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,