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.