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.