Thursday, November 18, 2010


i woke up this morning from a dream in which i was hosting a morning talk show, feeling the searing pain of a hangover while interviewing president obama, and the first words out of my mouth as i emerged from bed were, "tonight i'm going to see marie osmond sing the hits from 'les mis'" and i'm not sure what any of this means, but there it was and there it will always be.

i think subway seats should be reserved for those holding a special ticket, one passengers pay extra for, and for which they must qualify. i use my commute time constructively, as many of my fellow passengers. i write on the train every morning, words that form the foundation of what will one day be history's greatest literary masterpiece and when i can't sit because some geriatric would rather take up two and a half seats so she can SLEEP the whole way there, a whole new magma-laden pocket of rage arises and i shake with ire and anxiety. i must give off heat.
so to get one of these special passes, one must take an aptitude test to make sure one qualifies, submit writing samples, etc. this man who is always on my D train, who must embody at least 5 different ethnicities, makes jewelry on the way to work every morning. he is talented. he should have a seat. i write every morning. i make
beautiful words. i make people happy. i should have a seat. a woman who insists on wearing the same tweed burgundy tam every day of the week, with every outfit, has been reading the power of now deserves a seat, as she'll no doubt spread her newfound knowledge of self-awareness with the rest of the world. we should all sit together.
miss mabel williams, who parks her 3 foot derriere over the span of two seats and treats her 15 minute subway ride as if it were a private sleep chamber, should not have a seat. it's called tylenol PM and it's available over the counter. go to bed earlier. there's no more "golden girls" to watch at 8am every morning, at least until Christmas is over, so sleep an extra half hour. there are options to being more alert, and stealing two seats from me is not one of them.

i've said my peace and it feels like a huge burp after more than my helping of dessert.


Wednesday, November 17, 2010

sitting pretty

my fascination with women applying their makeup on the subway lent an interesting thought today. i noticed that, no matter who the woman is, how much makeup she is applying, what forms her aesthetic inspiration (gwyneth paltrow vs. elvira) or who she wishes to channel as she leaves her subway vanity fully made up, she always forms the same serious, almost grave-like stare devoid of movement. this makes her look like a statue.

veddy eenteresteeng.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

the light at the end...

just became so insignificant when compared to the string of environmentally-friendly LED lights that line the inside of the tunnel. just saying.

so today is special because i thought of something fantastic before bed last night--i'm getting all transecndent on your asses, so get ready.
as i drifted off to sleep, one last thought poked its pointy head through the black velvet curtains of sleep: i am. and before i could interrupt with a, "what?" he said, "i am here."
duh. so am i. then i realized my pointy-headed sleep character was, in fact, me, as he lives in my mind and is a product of my inner manifestation of thought. but "here" took on a new meaning, as if a scroll were unfurled before me and a golden explanation shone forth. i can never be there. only here. because once i reach there, wherever there may be,whether it's a goal set 20 years from now, or a location two feet away, the point from which i projected my desire to be there will be a place i was that now exists in the past, and the past does not, in fact exist. (memories exist, but the past cannot physically exist).
so i will always be here. i can be there, but when i am there i am actually here because it is in my present, the only time in which i can physically exist.
i love that. it speaks volumes in favor of equanimity. releasing one's actions into the world without the faintest concern of their effect, a contentment brought on by one's ability to release such actions from a source of inner peace.

also, the other day when i was walking, i noticed i had harbored a rather annoying rock in my shoe for several hours, and even though i was mere feet from the subway station i was about to descent into, i stopped, took my shoe off, tipped out the stone, and realized how precious that moment was. and how overdue.

life takes on new meaning when it is weighted with reason. i feel like a word that a writer deliberates underlining. the word screams for more definition, practically jumping off the screen, begging, pleading for recognition from all the other words, and finally, the writer highlights the word, clicks the underline button, and voila! that word stands out loud and proud.
meeting my gian paolo has given me that definition. i feel a source of inner light that grew dim suddenly roar to life. the tunnel i had been navigating isn't just illuminated, it's dotted with colorful bursts of light like endless strings of holiday lights, adding that evocative touch that only holiday lights can, in an unexpected yet yearned for way. like seeing such lights at a summer party. the holidays aren't a present thought, especially in the middle of july, but those lights warm an inner part of every attendee. something we all want, and when we receive it, something we all find we need.
as does the sweet wine that fuels such joviality.

Xs and Os to all
(note new signature)

Wednesday, October 06, 2010


[Note: the following is expressed with copious amounts of duly-felt rage, but under the guise of proactive political embellishment, kind of like some perverse Hallmark series]

So I’ve officially had it with this world. It’s no surprise, my disgust with much of this plane, but in the tradition of things taking the cake to define their superlative nature, this takes it back to the bakery and throws it into the face of its baker.

I am so over all of these teen suicides spurred by repressed homosexuality. I’m not referring to the conflicting feelings of those who kill themselves, but to the repressed homosexuality of the ones who dish out the relentless taunting, the arbitrary judgment, and the assholeism that causes other people to question themselves, resulting in a murder. The word “suicide” is the prosecutor’s scapegoat for not having enough constitutional evidence to convict one of a crime they committed with words or their fists. To call these base humans “bullies” is laughable. True “bullies” are harmless, and only exist within the confines of teenage television shows. The “bully” on Clarissa Explains it All never called Sam a faggot, as he would have in real life. Those in question here are not bullies. They are nefarious beings with evil intent, committing a different kind of first degree murder, plotting the death of their victim and carrying out the execution with words, verbal (and sometimes physical) daggers, like a slow torture. Nefarious, and yet confused. I pity them. They are a people afraid of their own identities, afraid that they won’t be the things they regard as ideal, and their lack of self respect causes them to lash out irrationally to suck whatever semblance of self respect they sense in others, gay kids, who flaunt it. They’re vampires, and they kill just as the fictional figures so trendy and money-making nowadays.

It’s disgusting. I want to produce my own “it gets better” video but I’d also include the “bullies.” Those delusional people who secure their sad existence by feeding off others. I’d take a musical version of it to rural and suburban high schools and middle schools, where hatred is tolerated. Hatred IS tolerated, proliferated, and celebrated in this country. If you allow it to happen, you support it. Suspending a “bully” as a disciplinary action is giving him a day off to watch Ice Road Truckers and rest up for another day of torture. We’re not the “land of the free and the home of the brave.” Nobody here is free. We may have been free for five minutes, but human nature positions others to use their freedom to take away the liberties of others. They are the vampires. They are the cowards. So much for being brave. Humans are sad, self-destructive creatures. No other organism in this world is as self-destructive as the human race. Cancer cells are better than humans—they may attack all that surrounds them, but at least they are nice to each other.

Look at the psychological side of it even deeper—these “bullies” depend upon their victims for validation, to officiate their mere existence. The more validation they get, the more they want. It becomes a dependence, an addiction. After the third beating, they may even forget why they do it. Sure the initial impetus to beat and assault is brought on by hatred born from difference, generated from lack of intelligence, and probably congenital, but after it becomes more about attending to an addiction to feed this vampiric need, this torture becomes a routine for the one who doles it out.

I think humans are the best, if not only, example of an organism that cannot live with freedom. They exploit it. They create arbitrary rules and then alter them to simply contain other humans. Marriage: I don’t care how many instances of it there are in The Bible, it is a manmade institution. Man created it, and now man can control it. Yet man will assign his fabricated institutions to God, giving them religious weight, more food with which to quote The Bible only when it’s convenient for them. Separation of church and state can exist only when it works in middle-American man’s favor, the partially hydrogenated, high fructose corn syrup-laden majority that makes all the ill-fated decisions that ultimately become the burden the educated constituents of this sad, toddler of a country must bear. Don’t tell me I’m free because I am not. I can’t marry who I want to marry. I am prohibited from living the same life as the person next to me on the subway, and therefore, I am not free. And neither are you. Prohibiting one liberty compromises all liberties. Next up: Gay. Let’s pretend gay is an elective decision like most of this sad country believes. Let’s put rules on what gays can and can’t do. Let’s subject gays to a modern day version of the Jim Crow Laws, and let’s turn our head the other way when it actually comes to repairing this situation. Let’s let ignorance run the country it established. 

Freedom doesn’t work. It’s the sad truth that forms the basic delusion that every American believes they have, or at least recites without investing further thought. I’d like to bulk up on twinkies and head out west, stopping somewhere between Ohio and Mississippi to ask random, overweight, 9-11 commemorative t-shirt wearing people, “So, you patriotic Americans, living the ‘American Dream,’ how are YOU free? What are your individual liberties?” Once they’ve picked through the Pop Tart wrappers and remember something about “that there Constitution thing” that may (or may not—you know conspiracy theories are born from metastasized balls of Little Debbie boxes) have formed the basis of this nation, their answer will probably sound like, “Well I’m free to eat what I want to eat, and think what I want to think.” Yes, on the first count, they are absolutely correct. And their skyrocketing triglyceride levels, not to mention their supple fupas, form the archetype for the typical American citizen. I’ll also sound for them the “correct!” bell on the second count, as they can, indeed, conceive as numerous and creative thought as possible. But what good are thoughts if they don’t become realities?

Freedom of Speech is the only pure liberty we have, how quickly it can be turned into a weapon that imprisons others. Read this: Shit at Funerals
Even if you feel you can exercise your own freedom of speech, there are many areas of your life that are governed by others, whether by morality or choice, their authority related to you via speech. We are all imprisoned by this "liberty."

Thoughts are like a barren cabinet, where you find only a box of baking soda and that familiar orange cylinder of baking powder, two vital ingredients for something that could be decadent and delicious, two ingredients that remind you of something so wonderful, so attainable, yet so powerless. And you could do something about it, but that would require effort. Motivation. Intelligence. Three things most Americans lack. Americans are humans. Humans are stupid. You do the math.

I’m not saying Americans are the ones responsible for this ridiculous behavior known as human nature, but they are the ones closes to home (for obvious reasons). Sometimes I think the Bubonic and Black Plagues came just in time, as ignominy sneaked up on the world, welling up among its people and just before it could completely take over, BAM! Dead people all over the place. It was a bloody mess, but it was a cleansing mess. Sometimes you have to dump that box of baking soda all over the counter in order to get a shiny finish, but after it’s all cleaned up, your counter looks like brand new. And then you’d have the motivation to go buy the rest of the ingredients to make your damn cake. I feel that if something like that were to happen, I’d look down from heaven and, despite the very nature of heaven exonerating its inhabitants from experiencing any form of regret or concern over the cause of one’s death or the consequences, feel like my demise contributed to this new beginning. 

I sit here now and I feel what those five dead teenagers should be feeling, watching their murderers from heaven. They are free, and probably laughing at all the shit humans have to deal with. Laughing not because they have it better, but because they see just how unnecessary it is. How all this unrest and inequality is created by us, for us. “By the people, for the people.” Sound familiar? Democracy was intended to preserve freedom, but seeing as how freedom just doesn’t work, democracy has sublimated into the thin glass veil that forms the tank that contains a population comprised solely of male Siamese fighting fish, all flaunting their fancy fins, on the edge of tearing to shreds their closest inhabitant.

Now after that dramatic ending, the resolution, for I’m nothing if not consistent (I’m also intensely random at all times, the frequency of which still qualifies me as consistent). The way around all of this, the way to exist successfully in a world devoid of pure freedom is to reinvent freedom and feel it on a more personal level. It’s simple in both concept and execution. It’s also been said many times before: express yourself, don’t repress yourself. Pass on this word. Speak up. Carry mace and spray those motherfuckers in the face when they call you a fag. Get sent to the principal and tell them that the liberties bestowed upon you as a fellow American have been compromised. Let them suspend you. Expel you. Then take your day off, wake up late, watch The Golden Girls, then The View, get all pumped up and call CNN and tell them why you’ve been suspended. Tell them you fought back. Tell them you could have been the next suicide victim, the next murder victim, chased to your death by a very real form of assault, but you kicked the chasing hounds in the face and defended your liberties. You shouldn’t be hunted—you are not prey. Not to worry about your school record being marred—I think the defense of one’s liberty in the face of growing corruption would inspire one hell of an application essay, launching a feeding frenzy for college admissions committees. Brand yourself as a revolutionary before graduation and your diploma will be worth its weight in gold. Work for it. Earn it. Turn that moment when you turn in your cap and gown into a significant shedding of all that has bound you to stand for second best, and sing the following anthem to melodically lead you in whatever direction your individual liberty will take you. And for goodness’ sake, smile.

Monday, September 27, 2010

there he is!

back i am. and though i haven't gone anywhere, i feel as though i've taken a trip around the world and came back with a dog and a new haircut. that is the cliche, isn't it? or was that just the odd appendage that lurked somewhere near the climax of the first sex and the city movie? hmmm.

though i didn't go anywhere physical, i did, in fact, take a trip. i took a trip around me and learned a few things. strengths. weaknesses. the ability to appreciate both. now you may ask, "but bryanambition, how did this all come on?" well i'll tell you, and i won't even stretch this part out in an arbitrary way to build suspense, ultimately leading to an announcement that could come as both a triumph or a tremendous disappointment to those who read it, relative to the person who is, in fact, reading it: LOVE (ooh, and it's in capitals!) mindblowing, reinventing (and consequently inventing) love. i'd go into more detail on this love, but i think its immense power and energy will unfold as i write, both here and in future entries (of which there will be many, of course, and at a rather accelerated frequency. love inspires).

but what i will say here will be very personal. and, in true tradition to all matters personal, highly ambiguous, for the love i want to convey i wish to be applicable to all.
gian paolo:
made ME love.
opened my eyes.
made me happy (and four and a half seconds spent with me gives the impression that i'm, like, way happy, right off the bat. well that wasn't nothing).
showed me who i was.
made dunkin donuts feel like the petrossian bakery.
made me humble. i feel like i've learned how to honor.
and, for once, at a loss for words.

more to come, as the sun is always rising.


Tuesday, July 20, 2010

current stuff

an unprecedented flash of what's happening:

obama meets with british p.m. david cameron...
and they dressed alike for the occasion. [CNN]

pennsylvania installs breathalizer monitors on wine vending machines...

i'd really like to know why PA thinks it must run this underdog race against liquor. you could buy beer in the damn duane reade in nyc, but verboten booze on a sunday in pa? ridic. [MNN]

blohan goes to jail...

and qualifies as breaking news on e! online, spurning a "lindsay jail primer" and streaming video feed. i suppose the oil spill now palins in comparison. [e!]

the plans to build a mosque near the site of the 9/11 attacks in NYC...
                              quote my bff, "really?" i've put more deliberation into which foot to start my weekly nail trim. remember the three-word slogan that ruled the 90's, just say no? let's try that. [CNN]

and last, but surely not least, the apple iphone 4 shituation...
seriously? it's an iphone. if you don't like it, you're obviously jealous. like my favorite sorority t-shirt read in college, don't hate what you ain't. go pretend you're cool with your big bad android.

and i've just realized that wasn't very much fun. the whole news thing. tomorrow i'll be back to perversifying just about every ethical notion i can get my hands around.

Wednesday, July 07, 2010

it's a dealbreaker, gentleman.

recently i found myself watching the episode of 30 rock that featured protagonista liz lemon preaching a tirade of dealbreakers, a knack realized after creating a similar character for the show she writes. after hearing such terse bits of advice as, "he thinks he deserves a vajayjay update. he doesn't. he's not tom brady. shut it down--dealbreaker," i realized that the ladies could have dealbreakers, too. speaking in a heterosexual stance, i saw one this morning, and i'm going to relate it to you plain and simple:

girls...who cap their jersey dresses off with a backpack and a yankee's cap: dealbreaker! i don't care what your flip flops say. you shouldn't be wearing them, either. double dealbreaker!
girls...who think a jersey dress qualifies as anything but a jersey dress: dealbreaker!
girls...who think "coordinating your outfit" means matching your coach monogrammed bag to your coach monogrammed sneakers: dealbreaker!
girls...who wear sunglasses sporting a "D" on one arm, but no "G" on the other: dealbreaker!
girls...who refer to their male companions, romantic or platonic, as any or all of the following: my man, my beau, or the guy: dealbreaker, dealbreaker, DEALBREAKER!

meanwhile, i've a night of multiple shake weight workouts ahead of me. if you'll excuse me.

Thursday, July 01, 2010

stubbed toes and no-shows

normally when you make glue, first you have to thermoset your resin...

eew. i just had warm tuna tartare. it was awful and completely unnecessary. like children.

so today i'm going to wax a bit personal. i hope you don't mind. it was brought to my attention today by a concerned reader/fan/devotee/drone, whatever we're calling consistent blog readers nowadays, that the entries of the past few months allude to the fact that i might, in fact, have a heart. and consequently a soul. and such a prospect frightens me. duh, something beats in this 22 year-old chest, but you can't let them know that. and so i fervently sought the evidence, and found this, this, and THIS (which, incidentally, caused me to elicit an outright UGH at myself). what's happening? this same boy who, just recently, extolled the virtues of incorporating the C word into her vernacular to his mother, is now pushing balloons as part of jolly home decor?

i suppose people do change. and it has nothing to do with getting older. that i don't do. that i won't do. that i can't do. and speaking of change, today i realized that i have this intense desire to befriend an older woman. something about a certain white maned, post-menopausal vixen sporting prada glasses and carrying a 92nd st Y tote bag that i encountered on the subway the other day held the appeal of a goldmine of patent leather, and i found myself inordinately attracted to her. i wanted to hang out with her. i wanted to hear her floorboards creak as she walked from the kitchen to the couch, sat herself next to me, and presented me with my third cup of chamomile tea. i wanted to discuss rope rugs and how she used to fool around with girls while at smith, before marrying her amazing husband of 46 years who is currently studying primates in sub-saharan africa as part of CUNY's doctoral program on primate anthropology. and how she wants me to join her tonight to watch mildred pierce on TCM and how when she watches movies, she can't just sit there and watch the movie so she is a closet needlepointer, never daring to expose her 'guilty passion' as she calls it to her friends, for fear they'll make the same association between needlepointing and old age that she's held fast to since she watched her very elderly grandmother needlepoint as a little girl. but she needlepoints, and i would needlepoint that night, too. and i would take the same subway home afterward if i weren't invited to stay the night first.
and all would be well.

so i'm accepting applications for an older woman friend. and by older woman, i'm staying within the confines that exist outside of both cougar and colostomy bag chick.

and that, my dear suze orman-watching friends, is all for today.
xo (and everything in between)

Thursday, June 17, 2010

falling off the wagon

so last night was my first fashion party in ages, but it can't quite qualify as me having fallen off the wagon, considering there was no temporary euphoric high. and rather than rant and, well, rant about how it went, i thought i'd sum it up in a cache of memorable quotes:

"i think she's a little overdressed." "a little?" "ugh, and that jewelry--honey, it's lariats of fire!"

"see that dark corner where nobody's standing? get me there. the less i see, the better."

"as for the hors d'oeuvres, solely comprised of mini cupcakes, i have apt bite-sized advice: a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips. little moment, little lifetime. think about it."

in response to all the gaga references, both implied by the overwhelming presence of holey leather pieces and fingerless gloves and such, as well as the fact that the words "lady" and "gaga" hung like a dank cloud not far above the crowed, "that lady gaga is a pain in the ass, and not the good kind."

as for the abundance of men's gladiator sandals, "i wrote a status about those once, and you know that's never a good thing."

after making the acquaintance of a boy named "pasha," "you know as well as i do that guy was born roger herbert himmelstein. his l.l. bean backback read RHH until he was 13 and found one of his mother's vogues."

"wow, nice pale pink jacket. i've never seen that one before." and to same unfortunate wearer, "honey, is that a comb over?"

"there's more lady gaga in here than on the girl who thinks she's madonna."

"bowties should never be paired with daisy dukes. never."

"nothing makes a cheap dress look worse than a room full of cut-off tank tops."

"this place is full of so much unintentional irony." "there is a lot of irony in here." "but do they know they're being ironic?" "even alanis got the meaning of that word wrong, and she wrote a song about it." "do they think they're being fashionable?" "probably, but i think they're just assholes."

"this place is a testament to the fact that hair products should require a license to be purchased. last time i saw hair this bad was when i thought about the hair at this party."

regarding the two boys who feigned twindom by dressing like "identical" nerds, "don't you dare tell me they're from brooklyn, the land where kitch grows on trees and hummus is a food group."

and that about sums it up.


Friday, June 11, 2010

i can't friday

today, the latest testament that no one is safe from my photographic reign of terror

so one of my usual tirades of wicked, impetuous judgment brought on by tired mornings made me particularly attuned to this kicky topper, and not surprisingly as i made my way down the UWS, the city's archive of old school weirdos, housing in perfect preservation both the pre-stonewall queens, admirably deluded into thinking chaps and gold hoop earrings are still in, as well as the oddly articulate "ladies who layer," a term that describes both their excessive use of sunscreen that results in a signature ghostly pallor, and their tendency to layer as much color and texture as their vintage laura ashley and chico's wardrobe will allow, into a fashion statement that best resembles a cross between your favorite braided rug and a renaissance fair costume, all providing an essential enclave of vital new york city heritage, sort of like a living diorama from the museum of natural history but set to a donna summer-heavy soundtrack.

and it was in that milieu, that hat. clearly a conscious decision on her part, and even clearer are the demons that possessed the quadrant of her brain responsible for common sense.
girlfriend looked like mackenzie phillips from the front, which would have explained a lot, what with the tomes of psychological studies linking the cranial use of boiled wool with childhood incest and all, but i was still trying to understand why this "i made it on the daily bus ride to and from make your own granola class' arts and crafts hive of hell finds itself atop a head in full salute in the middle of june. and just when i thought the answer would dawn on me, it sat down next to me, and the faux crackled leather skirt that nudged my leg roused up a whole 'nother hive of issues.

and what's why nyc will kill ya if you live here too long.


[ed. note: this was the 200th entry. candles.]

Wednesday, June 09, 2010

breathing in

i don't think one should ever finish a book they enjoy in any place other than their favorite. take it for granted that one's favorite place can change whenever one discovers a more superior destination deserving of one's personal devotion. the course of the book can be enjoyed anywhere one pleases, whether consummating a quiet night at home, providing an entertaining distraction while in transit, or infusing an academic pursuit with relative knowledge, but the that book should not end where it is not appreciated, bathed in a light of complete love and openness of heart. to finish a book where you can't appreciate is to do that book an injustice.

the hypocrite of circumstance i am, at least for today, finished the sun also rises, a book i had to quickly mature well beyond my years to appreciate, while barreling down the west side this morning, and even though the ending can be filed under 'bittersweet,' assigning to it a cliche that makes it more memorable, i suppose, all i remember is the word 'pretty' and i'm none too pleased about that. call it lack of willpower. call it overwhelmingly compelling. what makes me happier than happy, though, is the tsunami that surged through that subway car at the very moment of conclusion. regardless of my ephemeral state, i still felt hit by the immense weight of every word that formed the final quote as it happened, sealing the book as the most intense of memories, a vicarious experience full of places and textures and smells and wetness i never lived. but it wasn't the cresting tsunami that hits the island and clears a path of destruction, it was the infantile tsunami, the one that slightly lifts the tiny boats that ironically bob on the surface of the ocean many miles out, as it passes underneath them, imperceptible but carrying the same mighty weight that will both change and end lives a matter of minutes after the tiny swell nobody even notices. i was the tsunami, the other passengers were the boats. i didn't let out a sound or even twitch in reaction, but exuded an electricity, and everybody in that car exited an ion at the next stop.

and that is me, for today.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

catching the breath i've been running after all these years

i could hardly think straight (well, considering) after i heard this little tidbit of news: today is definitely a time to shine, especially for the queens who voraciously raid the racks at the forever 21 for anything and everything sequined in XL that they can get their shiny claws on, as hsn went pubs about the exciting line of clothing and accessories designed by none other than the matron of mein herr, the wigged witch of the west, the heroine of heroin, the bedazzled acme of alcoholics, the one and only, now and forever (and ever and ever, it would seem) miss deck-the-halls-with-boughs-of-judy-garland-holly's daughter, liza minnelli. that's right, the queer queen bee is hanging her sequined hat on the model form, but instead of turning in the towel, she's giving it a smattering of rhinestones and spawning a line of clothing and accessories that are sure to stun, stupefy, but surely not suck your wallet dry (add some vibrato to that) for it is hsn, after all.
so what can we expect from the lady for whom a day without lamé is downright outré? no specifics have been divulged yet, but the 64 year old is nothing if not the scion of longevity. who else can rewear the same black sequined poncho for thirty years straight without one slam from joan rivers? who else is capable of, well, just wearing palazzo pants? who else can make the same dykey hairstyle work for the past 50 years? and really, every other alcoholic of her era either made themselves comfortable six feet under ages ago or plugs into a machine everyday for renal refreshment, and ol' girl just last year pops onstage and coughs her way through a collection of showtunes called liza's at the palace and takes home the mothereffing tony!  i'm just saying.
so whatever finds itself at the retail helm of an over-madeup, extension-wearing, goes-by-kathy-but-was-probably-born-deborah salesgirl during some fashion hour on hsn is bound to be in-fucking-credible. we can't promise the above halter number that found fame as the ideal gear for riding a chair in cabaret, but where there's a liza, there's a lush way and we've no doubt the only risk associated with her venture into fashion will be the slip of the loose sequins strewn about the floor (you can't expect a six year-old to master such painstaking detail at such a young age).
and the best news, by far, for the aforementioned queens on a mission, is that liza's looks are as close as the nearest stolen wifi signal.

Friday, May 21, 2010

friday fabulous

in exactly 20 moves, the queen will topple the king...

nothing beats a stream of consciousness fueled by a muscle milk. nothing.
neither does sporting a biker shorts/tank top combo in front of a window that allows the entire south side of the facing building to observe one's progressive fashion antics en masse.

so just to recap the day: it was nice out, sunny and vibrant, which for any location below 14th street, means the mean queens in ripped jeans strut their tiny asses in gladiator sandals and sunglasses so dark they think they're making a fashion statement but can't see clearly enough to actually take notice. and you don't look at these queens, oh no. that's the surest way to spending the rest of eternity cast in concrete, for their icy stares take you straight to stone. a leisurely stroll around soho finds itself soured by the cloudy infiltration of the dark force they bring (and boy do they bring it) for they only travel in twos.
i was brazen enough to indulge my craving for a hot dog avec everything on a corner so long as i consoled myself by humming "i am what i am" and imagining how good my post-wiener spearmint wisp would feel preparing my palette for the rest of the afternoon and what/whom would lie in it.

now i feel empowered.

and that, my dear friends, is how a weekend should begin.

xs and os

Friday, May 14, 2010

supplications fulfilled twenty years just in time

this is my roommate. he's a raging alcoholic, but he has a reason...

so arriving home from yet another day that exceeded the ante set by the previous, a pattern made exponentially upward, has made this week one of the most momentous i've ever experienced, at least in the case of vocational inertia. in other words, i love my fucking job. and i'd go on and on about why/how/who and where, but that's a whole other issue with a whole other blog heading.

tonight is about dreams come true, or at least one in particular. ok that would also qualify as a venerable header to discuss my new job, but no. this dream is far different. this reality has fulfilled a dream that formed long before such concepts as "job" and "equity" and "botox" even entered my vocabulary. and like every major revelation to hit humanity, i suppose it's still subject to the "one man's treasure is another man's travesty," tenet, which makes the polar opposite of the joy i feel right now a regard of absolute disgust and degradation, which probably causes you to want to know even MORE what my major discovery is. and never one to keep my people waiting too long, i present the unequivocal answer to years generations of ceaseless supplication:

ok don't even tell me i was the only mizundaztood seven year-old in northeastern pennsylvania so enamored by dog treats that he wasn't only tempted to try them, sinking his little chiclet teeth into the girthy, crunchy mass, but formed an all-out obsession with them. and this is more than just the real deal. as anyone who has come within a stone's throw of my, well, unusual list of personal proclivities knows, it's not just the shape of these that touches a boy's heart via his esophagus, but their graham cracker composition secures them the highest position on my list of, you know, favorite things. a temporary reprise in high school spawned by the discovery of an organic variety of dog treats made of "human-edible" ingredients was but a mere tease for an itch that would require something very specific to scratch (see fig. A). and while i know there's something sick and fundamentally wrong with feeding your children graham crackers shaped like bones that are clearly (and frighteningly) evocative of dog treats, i sort don't give a flying flea what it is

of course the psychotropic euphoria induced by this visceral discovery is to blame for the subsequent pop tart purchase, but with the weekend mere hours away, the time to burn all 200 calories per tart shouldn't be hard to sink my teeth into.

and that, my dear friends, is the high-fiber, omega-3 enriched, ooey gooey goodness of bryanambition for today.
with love, life and lesbian-themed journals,


Sunday, April 25, 2010

my MO manifesto

so i've finally reached my mission in life. i knew it was going to be something big, hence why it took so fucking long, but here i am with my story and not the abridged version:

i'm going to start a new race of human being.

it's simple. due to a slew of recent occurrences that left happy bryanambition subdued, hostile and rather bitter, he took his new found negativity and put it through the mental sifter calcified by five years of therapy and honed in on the main problem...the common denominator...the glob of plaque that took up residency in your grandfather's coronary artery causing him an agonizing myocardial infarction and/or subsequent death is, was, and always will be: LOVE.

i'm not going to get all bitter gay on your asses, because the epidemic known as love affects the breeders just as much as it does the gays, and it's not my style to be classified as any one thing for any long period of time anyway, but i'll say this past month has been filled with a shit ton of unnecessary pain, heartache and general hassle that i can all trace back to love. if love weren't present, i'd still be shiny happy bryanambition sucking on a candy cane.
april usually brings showers that inevitably, and with little influence from punxsutawney phil, bring may flowers, but for me, someone who's professed love and positivity as being scions of true life with the ceaseless enthusiasm of the fat yearbook girl in high school, it brought death, disappointment and moral destruction. my favorite aunt just up and died. i lost a wonderful human being i called my boyfriend, and love, ultimately, bore its vicious, serrated and quite snaggle-flawed teeth at me.

well, love, you've smiled your last snaggletooth grin at me. it's time for some invisalign, and by the way--i'm killing you.

so this is what i thought i'd do to save the rest of the world from the nefarious force love is, always has been, and will continue to disguise as such feelings as virtue, happiness, euphoria, pleasantness and validation. i'm going to pretend i don't hate every multiplying cell in the body of every child existent on this planet and get a few of my own. real young ones. young, soft--baby soft--and formative. who don't know life-giving water from runny turtle shit. and i'm going to raise them on the most wonderful organic food there is. i will coddle them, feed their every whim, support them with all the pleasant virtue there is, imbue morals and polished ethics, but i will not, for one second, love them. i will hug and kiss and be sweet as pie. i will provide them with everything that will make them happy. but i refuse to infect them with the worst virus of all, the one for which there is no cure or treatment, and that is, unfortunately, congenitally transmitted in basically 100% of modern births. that virus, of course, is love.

they don't need love. they don't need that awful butterfly feeling bobby anderson causes them to feel before dumping them in front of sandra peters on the playground and making their first crush at age 6 something that will set them up for exponential future disasters. humans don't need to love to live, and if you don't know it to begin with, then you're not deprived of anything. it's the same logic everyone who argues with my pricey philosophy on buying cage-free eggs, that if hens don't know a liberated life that exists outside of a cage, they won't mind spending their life in one. so let's take that ignorance up to the human level, shall we, and see it for the enlightenment it really is.

humans aren't naturally loving creatures. they're social and they're feeling: that's scientifically proven. love is just a superfluous feeling that's bred into them, like the hormones passed from one hen to another that results in increased egg volume, without which they'd live completely fulfilling lives and, as i can attest to, healthier ones. a mother holding her baby so intimately can be displaying love as much as she can be administering tender nurturing. and while a mother can say "i love my children," i've no doubt she does, but does she need to love them? is procreation not, but its very basal existence, simply to ensure proliferation of the human race? love was just stuck in there to keep them coming back for more, and now we suffer worldwide famine and disease because of overpopulation. see where love got us there?

and there's no denying that love causes stress--too fucking much, if you ask me. with love comes a whole set of perfunctory rules that face drastic alterations on a case-by-case basis. if your boyfriend, whom you love doesn't call you when he says he will, you freak out and, obedient to these rules established by the disease, further expand the problem by not calling him OR answering his numerous phone calls. this leads both of you to experience great amounts of unnecessary stress, wasting precious moments of both of your lives and undoubtedly causing early deaths.
then there's the aftermath of a breakup. who the fuck invented this and why? i'll tell you who--LOVE. that's who. the same thing that made you feel like you can't live without that person because they made you feel oh so wonderful about yourself suddenly leaves you feeling like you've lost your reason for living. and questioning yourself, your validity, your worth. and we all know how this shitshow can end up. so why bother loving in the first place?
and marriage?! what the fuck is marriage about. so it's in the Bible. so is stoning, walking on water and parting the red sea, and we don't have any of that today, do we? aside from being the chief biblical text of many a faith today, it's also wonderfully accurate historical record and while some people today still think it's necessary to "put a ring on it" to ensure one's security with another, because that's what love is all about, isn't it--a fucking ring--it's time we moved on like the rest of the world did in the, oh, 3,000 years that's passed since the old testament made its way on papyrus.
people will still procreate because sex feels good, although at a much lesser rate, saving the world from the destructive overpopulation it now faces.

in her guidebook to all things amorous, all about love, author bell hooks cites m. scott peck's definition of love as her most palatable, "the will to extend one's self for the purpose of nurturing one's own or another's spiritual growth." sure. you can call that love. and because i don't think the same force behind that will would cause the excruciating heartache and cruel self-flagellation that exists after a breakup, i don't think it should be called love because love is, after, all, responsible for both. i'd rather we identify the word the above definition embodies consideration. if you didn't love to begin with, you wouldn't be the one crying now. and i wouldn't be the one seething with the bitterness of overcooked garlic.

did you ever notice that "begin" and "being" are anagrammatic? cute, since you really can't go into being without beginning. and after you've begun, you are, which is a participle of being. wow.
(see, i haven't completely lost my sparkling touch)

but back to my tirade. i'm going to get a whole bunch of kids, completely unrelated, of course, for we wouldn't want an extra chromosome taking the place of the love i plan to remove. that would be a whole other exorcism in itself. but i digress.
i'm going to raise these children with the unrelenting care, attendance and nurturing they deserve. i want them to have the best of everything. i will raise them to their fullest potential NOT because i love them, but because i care for them. i want them to be happy--fully, genuinely happy. one simply can't be happy with love in their lives.
crazy, right?
here's why: because even if you have met the "person of your dreams," you only think of them as perfect for you because they check off every box on your personal eVALUEation form. get it? they have what you want. they have what you desire. they have what you think must be present in your life to ensure your happiness, and if you really find yourself complete because of another person, good therapy ain't that far away (even with an HMO).

and of course there's friends. "oh i loooove my friends!" that's what we all say and, judging from what love has always done to me in the positive sense, i sure as shit love my friends. they're the most loyal, attentive, considerate and thoughtful people that ever lived. because of the way my friends treat me, i appreciate, revere, respect, will care for, nurture, and support them to ensure their lives are as wonderfully fulfilling as can be. now did we really need to use the word "love" up there? it's not like love is the ultimate feeling.
the rules society has preached to us since the beginning of time have made us think so but love is NOT, in fact, the ultimate feeling. nirvana. the superior euphoria. if it were, it wouldn't be used as casually and freely as it is, to describe such ephemeral things as gum and nailpolish colors, and most importantly, it wouldn't make us feel like slitting a wrist when things go wrong with those we appoint as "loved ones."
i'm so right i stink.

my children will grow up to excel in every activity in which they engage. they'll have the same challenges every other child faces except the invisible, unfair crippling distraction love can cause, from the moment it first occupies the tenderest areas of your heart until it hardens it as you breathe your last breath, unsurprisingly sooner than your body planned but undoubtedly due to unnecessary stress.
and these children will walk the earth spreading cheer, wisdom and compassion everywhere they go. they'll wear the latest fashions and sport the trendiest haircuts. i'm hoping several of them are gay. they'll no doubt couple up with other humans to fulfill the naturally social inclinations bred into our pathetically vulnerable race, and inevitably raise their children with the same caring, nurturing values devoid of the despicably gangrenous virus called love. they'll live every second of their lives on a level of enlightenment. they'll feel all the natural feelings life must experience in order to successfully move from one moral plane to another, but they won't find themselves hapless victims fighting a futile war against something so horribly vicious, yet deceitfully invisible.
stress will, inevitably, fade to something felt only on the most extreme occasions, and lose its casual presence.

and those who still hear themselves asking, "but bryanambition, why would you want to rid the world of something so wonderful?" i say, "look up and read those words this time" and then read this:
wonderful? why is love wonderful? because we're told it is? if your parents raised you to walk sideways on St. Patrick's day, justifying this new direction with the same logic behind not touching a hot stove, you wouldn't question it. that is, you wouldn't dare question its existence until that brisk march holiday found you the laughing stock of the entire first grade class, teacher included, mockingly asking, "why are you walking sideways? we don't do that."
as that poor child who suffered needless persecution as he proudly strutted in his classroom wearing green but devoid of exactly one half of his peripheral vision, i've never been more awake, alive and alert. now you're that kid and i'm the class. i'm your wake up call. just because the rest of the world says it's right doesn't mean it is. like spitting your gum on the ground. it makes you a litterbug no matter how you look at it. listen to me and don't be a litterbug. stop shitting on your life.

so join the carpenters and me as we joyously bid adieu to that horribly caustic disease we call love with the same champagne bubbly skip that find its way into your step after receiving great results at the doctor's office.


Wednesday, April 14, 2010

the gilded edges on that rule are tarnished, sweetie

...reckless is eschewing rent and using your first paycheck to finance something in patent leather from prada that measures approximately 13" x 9".

so yesterday i got to thinking, and as history has shown, that can be a dangerous engagement. i realized something crazy about our little society that, despite the occasional flaws of corruptness or disparity, prides its virtuous existence on being founded and governed by the basic morals and ethics of humanity.

because even cavemen galavanted up and down madison avenue ignoring the conditionally destitute but intrinsically equal homeless cavemen begging for rocks and sticks.

my crazy socioloical discovery goes something like this: we all live the golden rule without even realizing it. no childhood, no matter how traumatic or unusual the method of rearing, escaped regular infusion of the golden rule. "do unto others as you would have them do unto you." for many of us, it was the first time we heard the word "unto," intriguing for a first grader. it's a value. a code. a rule, and although anybody who's made it past the age of three knows that rules are meant to be broken, the golden rule is not one of them because we exercise and follow it every day, all day, and in every moment of our lives.

just think of how you normally treat others--if you're a kind person, you give without expected reciprocity, always doing favors and maintaining a somewhat regular sunny, positive disposition. you probably have a photograph of a flower on your computer desktop and if you pass a bakery you find yourself inclined to buy a "just because" cupcake for a friend. if you're a rotten person, you constantly judge others, acting from an invisible pedestal of entitlement. you make fun of homeless people. you don't give your roommate a quarter for laundry even though you have seven in your pocket right now. you operate your evil empire by some nefarious list of commandments kept valid by some equally arcane strength of contempt. and if someone walks into the office with their mentally disabled sibling in tow, you're the audacious one who actually laughs.

the "others" i refer to includes every other human being with whom you come into contact on a daily basis--individuals as random and unknown as fellow subway riders or as intimate as your sister. coworkers and wholefoods employees alike. the guy who bumped you while crossing the street and the lady who told you your shoe was untied. the only person i left out isn't the most obvious, but clearly the most important: yourself.
you have a chance to communicate with all of these people but you won't end up talking to most of them. you will, however, hold constant communion with yourself, from the moment you wake until your eyes start shaking with REM sleep, and as the day goes on, you deal with yourself just as you deal with other people. you contemplate decisions with yourself just as you do with a coworker. you discuss the sadness of a loved one's death with yourself just as you do with your sister. you love yourself just as you love your boyfriend and you hate yourself just as you hate your enemy. just because you can't hear the conversations that pass between you and yourself doesn't mean they don't occur.

i suddenly thought, "that makes a shit ton of sense. why wouldn't i extend to myself the same treatment and regard as i do others?"

i think we tend to overlook ourselves as the same weighty individuals as those we coexist with because that existence doesn't register with the same logic as someone separate from us who we can see and hear and interact with. strip the skin off us and we'd look the same as sally mae heathers across the aisle wearing those hideous purple mary janes. if we were computers, our systems would run on only one operating system just like the mac that brings you this very important message--there's not one OS to run your life and a separate OS to process everybody else. there's just one, and the set of instructions it contains that tells us how to act influences our behavior toward ourselves in the same way it directs our behavior toward others.

where it gets really crazy, though is when you consider the amount of harm you do to yourself compared with that you dole out to others. say today you are rotten to five different people: lydia at the duane reade, jamal at the whole foods, your mother, candace at your credit card company and some anonymous guy who caught your headphones cord on his mad dash out of the subway. motive aside, you judged lydia for being too slow, you laughed at jamal because he was wearing an eye patch, you told your mother to shut the fuck up because she was harassing you about finances, you told candace at bank of america to shove your overdraft fees up her ass after she's done fucking herself and the headphone cord guy escaped with his life and both testicles by the grace of the subway door that closed just in time. you splattered five people with negativity on five separate instances. your motivation for being mean isn't what's important here, it's simple mathematics. even though five completely unrelated people fell victim to your negativity, each one only suffered one hit.
and then there's you: every time you viewed yourself, asked yourself a question, weighed the options, caught a glimpse of yourself in a mirror, or reviewed something you had written, your perception was tainted with the same negativity you extended to everybody else, and you were just as rotten. this time, however, it's you taking all the hits, and considering how active the human brain is on a daily basis, there may have been thousands of them.
no wonder you're such a bitch.

we treat ourselves just as we treat others. it's the golden rule sans the one asset that forms the very core that deems it a virtue: free will.

then i realized how cyclic human behavior can be. when you're nice to others, you're nice to yourself which makes you happy which makes you nice to others which makes you nice to yourself which makes you happy...yeah. i get it.
but when you're rotten to others, you're rotten to yourself which only makes you feel even more rotten which makes you rotten to others again and back to being rotten to yourself and even though this insidious pattern keeps therapists in business, maybe it's time you planted a nice ficus tree in the junkyard of your mind and broke the cycle. my mama always said, "you'll catch more flies with honey than you will with vinegar," but that rule only holds true when you take to heart the bedazzled tenets rupaul extended at the conclusion of her short-lived but no less iconic vh1 show, "love yourself because if you can't love yourself, how the hayll you gonna love somebody else?" thanks.


Monday, April 12, 2010

the death knell ringeth again

saturday, april 10th, 2010.
while most of us were awoken by the realization we wasted most of the day in bed, delta burke, no doubt, saw the first light of day shining from her ringing phone. a scratchy answer set off a trumpet blare on the other end, her manager, that probably went something like, "dixie's dead! get out of bed, glue on those falsies and make up some memories, sister, because you're a eulogy away from a new career!"
ya'll loved designing women so don't deny it.

but, seriously, what is with this sudden onset of pop culture mortality? this recent article really cemented the fact that everyone who is anyone has met their demise, and it's befitting a rather morose trend.
last year lost bea arthur, michael jackson, farrah fawcett and patrick swayze. and my grandmother. this year dixie carter, corey haim, john forsythe, and the munchkin coroner from the wizard of oz added a second date to their IMDB profiles. and my aunt.

i'm not sure if any of this has a point, but there is the point where one has to stop and smell the formaldehyde and say, "people, stop dying!"
there also has to be that point where people stop wearing shirts that billow out like mushroom clouds. there's nothing cute about extra room except when it's on an airplane.

later, gators.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

a slice of the divine


God exposed himself to me today on a slice of chocolate marble pound cake facing outward from the display case at the starbucks on broadway and bleecker. at least i thought it was him. it was clearly a face, a nonchalant expression, just staring at me. it was distorted, of course, just as any face that chooses to manifest itself in a piece of marble pound cake is expected to be abstract. how did i know it was God? because only the really special faces are allowed to form the chocolate swirls of a starbucks 400 calorie slice of marble pound cake into their likeness. he had really droopy cheeks and his eyes were almost sad, but they could have just been preoccupied. i was going to buy the divine slice as i had no doubt all 21 grams of fat would be delicious, but instead i just said "hi" back and made my third request for soymilk from the green-aproned incompetent behind the counter.

sometimes the best faces pop up in the most obscure places.
case-in-point, skip to 2:36 in the above video for one of the best songs of this generation and you'll see the innocently radiant face of a boy who launched a thousand ships, only to have them return because all thousand crews missed him so. he put his face inside God's and look what happened.

today my face says, "frame me with more flattering hair, please, and some vitamin D would be nice--regardless of how allegedly dangerous it is to obtain." i put sunglasses on.


Monday, February 22, 2010

jeepers, creepers

where'd ya get those peepers?

so today is going to be one of those saccharine sweet recollection moments. as i reached for several feet of toilet paper to accommodate the technicolor flood that was to pour out of my nose any second (because mere tissues just don't cut it) i noticed an unopened roll sitting nearby, a testament to a certain roommate's regimented thinking ahead and frequent trips to the costco, the label of which contained the word "embossed!" written in pink.  at first, i thought how silly to make note of the pattern pressed into the very paper used for post-defecation clean-up, but had that small accent not been presented to me in such a vivid hue, and in such an incidental moment, i never would have taken notice of not only this diminutive detail, but so many others casually thrown into life that, when their very collective magnitude is considered, contribute a great deal of beauty into this world. for reals.
so today is dedicated to the small things that make us smile without even realizing it, like those moments in movies or during sitcoms where you find yourself smiling but don't remember actually employing the muscles to arch your mouth into a display of happiness. monday, february 22nd is for the gold strip nailed to the bottom of the doorway threshold with the woodgrain pattern molded into it. it's for the watercolor patterns stamped onto the bounty big roll. it's for the school bus yellow enamel on #2 pencils that, had it not been for some executive decision to make them sunny, could very well have been boring bare wood or industrial black matte.  it's for scented erasers that, even though their intrinsic function is to disappear, please even the most crotchety of noses.  it's for the decorative pattern etched into the stainless steel panels that line elevator cars, giving the idle eye something more amusing to fall upon.  it's for the yellow and blue plastic strips on zip lock bags that combine to make green without fail, each and every time the bag is zipped. pure magic. it's for whomever decided to make salt and pepper dispensers whimsical, giving the person asked to pass them double duty, both enhancing the taste of food and delivering a smile.  it's for the comments that are about to follow...


Saturday, February 20, 2010

slender shut-ins


so lately my meager commentage has been primarily comprised of spam messages, most of which are unintelligible ads for male enhancement drugs and penis enlargement devices, but this particular one caught my eye, as it sounds like something gertrude stein might have written had she a) lived past 1946 and b) blogged.
the beginning is both colorful and direct, "design the animalistic with two backs casinos?" but i ADORE "cloth this pacific liquid behind the ears." that is SO a page out of tender buttons and, had it been written today, would probably have been called something like, "sinister ice."
thanks, gertie. ol' girl is talking from the grave.


the whore of decor

because i do think one ought to go to the man's place, if one is able...


so today i was thinking about home decor, a concept i rarely find myself exploring. aside from being the broker joker out of virtually everyone i know, the consequential lack of funding preventing my living space from resembling the andy warhol museum which, if left to my own devices and wads of cash, it inevitably would, i never thought i possessed the correct aesthetic to properly convey my personal likings to furnishings, accents and wallcolors.
then i thought, fuck it, it's my space.
and that's when i realized balloons don't serve nearly enough purposes in the world. filled with helium gas to make them buoyant, the fun, often brightly-colored inflatable misshaped orbs float around all sorts of special ceremonies, providing colorful bursts, quite literally if you take a pin to one, for birthdays, bar mitzvahs, even displaying strict color themes and logos for graduations and weddings (and whomever thought of color schemes for weddings is a whole other issue) but they rarely find a permanent place in the home as part of the interior decor. i suppose this is due to their short lifespan, as the average helium balloon wanes to a sad shrivel after several hours of innocent floating, but on the same ephemeral token, so do flowers. i mean, flowers last significantly longer with proper upkeep, adding special chemicals to the water to prolong both rigidity and color, so maybe a special type of helium gas blend and impermeable coating could be applied to a balloon to increase its life?  just think of how chic a few bronze orbs would look silently hovering amidst sleek, black leather couches, shiny brass light fixtures, a brown cowhide rug and a stack of art books on an industrial metal coffee table. chic isn't even the word--more mysterious, perhaps. such an unexpected presence of color and presence itself mid-level in the room, an area past the backs of couches and chairs but not quite high enough for pictures and mirrors and various wall hangings, is both intriguing and curious.  and due to their usual appearances at gleeful parties, balloons, regardless of their color, always seem to inspire pleasant memories--birthdays, communion parties, anniversaries, promotions.  you never see balloons at funerals or affixed to tombstones, which is my grievance with flowers--an abundance of flowers in any house turns even the most opulent rooms into a somber post-funeral space, the air heavy and eyes averted downward.

so let's keep the latex companies in business and start decorating our houses with balloons.


Monday, February 08, 2010

it's getting hot in here

so take off all your clothes...

I want a breakthrough. I want a lot of things. But right now, what I really want is another Pop Tart.
I just took my third bath of the week. I hadn’t bathed in six or so years, either a stand-up shower stall was all that was available, or time wouldn’t allow (and since when is it acceptable to invest so much authority in something as fleeting and invisible as time?) but recently I found myself with both a tub amply-sized for even semi-luxurious bathing and periods of time I feel would have disappeared had I not spent them submerged in sweet smelling, bubbly water. I think taking a bath is one solid way we can truly exercise our authority in this world. There’s something empowering about creating one’s own body of water, giving rise to one’s own island with one’s own rules and policies and statutes. It’s God-like to create, to sustain, and, with one quick maneuver that may involve lifting a lever or dislodging a C-town bag from one’s drain, to destroy. Bathing can also be therapeutic, giving one the opportunity to figuratively unload superfluous cares and stresses into the same water that will soon join millions of gallons like it in an amorphous mass of discard. Water is never really thrown away, but I don’t think about the repurification process. I don’t care what happens to my water after I’ve used and released it.
Bathing is intimate. All sorts of unloading, unleashing, disencumbering can be excised and released into one’s protective moat of bathwater. Aforementioned anxieties, primal urges, the contents of one’s bladder, even, and because the only judicial presence is created and upheld by you, the bather, no preordained judgment can exist. Of course the masochistic society that governs our sadistic world sticks its adulterated finger into our steamy broth no matter how opaque the shower curtain, but after a few shy attempts, you’ll soon find yourself bathing and in the singularity with which you were born.
Bathing is amniotic. Nothing else matters, nothing else has to exist. It certainly could, if one allows it to, but as the first time spent in the amniotic sac didn’t really extend much choice in the matter, why not resolve to the primal for a while? If “what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him,” since when are you so affected?
Sometimes I wish I could hold my breath for days. With few exceptions, mostly involving instances in the entertainment industry, very little activity ensues when one holds one’s breath, rendering them virtually dormant. I wish I could be dormant for days on end. I’d come up for air every three days or so, but aren’t we entitled to some time off? There’s something so peaceful about catatonia; I often wonder if the medical conclusions affirming the environmental awareness of comatose patients don’t simply exist for the well-being of their loved ones, to revise their purpose in life to acclimate to the new conditions. Reading to deaf ears is more reassuring than reading to dead ones. Regardless, those ‘trapped’ in comas never wear expressions of pain or agony, rather, they exude peace. They’ve peaced out and they want everyone to be aware of it, but instead of announcing their departure with a sign or party, they simply lie still until their lack of response garners them more attention than an outward shout. And yet a coma wouldn’t be for me—I’d rather the warm feeling of suspension, slight movement predicated only by the natural movement of all with which I exist.
It’s a shame we can’t eat Pop Tarts under water.


Monday, February 01, 2010

we don't need another hero

sing it, tina...

i've situated my usual writing spot in front of a dimly-lit mirror today, round and tarnished, as my expression is nothing but mournful, pulled down not from the gravity centered magnetically deep inside the earth, but the closer one, sourced within my own heart. i'm in what could be the last six, pitiful weeks of my most successful bout with botox yet, and the clean, evenly-spaced ridges on my forehead that made their first appearance in months splashed mud on what would have been a pristine pair of white pants of a morning.

ok, i'm over it, but the real dramedy begins when, upon checking CNN for my daily dose of what's up, i stumble across the video of heidi montag's plastic surgeon, dr. frank ryan, heralding his latest frankensperiment as as hero. the girl with too-big titties and tranny eyes is a hero. nevermind the fact that 50 years ago today four black men took a radical stance against the racism that made their lives unbearable, and mobilized something along the lines of the civil rights movement. they weren't nearly as important as heidi's surgery and the profound effect it has had, and will exponentially continue to have, upon the well-being of this planet. those men and their so-called brazen efforts should pale in comparison. why, they probably had evenly-spaced eyes and cottage cheese thighs and nipples that lined up and--because they were students--most certainly were gifted with brains, deeming them out of miss montag's league and serving as a rich text box bordering what's sure to be several chapters in revised american history textbooks. imperfection is so passé.

heidi's plan to be the flashbulbs' biggest beauty yet severely backfired, sending obscene vibrations through her jigglies, no doubt. she just removed herself from the very spotlight she craved. nobody's taking pictures of heidi montag, anymore--they're capturing a modern day frankenstein. they don't want her story, they want her man-made curves. they want their million dollar close-up of the crowned queen of body dismorphic disorder, now that michael jackson is gone, for at least his vocation was showing people the real beauty of life through art.

i think montag's only act of heroism is the resulting gaggle of people being driven--most likely against their will, as psychological disorders can prove more crippling than physical handicaps--to therapists by friends and spouses for exhibiting similar heidious behavior. psychoanalysts and psychiatrists alike around the world are probably planning their lushest vacations in years, as they've got their work cut out, cropping what's certain to be an emulation trend of madonna proportions. parents, there's no easy way to tell your six year-old that a blepharoplasty is not for them, and heaven help those dealing with the incendiary resolve of teenagers seeking the knife as adamantly as they once vied for manic panic as a way of being 'different.' and as much diy fun as we had piercing our own belly buttons and scraping pen-ink tattoos on our ankles, plastic surgery requires anesthesia, so don't.

the quest for perfection must be a lucrative business for whom or whatever perfection is, because it's been able to finance one hell of a botched surgery job of its own, becoming both unrecognizable and elusive to all its hopeless seekers. at least when the epidermal dust dies down we'll have plenty of hoarders to watch. imperfection can be so empowering.


Wednesday, January 27, 2010

all that's missing is adam lambert

my love's a red vulva...


a two-time attendee of the previous lilith fair music fests, i can say i've a pretty good handle on the concept. it was a celebration of women in music, and past acts that included sheryl crow, natalie merchant and the borderline lady lover in charge, sarah mclachlan, hewed lilith fair a stable place amongst music's finest fests in little over two summers.
it was all about an easygoing couple of hours. get there early, spark up, and let the 20 or so acts lull you into a feminist haze anybody could love, even reluctant boyfriends (who doesn't enjoy swaying to 'everyday is a winding road?').
the best occasion to crack open miller lights perched on your finest tapestry, the lilith fair dissolved just as quickly as it gained momentum and after an 11-year hiatus, it's back, slated to be one of summer's most amazing acts.
or at least that's the plan...and i'm not so sure i'm all that happy about the lineup. i was ecstatic when i heard confirmations included sheryl crow, erykah badu, tegan and sara, norah jones, cat power and heart--i was even still crossing my fingers ani difranco would drag her pink haired ass out for once. but my smile faded as quickly as a frat boy's hard on at an indigo girls show when i read that, joining the aforementioned legends, was ke$ha (the name alone turns my stomach inside out), la roux, AND the gossip! the only mismatch missing is miss adam lambert herself, obviously repudiated due to excessive use of eyeliner. ke$ha's been around for five minutes, and i'm sorry, but crows feet + bad extensions does NOT equal any type of lasting power, dear.
i can just imagine the digestive havoc wreaked when there's glitter in the granola...


Thursday, January 14, 2010


ke$ha does not make me feel young...

to stave off, yet not completely put to rest, speculation about my actual age, an official number that's escaped even me, i'm sharing a revelation i experienced yesterday. it's on--i've entered my late 20's/early 30's and not by tears shed over checking off the next age bracket on some random form. no, i was unofficially sworn in by a sudden appreciation of the columbine/harlequin tomfoolery forever enameled into the kandler-crafted miniature sculptures on display at the met.

modern translation: i like knick knacks. it all goes downhill from there.

embrace your age but certainly not ag(ing).


Tuesday, January 12, 2010

with a little help from my friends

there's nothing you can do that can't be done...

so as luck and a 21-year bout with insomnia would have it, i was awoken by one prickly pear of a dream last night involving a condition where my bladder was suddenly intolerant of acidity, rendering its very existence futile (and rather deadly). who dreams that?
so i propped myself up in bed to continue reading the book of the day, the witches by the magnificent roald dahl because, really, one childrens book a week is a trans-fat rich dessert for the soul. there i was reading about the laudable efforts of witches to turn children into mice, ridding the world of such excess pestilence, when i was suddenly aware that i wasn't alone. a quick glance downward spotted--you guessed it--a mouse! a tiny grey mouse with a little white tail and eyes that weren't as beady as mice usually have, but had a glimmer of personality to them. he knew he was seen, and by kind eyes because he didn't immediately scamper away. (could it have been that awful boy who lives upstairs, whose noisy existence i've rued since the day i moved in? supernatural things like that happen all the time, you know. so does wishful thinking). it was my characteristic index finger wave that finally got him on the run to whatever nest he had constructed under my dresser. unfortunately, he was a mouse, after all, and his teeny tiny brain probably construed my gleeful wave as some impending wave of doom, so 'bye, mouse.'

obviously my pristine existence has no room for some foraging rodent born of the filth that kernels this city, but the very nature of his small size couldn't have tracked in much dirt and he was merely seeking warmth, as this con-ed paying schlub was doing as well. also, due to my parents coming around to the fact that dogs are not furry incubi of rabies and mange and instead loyal (and potentially non-shedding) life companions until well after my departure to higher education, the faunal part of my childhood consisted of a multitude of rodents so i was no stranger to my unexpected (but certainly not uninvited) houseguest. still, i thought, he must go.

so i enlisted the help of a few friends, namely j.d. salinger, kate chopin, nathaniel hawthorne and bell hooks to facilitate the containment and relocation of my small friend (bell hooks' all about love acting as appropriate motivator behind my humane approach). i was thinking maybe the central park zoo would fare him better, both warmth and fellow feral rodentia abounding. see above pic for cnn's account of my homemade mouse trap, baited with organic peanut butter rich in omega 3s and a small chip of a tostitos hint-of-lime. why shouldn't my mouse share my sapience of all things tasty on his last night here?

with the trap set, i resumed with my book and slowly dozed off, confident that i'd awake to my little mouse napping in the bowl that would find him safely taken to his new relocated home. unfortunately, the little fucker was smarter than i and managed to eat both the peanut butter AND tostito hint-of-lime before making a safe escape to wherever he might currently be hiding in my vast expanse of an apartment.
so much for literary ingenuity. there's always tonight to try, try again.

and that, my friends, is just one more way to live in a world so many see as nefarious. off to buy more tostitos hint-of-lime.


Monday, January 11, 2010

lobbying to the oldies

there's a she-wolf in the closet...

if i can extract two nuggets of wisdom from the burdens lifted from corporate participation rendered by the past two months of funemployment, they would be: that the term "professional dress code" is as obsolete as bloomers and the people living upstairs have way too much fucking time on their hands. but pressing on the former, a stiff suit is not, in fact, required to make the workday a productive one. if anything, i owe the folks at 2(x)ist major hugs for providing me with the new uniform of success i've so distinctly pioneered. nothing beats seamlessly moving from a crossword puzzle in bed to pressing my email's "send" button on the couch, releasing yet another literary contribution into the world, wearing little more than a polyester blend fig leaf.
and nowhere is the un-standardization of today's dress code for success more evident than on the exuberant back of america's favorite phys ed teacher, mr richard simmons (née milton teagle). while the wardrobe of high school gym teachers mostly stuck with two-piece pastel sweatsuits for the ladies and the ultra-stylish combination of a polo shirt paired with old navy's latest track pant offering for the men, simmons dares to venture out of the box-step and is rarely, if at all, seen sans his beloved sequined and rhinestoned creations. something even tells me he may have a creative hand in fashioning said attire, as such applique can't be found past bob mackie's HSN collection, and i doubt he'd don anything less than couture jersey, as pictured on today's wendy williams show (another louboutin-clad lass who stomps to no other beat than her own) pictured above.

but what really dampens my torso over richard simmons is the fact that these jo-ann fabric explosions comprise his everyday office attire, and not just in the sweatin' studios. the man who paradoxically made us dance and shimmy to aretha franklin has become america's latest, if not only, sequined political pundit. the rhinestone cowboy, if you will. most of simmons' time, including his 200 plus days traveling each year, is spent lobbying for the improvement of physical education in schools, extolling the virtues of not being a 12 year-old fat ass. and people listen to him. his seriousness, no doubt, stems not only from his longevity in being the poster child for personal fitness, but also from the onus of listening to someone with big hair and a whole lotta swarovski belting in your face. and while he's not exactly conducting synchronized knee thrusts on the congressional floor, his efforts are noticeably progressing. i seriously doubt he'd be as far along if he squatted in some gabardine tailored travesty all these years. and really, if his MO weren't so noble, i'd certainly pin this situation as being one where what was on the outside trumped what lied within.

so three of today's cheers goes to richard simmons (née milton teagle) because even though my level of excitement over sequins and rhinestones burns enough calories to keep me sweating to the oldies, i can definitely identify with the man who's using his own universe brimming with adoration to fuel a brigade for the betterment of the world, starting with making it ok to not conform to what 'everybody else is wearing' to work. and as one who brought bowties back to bergdorf's, i'll be sweating to my own tune for a long time to come.