or, "will I sidle in next to a slightly-balding, tan, hairy-forearmed hottie in a polo shirt with whom I'll exchange hand jobs?"
I've got eight-and-a-half long hours to contemplate my life and fate, and I'm beginning to think that, aside from a pot-induced haze, moments like this must seriously foster the creativity necessary for the most ethereal forms of entertainment, i.e. 'eternal sunshine of the spotless mind,' or 'rock of love: the love bus.'
I love life, and if I keep reminding myself of that, I'll eventually garner the high praises certain individuals preternaturally receive from the fates.
Loves ya'll--be back once I've landed in milalalan.
X's and O's

Friday, April 17, 2009

revolutionary rogue

repetition hurts my teeth...

so i'd like to use this third friday of the month to tip my hat to change; to exercise my right and rule to change, or at least to contemplate it.
as much as i've hailed the welcome of change in my life, recent consideration has duly enlightened me to the fact that i actually fear it. change is when the current conditions to which we've become accustomed take a turn toward something different. sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. sometimes up, sometimes down. sometimes top, sometimes bottom (i had to). but basically, it's a shift that affects us in both subtle and profound ways. change can be gradual, and it can be rapid. it can be voluntary, as well as involuntary, just, as well as terribly unjust. but when change has the power of will behind it, and [usually] a positive goal in mind, it becomes revolution. a conscious effort to alter the way things are as a way of improving them for those they directly and indirectly affect.
ok, i'm done being webster. this has a point, i promise. i'd like to discuss the above image: that, my pals and confidantes, is a fritaco. it's what happens when a bag of fritos is spiked with grade C beef, shredded iceberg lettuce and government-supplied cheese. it's also what happens when you attend a marginally-scholastic public school that includes a "taco line" as one of its lunch options (the other two obviously being the 'hoagie' line [the mere phoenetic sound of the word falling beyond my capabilities] and the pasta line). and in this taco line, one could find a breed of taco that even today stuns those to whom i relate it. it was a bag of fritos...good, ol' fried corn fritos, curved nuggets of golden crunchiness, stuffed with aforementioned grade C beef, shredded iceberg lettuce and topped with a lovely carotene and white blend of shredded government-supplied cheese. this was lunch. the same school that preached against allowing junk food to encroach upon the food groups was serving it in their very cafeteria.
this, in my opinion, was wyoming valley west's way of being audaciously revolutionary. instead of just spending pennies more and importing mass amounts of old el paso taco ingredients, they fortified snack-sized bags of one of the ultimate in home movie snacking with a few extra tidbits and called it a taco (or fritaco, as i like to remember it). that's revolution.

like many of you, i've, of late, gotten completely sick of hearing about how bad the economy is, how bad it's getting, and how bad it was eighty years ago. i think the reason the economy has maintained such a shiteous condition is simply because change hasn't been instituted.
so prez obama's all about his stimulus initiatives, which i'm sure are all terrific ideas, and will inevitably work, but maybe the real cause, or what's suspending the recovery, is just beyond his view.
how, exactly, are we aware of the economy's current condition? from where do we get our information, both stagnant and updated? from the media, that's where--the television news, newspapers, internet, podcasts, the radio, fucking twitter, for goodness' sake. but it all trickles down through the media. what is this media? is there a group of five people who meet in a chrome-lined, fluorescently-lit room in comfy leather swivel chairs around an elliptical table that refer to themselves as "the media" and generates all sorts of concepts for the world to believe? because i'm beginning to think so.
think what would happen if, for one day, things were to flow in the other direction, economically. if the media were to report that the economy, the ridiculously ubiquitous word that's taken the blame for just about everything nowadays, was actually doing wonderfully. if brenda blackmon and sue simmons blinked their indigo-lined eyes in front of the camera and flapped their frosty lips and told us that "yes, we HAVE recovered from this economic crisis! everything has miraculously lifted, and we can all get jobs and spend money like normal now." obviously, all of america would listen because they're all fat, stupid fritaco-eating zombies who believe everything that comes out of their flat screen tv. the only criticism would come from the intellectually elite, i.e. rachel maddow, keith olberman and suze orman (basically my week's worth of DVR'd shows), and by the time their opinions aired, much action would have taken place. people would spend, probably not too much because even though we're a stupid people, we'd still be precarious at first, but they'd drop a few dollars here and there (not on credit, of course). money would go from wallets to economy. economy would go from sad to happy. parched job reservoirs would refill, and life would, much more rapidly if my thoughts and subject are to be believed, resume normalcy as it was before the big crash.
just think--could one day of progressive spending revolutionize the current economic status?

and by far, my favorite. these signs always kill me. it's like the restaurant's way of boosting conscientious activity. like saying, "we know you have an option when cleaning up after urination and defecation, but we just want to let you know that our employees don't. they must warsh their hands after every usage of this bathroom."
well what the fuck about the rest of the users of the same bathroom? disgusting pigs that they are. i think the restaurants should start using a little ball-power and posting signs that read, "everybody is required to wash their hands after doing whatever it is they're doing in this bathroom. thanks."
so i've taken it upon myself to generate stickers that read "everybody" and i'm going to conveniently re-word each and every employee-hygiene sign i encounter.
how's that for revolutionary?

make it a great weekend, kids.
loves ya.

Wednesday, April 08, 2009

I CAN'T of the week

c*mon feel the noize

so last night i had the privilege of seeing 'rock of ages' in all its opening night glory. the crowd was a carefully put together melange of ex-concert goers who weren't too far removed from their lighter-wielding days or the age of aqua netted bleach jobs, the only thing keeping them in 2009 being their brooks brothers suits and updated hair cuts. they, however, were the ones that kept me out of my seat.
the show, all in all, was nothing short of genius. ok, you're giving me shit already: i know, it's not the first of its type of 'jukebox musicals,' and the kitsch factor seriously outweighed the plot, but after screaming my head off trying to sing along to the heavy metallic tunes that formed my musical repertoire of the 80's, i can't find fault with either.

at first, i was like, this reminds me of the time i performed "you's a ho" wearing tap shoes in college, and one of the roommates declared it was "you's a ho: the broadway version." the show's vocal talent basically consists of classically-trained voices singing heavy metal, but on some strange, amp'd level, it works. the guys and gals of broadway rock put just enough raw angst and grunt into their performances, convincing us they could take their ballads and war cries way past karaoke. james carpinello, aka stacee jaxx, is such a natural rock'n roll prick (and i mean that in the nice way), i forgot who was under that rhinestoned and peroxided mess. smashing onto stage crooning "dead or alive," i actually recollected seeing him in concert before, but then realized, "oh, nevermind."
and speaking of concerts, i may be a nasty bitch most of the time, but i do give credit where it is due, and mr. constantine maroulis, you, my friend, are due credit. boy has a set of vocal cords, nothing the idol people have ever heard, lemme tell you. he carried that stage like a pro, ima hope he stays around for the whole run! and who would forget the unforgettable performance(s) of miss amy spanger. at first, i was like, "elle woods, dude." but girlfriend turned her volume way up and ground her way through "harden my heart" and i was bought and sold.

i could go on for days, but that wouldn't leave me time to listen to all the metal songs i just downloaded, and i need some selfish time this week, so deal.
loves ya, betches.