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.

Monday, April 06, 2009

'merican idol

do like yer mama said...

i'm about to foray into the forbidden territory known as 'american idol,' but only for a few sweet moments. as you may or may not know, i'll never watch the show. i know what ya'll are thinking, "oh, he thinks he's too good for american idol! too good to watch such regular tv," and they're right. i am too good to watch that show, and we can spend all night talking about why.
but for now, let me revel in it a bit. so this morning, i was wallowing through my usual wake-up call, regis&kelly, who featured recent 'idol' reject megan joy singing her token ballad, 'walkin' after midnight,' the very song that earned her repudiation from the show. evidently, that simon cowell didn't approve of her husky vocal delivery, and in a turn of defiance and, quite possibly, borderline valor, she refuted him with, "i don't care." well, neither do we, sweetheart because even though i've never seen the show for more than five seconds at a time, i know better than to trust that rotten simon. i've never cared for his crass, declasse and not-at-all-constructive comments. he's not even american, for heaven's sake.

but oddly enough, six hours later i find myself with that song stuck in my head, and mainly because i really enjoyed megan joy's performance of it. so with the world at my fingertips via internet, i canvas her life and times, and after mentally constructing a mini-biography of her, i've concluded she is, in fact, an american idol. at least, according to my semantic version of the title.

-girlfriend stood up for herself, defending her performance and all the individual choices that developed it, exercising her right to freedom of speech under the first amendment to the constitution.

-having a two year-old child at age 23, she is, in fact, a shining monument of the american dream, at least for 7/8 of this palin-lovin' country.

-and like 7/8 of this palin-lovin' country, she's still rocking the spiral perm, a true pinnacle of progressive aesthetic beauty.

but in all seriousness, i want to see this bitch succeed. i want to see her name headlining marquees all over the country, not just little venues in that marginally-cool space between new york and los angeles. i want to see her post-trend smoky eyes on a makeup contract, something really classy like mark or maybelline. i want to hear her smoky cords smoldering the speakers at coachella next year, and maybe even co-headlining an incarnation of lilith fair. i'll tie in women's rights anywhere i can.

ok i'm getting out of control now.
later, bitches.

and p.s. i love your emails of praise re: this blog. i really do. i'm flattered; touched; hard as a rock. and i love you too. but for the sake of all that's vain and uholy, can ya leave a comment or two?
Xs and Os

Wednesday, April 01, 2009


i scraped off my epidermis last night, so i won't be gorgeous until friday.

it looks like one of those personal accounts moments, kids. today started not unlike the most mundane of days. i woke up. ser in the kitch. the girls miserable like me. we're not morning people.
i spent last night in the hallway wearing an oversized light blue gap hoodie that i got for $6.97 back in the day (incidentally, when the gap reduces something to a ridiculously low price ending in .97 it means that it's down to the lowest shit it will sell for) reading a book and listening to brain wave music. i needed a moment of mindless self-indulgence spread over a span of several hours in a sterile space, and where better than our white, chair-railed hallway to accommodate such a spatial need?
i wanted to quote the above song from of montreal, "wraith pinned to the mist and other games," let's pretend we don't exist/let's pretend we're in antarctica.
did you ever wish you could have one of those moments from "eternal sunshine of the spotless mind" where you're with the one person you want to say something to, but aren't able, for one reason or another, and it's just you and them and everything is so clear and wide-eyed, sober and quiet and white, and without even talking you can share the exact thought that's burrowing back and forth through your head with a shiny, jagged knife like swiss cheese? i think the two words that matter most here are quiet and white. i need both of those right now.