Heather Graham Hates Freedom.

When I finished enough pages of my paper, I gave myself the treat of typing the following phrase into Google: "I Have A Sex Crush On Jason Bateman". No nude pictures, no reports of whether or not he has a big dick. What a bummer. But, I did find out that there is someone out there who is more deranged than I am. No, seriously you guys.

After scouring in vain for any mention of whether or not he has freckles in somewhere other than his face, I ended up here, being lame and checking out what people thought of "Arrested Development". It did not disappoint. There was some GOLDEN feedback from a cross selection of angry dub house interns, bitter CAA mailroom trolls, rabid Des Moines "Malcom in the Middle" fan club members, failed 54 year old screenwriters, and a few normal people who like smart comedy. And then, there was this:

"This show jump the shark on 03/07/04 special guest star Heather Graham. She hates war and violence but was in Austin Powers. Also she loves Saddam the madman and killer but would she be willing to say the same about Ted Bundy! Keep politics out of comedy. "

Oh. My. God.

I mean, this is a joke? Right? Someone, anyone, please say yes.

(If you don't know the episode reference, then: a) this won't be as funny/terrifying and b) you're lame for not watching the show. Please go out and buy the Season 1 DVD and catch up. Support Jason so he can buy me that lovely little necklace he promised me for Valentine's Day.)

I think I may go back to school...

I think it's time for my higher education to be literally higher. As in, heaven.

Please see the second paragraph, and then immediately march to your TV set and watch "Touched By An Angel".

TOTAL INESCAPABLE MISERY

I cannot force myself to write, I am behind by so many pages. I keep letting myself get distracted and knowing I'm being an ass but I HATE IT HATE IT HATE IT.

30 pages, due January 7th, 2005. I have 25 pages. I cannot muster the literary diarrhea to splatter on those last 5 pages. Fucking fuck.

I have begun to be resentful as the WHOLE vacation is almost over, I haven't gone vintage shopping, I haven't seen any friends here or up in LA, I haven't gone to the beach, gone record album shopping, even taken the dog out on a limp around the block. I've been holed up in my Dad's study and now, up in my room, listening to my family watch DVDs and having fun recreationally fighting. This makes me do even less work.

When this paper is over I am going to go on a scandalous bender the likes of which have not been seen since the seminal disco film, "Thank God, It's Friday". Just watch me.

Why, you shouldn't have. Oh, wait...you didn't.

"She had an agile, teasing sense of humor that included a
sure grasp of the absurd and an instinct for punchy
ripostes.
--Sally Bedell Smith

Hallmark this, you fuckers!!!

Choose The Blue

Our little pal Hallmark seems to endorse that rapscallion, "President" Bush! As if I already didn't hate them for those stupid cards with that screeching old lady Madge? Or Marge? Where she always saying something cutely negative whilst flipping the bird? Oh for fucks' sake just look in any senior citizens' kitchen there's sure to be a magnet or mug of some sort bearing her likeness.

Now every time I can I'm going to go to the Hallmark store in Brooklyn Heights and A) surreptitiously rip cards in half and slip them back into the holders b) yank the heads off cheerful stuffed animals c) knock over any and all porcelain "Precious Moments" collectible crap and then stomp it into a fine powder. Then I will mainline it.

I was looking for an H.L. Mencken quote, but instead, I found this.

I didn't add the "visionary" title at the end, because that seems very precious. But I do think, in light of what I'm working on thesis-wise, that this is pretty damned uncanny.


"Don't be deceived when they tell you things are better now. Even if there's no poverty to be seen because the poverty's been hidden. Even if you ever got more wages and could afford to buy more of these new and useless goods which industries foist on you and even if it seems to you that you never had so much, that is only the slogan of those who still have much more than you. Don't be taken in when they paternally pat you on the shoulder and say that there's no inequality worth speaking of and no more reason to fight because if you believe them they will be completely in charge in their marble homes and granite banks from which they rob the people of the world under the pretence of bringing them culture. Watch out, for as soon as it pleases them they'll send you out to protect their gold in wars whose weapons, rapidly developed by servile scientists, will become more and more deadly until they can with a flick of the finger tear a million of you to pieces." -- Jean Paul Marat, 18th Century French Visionary

Another One Bites The Dust

The first of my college boyfriends is now married. This was relayed to me today by a link to his wedding website in a mass e-mail. I am sad, mostly because had I known in advance, I would have liked to have sent a gift. We were better friends than boyfriend & girlfriend, and we dated only for a few months. She is a lucky girl, he's a catch. And, at least he treated me like a friend and showed enough respect to tell me. Unlike my second college boyfriend of 2 years, with who I had a much less amicable split. He let me know about his nuptials by replying to my yearly contact update email with only his address, no phone number. When I emailed back to a be a smartass and said something along the lines of "What, are you worried I'll call and upset your wife!? Ha ha ha!", he answered in the affirmative. What a gem was he.

This was also the one that announced to me casually that he was fairly certain he'd turn into a serial killer one day. Let the record show that following this comment, I stayed in the relationship.

Neighborhood News

Last night at about 2 am, after it had begun raining, some dipshit spun out of control while tearing around the corner of our street, slammed into the neighbor's palm tree, then sped off. I heard the whole thing because I was sitting at the computer not typing, all the while feeling bad about my not typing.

The palm tree promptly fell onto a car parked in the neighbor's driveway with a loud "crunch". From what my folks told me, the Homeowner's Association for Hillgate Estates (yes, that's the generic name of the neighborhood we live in) has banned cars parked in driveways as this is considered an eyesore that lowers the property value of the houses. This neighbor was clearly in violation of this quality control measure. I am sure that quite a few over-plucked, drawn on with a pencil, old lady style eyebrows are raised with smugness at that twist. Schedenfraude is rampant in the Southern California suburbs.

Sara Is Loco!

My dear friend Sara and I don't compete with one another ever, as it's not in our delicate natures. But it may be true that together we form a Voltron of spazzed-out drunken excess coupled with relentless spiteful commentary. And in that way, we compete to be the biggest team of a-holes ever, our singular goal being to reduce all who would challenge us to tears. Tears are our nectar. Also Skyy Melon Vodka & ginger ale.

Skee-Lo

TruckerHatTrash
Originally uploaded by branleighbarber.

I do not wish I was a little bit taller. But I do wish this fucking paper was over.

My Dad is tormenting us by watching the "Top Gun" DVD special features over and over. No offense, but I could give a goddamn what Teri Nunn has to say about that stupid "Take My Breath Away" song. I tried to tell my Dad about the cinematic concept of the male gaze and its being present during the extremely homoerotic volleyball scene, aptly scored to "Playing With The Boys". He wasn't having it. I suspect, as he has a few more drinks, that he may put on his flight jacket. Again.

What a douche this guy is. I want to kick him in the crotch of his Diesels. But the guy who made his "shirt" is neat.

My heart itches.

Reading all the materials for my thesis has put me in a terrible mood today. I'm so depressed over the state of federal arts funding now that I don't even want to write the damned paper. And not even because of my constant habit of procrastination, either. So shut it, clown.

My Mom and I went to the Sav-On (local drug store) and it had this "auto checkout" option. You scan your own groceries and bag them. The bag rests on top of a scale which calculates how much your groceries should weigh so you can't swipe a bunch of stuff. My Mom said she hated the machine but we ended up using it anyway. It turned into a sort of slap fight, with my Mom trying to swat my hands away from the key pad and me saying, "Mom you're banned from the scale, stop putting too much on it!" Potato chips were nearly crushed, as were familial ties, being that we turned on one another as the machine bellowed out, "Please remove unscanned item from bag now!!!" The item in questions you ask? A bag of Black Forest Gummy Bears. In an intriguing twist the machine then double charged us for the VERY SAME BEARS!! I lived the movie "I, Robot". Also I learned my Mom and I would be a shitty team on the Amazing Race. Unless I got breast implants to fill out a fuschia sports bra. Then it'd be on.

Beat it, troll!

During my darkest hours this past Saturday, I pondered this simple thought: Why, god, was there no third installment in the ribald "Problem Child" film series? Why this cruel absence of a legacy of hi-jinx, guffaws, and chortles?

Today, a new dawn has come.

Behold: Problem Child 3: Junior In Love.

Thank you, sweet baby christ child. Thank you.

Prom Drunk

I wish I hadn't been so wasted that I missed the majority of last night's performances. I became the idiot that goes to the concert so they can pay to be incoherent around other people rather than listen to the band. Oh, well. I did at least manage to be alert enough to hear the live rendition of "I Want Candy!" by MC Chris. After that, there were many trips outside for fresh air, taken during the sets of people I in sobriety am sad I missed.

Todd Barry was there, I saw about the first 4 minutes of his stand up. I tried not to make direct eye contact with anyone and to blend in. This was hard as I was the tallest person there. Not just the tallest woman, that I'm used to; but the tallest person at the show, due to my wearing stiletto ankle boots which seemed like a great idea at the time. Not so much. Also, I thought it would be wise to wear a kelly green blazer that, on closer inspection, made me look unnervingly similar to Austin Powers. The glasses didn't help. Shagadelic, bay-bee! (puts barrell of gun in mouth, waves goodbye with free hand)

Based on last night's dismal performance, and the fact that I seem to have a knack for making a fool out of myself that rivals Jerry Lewis in his vagina-hating hayday, I think I'm going to have to lay off the controlled substances for a while.

The guy I had a crush on was at the party. As luck would have it, he has a girlfriend. After pouting about this information, I was mad at myself for turning the whole thing into a Lifetime movie. I seem to have fantasized that I'd show up and he'd have a corsage for me, and then we'd get voted King & Queen of the winter ball, and take a snow white limo to the Denny's where I could have the breakfast omelette of my choice. And maybe, since I knew in my heart he was the one, there would be finger banging. However, back here in adult land, this was not meant to be the outcome. In hindsight I guess it's OK because I was too wasted to even communicate, much less eat an omelette! I mean, guy*!

*substitute word for "god" that my childhood best friends were forced to say to avoid being beaten for blasphemy by their 6'6" ex-prison guard father

Brandy Barber, Visitor

The Ghost was more subdued last night. Of course, the kitchen seemed to have been ass-raped by the ghost of Joan Crawford, so what did she have to rattle her chains about? My manic housecleaning, when I do get around to doing it, is nothing short of inspired.

I'll be home in sunny CA in about 6 days. This year I decided to do something while I'm there instead of sit on my ass watching TV. I've got that nailed down here I think.

I was trolling about on the San Diego "Scenic Sights 'n' Such" web page, feeling a tad embarrassed to be doing so. And I came across this link about my hometown. It replused me and at the same time, ingnited in me some strange sort of pride. If you look close, you can see the 7-11s where I bought bottles upon bottles of Mickey's illegaly, puked up hash brownies on public beaches, or snuck into bars to be picked up on by 40 year old loser surfers! Yes, folks, something to be proud of. A memory is a thing of beauty forever. Now, here's .25 cents to call a cab, because you can't sleep here tonight, my old lady's gonna be home from her shift at Dirty Dan's in an hour.

"Let's go get drunk and rip off a 10 speed."

I wish I had a Foreigner belt.

Today I cooked and ate a Tyson pre-seasoned chicken. After thinking it smelled kind of like ammonia, as I was chomping on a piece, I ventured a peek at the container, which had a sell by date of December 2nd. A hasty Google search informed me that I most likely have gotten myself a crack case of food poisoning, and will be vomiting soon. By the time you read this, it's highly likely I will have shat myself. To this end I ate half a bag of mini Hershey's Kisses and a piece of vegetable pizza, and washed it down with god's nectar, a can of Dr. Pepper. Always a can, NEVER a bottle. Because at least I want to live it up now if I'm faced with days and days of soup and flat 7Up.

Now off to re-watch MC Pee Pants, and then finish the much overdue cleaning of the kitchen.

***GHOST UPDATE***
It hath returned!!!

The Ghost was not making itself evident from a couple of days before Thanksgiving until yesterday evening. Before this dramatic entrance, the Ghost had me genuinely concerned. Not only was there ample toilet paper, but there were no noxious smoke fumes coated in Vanilla Horizons .99 cent store ozone-propelled air freshener from 1977.
The real trauma occurred when my landlord cornered me and tried to insist I pay her rent. Even though she's paid her own rent for the past 8 months. I politely said, no way. And that I didn't know her too well, and I had no idea where she was but I'd email her. And then I suggested that if she had pulled a runner that he go ahead and use her one month's deposit as that was the point, was it not? This seemed to stun him into silence allowing me to escape to the diner for a cheeseburger.

Well, last night, I heard the telltale rustling and then the door opened. It was alive!!!!!!! However, you'll be surprised to hear that the Ghost was acting up! In fact, she VENTURED DOWN THE HALL INTO THE KITCHEN! Side note: the kitchen is filthy because I didn't feel like getting off my ass and doing dishes last week, because loading the dishwasher is soooooo hard. So it looks like a battleground, with pots and pans all askew, and I also hadn't refilled the Brita filter because I'm lazy. So, she came out of her cave in search of Brita water vs. bathroom faucet water I guess, and was somewhat rightfully appalled. And then, I COULDN'T BELIEVE IT- she came into the doorway that leads into the living room. She surveyed the space, which is full of stuff I am in the process of donating/dragging out to the curb/cardboard boxes the cat has chewed. And then she saw me on the couch watching my Aqua Teen Hunger Force DVD. I saw her peripherally, but I didn't turn my head to acknowledge her because it was the part where Urr jumps on the game to get more tickets. Also because I am somewhat scared of interacting with her now since she's so fucking crazy. And she sort of jumped, because I don't think she knew I was out of my room and on the couch. After a few seconds, which felt like hours she scuttled back into her room. For the next hour, there was loud door slamming, water running, and wafts of smoke and incense (someone got all new-age-uppity on my ass and ditched the canned stank). And then a VERY LOUD PHONE CALL was made about her delayed trip home from god knows where. If I was to venture a guess I'd say she sounded angry...uh oh. If, when they find my corpse, the blood vessels in my eyes are burst, you now know why.

Later...I espied in the bathroom, along with her not-touched-since-she-moved-in-Old-Lady "Setting Lotion" (what is she a flapper?!), a variety of swiped mini Canyon Ranch Spa amenities. For fuck's sake! The Ghost went to Canyon Ranch?! I wonder if she stayed in her room the whole time chain smoking there like she does here.

El Sombrero/The Hat

You'd think by now that I'd take a moment to reflect and learn from experience that I always, always end up getting way too drunk when I have a pint sized margarita on the rocks, no salt, at the Hat. But after a few years, it still has not seemed to sink in. Even after numerous nights which ended in puking up guacamole and rock salt. Nope.

I don't know how I got so drunk last night, I just know that all of a sudden I was blatantly hammered. I hazily remember getting up to dance at the party and as I did, the oh, so wacky Dj who was at the most 20, decided to take it back to the 70's and school us in her supercool "Look at me I use ironic incorrectly to describe myself" ways. When I got up, MC Lyte was playing. When I arrived at the dance floor, it morphed into some lame ass Led Zepplin song. There are a few of these that you could dance to, perhaps if you were peaking on acid and scampering around a tent covered in your own patchouli filth. However, I am not one to partake in such exploits and certainly will not even after raiding the open bar. I wanted to go over, give her a time out, and say, "Look, I know how much your life has been changed since last week when you discovered Stevie Nicks because you read about her on Courtney Love's website? But no one wants to dance to your attempts at being a 'hip DJ' in order to anger your conservative midwestern parents who pay for your East Village walk up rat infested closet, so fuck off and put on some James Brown, princess." I didn't, though. I instead went promptly to a bodega and knocked over a can of Sapporo which exploded while I was trying to paw at a 40 of Coors Lite. I'll show her, I'll show ALL OF YOU!

A guy I have an ill-informed crush on was supposedly spotted at the same bar. I got excited at the thought of such romantic kismet; instead I drank too much free Red Stripe and staggered out. Later, in a move reminscent of the star of the movie, "Problem Child" I swiped a huge handful of Hershey's Kisses from the bartender at the karaoke place, rather than taking the proffered one serving.

In other news, my new black-with-kelly-green-wheels roller skates came fresh from eBay and I could not be more thrilled. I decided it was wise to make myself some hangover treats- tea and ginger noodle soup- while wearing them. About halfway from the kitchen to the couch I realized what a fucking douchebag I am 99.7% of the time.

"Don't Make Anything About Tonight."

Me: I'm posting into my blog.

Dad: Don't.

Me: I'm going to.

Dad: Don't. (indicates my misuse of WebTV's cursor function) Duh. You gotta go up, numb nuts.

(Drinks more gin & tonic.)

The End

Dad: Oh, very funny. How disrespectful.

Tonight's entry has been brought to you by the Annpolis Sheraton, who had the foolishness to install WebTV into its hotel suites, allowing me to read aloud my and my friend's blogs to my horrified family after I got drunk at the exorbitant seafood restaurant, O'Leary's.

Superfriends

I got to see one of my favorite people in the world last night, Porter. There was a lot of drinking as well. Very nice. Plus I had and amazing cheeseburger at McManus.

Now I'm packing for my trip to Maryland to meet my family, who are all there to go with my little brother to the Army-Navy game. Now I could give a goddamn about sports but I do like to see them live, even though I have not the slightest idea what the actions mean or what's being said by the announcers.

I remember once in high school, a teacher who everyone thought was really cool drew a diagram on the chalkboard and asked me if I knew what it was. I guessed something scientific since he was my physiology teacher. He shook his head with a smirk on his face, and then asked another girl in the class, Dusty (yes, it was her name and yes, she was a slut). She had no idea. This went on for a bit, with the men in the class snickering and making disruptive noises. Finally, the teacher called out to one of the boys, John Eric, (yes, like "generic") who was wiggling in his seat with his blatant contempt at our female stupidity. The teacher asked him if he knew what the diagram was. He could barely contain his delight when he answered- the series of Xs and Os on the chalkboard was some sort of football play nonsense. I still don't give a rat's ass, and as I get older, I think that was a sexist, stupid thing to do. What the fuck does football have to do with physiology?!? Man, I went to a shitty, broke-ass high school.