Sunday, October 30, 2005

Happy Halloweiner, or, How I Learned To Stop Having A Breakdown About My iPod.

FUCKING iPOD!!!!!!!!!

I cried 2 times last night. Once, in the cab because I was sad about a last minute cancellation and once because after a disturbing amount of work, my iPod playlist wouldn't work and I had to let go ofmy dreams to get the party moving to "Sir Duke".

What happens to an iPod DJ's dream deferred? In this case after a Diana Ross tantrum I calmed the fuck down and doubled up on the drinks.

The result? I ended up getting to dance to"Back For Good" with Angela at 4:30 am in a puddle of beer (Angela's, which had been dropped earlier) and mushed frosting (which I threw at someone earlier). What a fun party- thanks to the other 5 hosts and to Tai Lounge, andmost especially thanks to all you who came out in your fantastic costumes. And those who had no costumes were scolded by Giulia, which I assure you, I would not want to be. That one's a handful.

I feel like I should sing "Oh, What A Night (December 1963)" now. If you'll excuse me, I shall.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

I have compiled a detailed list of things I want to do to/with/on you.

This is just sending me into a fit. I need to go sit on an ice pack. But that haircut!?! It's making me crazy. When did I become a pedophile? Uh, that would have been in 1988 when this little muffin was born.

Now, Rupert, be a good British gentleman and come sit in Mommy's lap. Oh, and lose the pants, you won't be needing them.

Elle est très triste.

This one's for you, Porter Mason.

My iPod and I are fighting today, as is the rule since my technological skills are akin to a chimp's. Well, to be fair, a chimp, if left to its own jungle devices, could manipulate a twig to score itself some tasty ants from out of their hill as a treat. I on the other hand can't seem to open the packets of hot sauce from Taco Bell that I so treasure without a major mishap or child proof scissors. There you have it. The right wings cukoos are correct, evolution is but a myth, at least in my case.

Anyway, my iPod does not want to let me download songs off of another computer, since I have now hooked it up to my secondary laptop. This bites my ass, as I spent way too much time downloading obscure 80s r&b and random pop ephemera and now want that to be front and center on my little white ear tampon. I have begged, wheedled and cajoled, all to no avail. "Ipod", I said in my most saccharine voice, "you know how excited I was to find You Should Be Mine (The Woo Woo Song) on LimeWire. Must you deprive me of the pleasure of listening to it at full blast on the F train at rush hour? Why would you take away the glee I get when the confused 20-somethings who claim they're totally influenced by Cheap Trick and dress like one of the Go-Gos overhear a song that's NOT by Franz Ferdinand!? Damn you, iPod, you minx!"

It could be worse, I could turn on my iPod and it could make its electronic death mask, as it did to my near and dear, Porter. iPod, thy name is fickleness.

Monday, October 24, 2005

Nigel Shan't Be Happy.

This shall be placed upon him whether he likes it or not. It's supposed to be for a dog, but it's going to fit quite nicely on his sleek cat body. Oh yes, indeed.

I will never tire of these silly quiz things. Never.

You Are a Very Bad Girl
You are 10% Good and 90% BadAs they say, good girls go to heaven and bad girls go everywhere!You make most bad girls look like angels - and have a hell of a time along the way.
Are You a Good Girl or a Bad Girl?

Sunday, October 23, 2005

Aw, man.

I can't fucking believe this. Charles Rocket killed himself and I didn't even know until just now. I am so sad. He was so brilliantly funny, I admired him so much. Dammit.

Saturday, October 22, 2005

My Cat Has A Blog.

Yes, that's right. In fact, his was selected as's Daily Cat Diary, and he now has many new friends. Please make a point of checking it out when you get a chance. In fact, Nigel seems to get much better feedback from internet pals then his Mom's freelancework these days.

He really is the world's most magical cat.

"Ewww, your breath reeks of gin." - Nigel

I Will Give You A Shiny Nickel.

How are these two things alike?

(HINT: The answer is not that they are both snagged from two great websites)



This e-mail sums me up.

From: Sara Allocco

To: Brandy Barber

April 4, 2005

Subject: My Favorite Part Of Last Night Was...

...when we were reading the magazine and you kept either shaking your finger at people or giving the finger to small inner city kids.

...and you'll never guess where I put it!

My friend Brianne sent me a hilarious book that I sat down and read in one sitting. It is written by this fabulous woman who calls herself Mama Gena.

I am usually pretty annoyed by any sort of "How To Catch That Handsome Man (You Fat Loathsome Troll)!" books. They make me want to puke, in fact. But this is a horse of a different color. This is a book that says hilarious, kick-ass things. I have excerpted them below, because I look forward to reading them over and over again for my own amusement. You may also like them. Skip-de-dee!

Exercise #1: Write A Little Fairy Tale
Write down the fairly tale of love that you were raised with. Which kind of princess were you supposed to be, and what kind of princely rescue was supposed to happen? Really do it up with dragons, if you want them, illustrations of you in your ballgown, and of course, the happily-ever-after kiss. Let's get that story out on the table. Read it out loud to one of your...pals. Get a little perspective on the unrealistic expectations you are counting on some guy to fulfill.

"...when a woman meets a man, she has a bizarre tendency to abandon her world for her man. She ditches her friends, quits her normal fun activites, and becomes all about him and his world. Mama will have none of this. Keep your friends. Maintain all the those cool things you did before you met him. We want you to fit him in your fabulous life, not the other way around."

And, my favorite, which is a title over a particular paragraph:

"Don't Put An Egg Timer On Your Orgasm"

Hilarious. And oh, so true. There are some parts of the book I am not so keen on. But overall, it demands that women take responsibility for thier pleasure. Me likey.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Everyone Wants To Know.

Anne in Brooklyn. October 20, 2005

The night after my sketch show with Sara opened, Anne and I were (understandably) incredibly hung over. She spent the night at my house, and we woke up in the afternoon, cursing the sunlight. I suggested brunch, so we threw on some dumpy clothes and made our way through my neighborhood.
Carroll Gardens, where I've lived for the past 3 years, is at its most charming on an early Spring Sunday. As we walked, groaning and trying not to retch, Anne and I laughed about some mishap that had occurred. We arrived at a cozy, crowded brunch location called Le Petit Cafe. The only table available was in the back garden, and Anne and I were in no mood to dally before getting our Bloody Marys. As the hostess led us across the crowded terrace, it occured to me that this lone table was directly below a makeshift platform stage where a there was a man perched on a stool, playing guitaur. But not any guitaur. No, this man, robed in a flowing white poet's shirt, was playing romantic Spanish guitaur music for all to enjoy their crepes over. This would explain why the table had remained open, even in the rush. But events were already in motion, so I gritted my teeth and sat at the table which was right under the musician, who looked like an escapee from a Renaissance Faire.
While we perused the menu, Anne pointed out that everyone at the cafe seemed to be paying us a great deal of attention- and not just because we were at the feet of the Gypsy King. The Brooklyn yuppies around us peered through their tortieshell glasses, adjusted their Snuglis, and beamed as if to say, "We celebrate you! After all that's why we moved to Brooklyn- we're PROGRESSIVE!" I looked at Anne, who had her hair up in a messy bun and wore dark glasses and a baggy shirt. I looked down at my pair of "fat" jeans, androgynous Paul Frank t-shirt and flip flops, and I realized that everyone at the restaurant thought Anne and I were a gay couple, perhaps having our first post-cuddling brunch. Anne leaned over and annoucned, "This is the soundtrack to our love", indicating the soulful strumming emmanating a mere 2 inches from our heads. From the self-important solidarity looks we were getting from the other diners, I had to agree with her.
Post brunch, we went to the park and laid out in the sun, further solidifying our status as a couple. And that evening we went to the store and bought the ingredients to make delicious pigs in a blanket, or as Anne calles them, weenie bites. Subconsciously phallic? You tell me.
Now whenever we go to do something together, it seems to end up being strangely romantic. Like the time we were starving and went to eat at a little bistro on Smith called Bar Tabac. As we waited for our orders, the lights dimmed, the music changed, and suddenly it seemed as if we were on a yet another of our special dates. Add to this,the fact that we refer to ourselves as Chyna and Xena, as we are inevitably taller than every other woman in any room we're in, and the plot thickens. It seems useless to fight fate.
It makes me laugh so hard I want to cry, because there's simply no escaping it. Anne and I are life partners. As I'm fond of saying to Ms. Anne, when we're drunk in some dark corner of a dive bar, just the two of us: "Anyone can tell, we're in love."
Brandy & Anne at Vassar. July 30, 2005.

"Yeah, and I'm Cyndi Lauper."

So excited about this year's Halloween soiree'. Although my costume is at present a closely guarded secret, I can tell you this. It will involve a tiara and was inspired by this book.

It was not, however, at all inspired by this blessed reader list. Pinky swear.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

I Bring It Onto Myself.

Why?! When I know I'm just going to bawl and snuffle?!? Yet, I watch it and then I have to be hopeful and excited and all stupid about dumb love. I deserve this, the mewling into my can of Dr. Pepper and the pile of Kleenex. But it's too good, too pure a creation for me to not watch it again.

I haven't watched this since it debuted on BBC America last year. Tonight, thanks to Netflix, I decided to revisit it. I've been hoarding the amazing experience of viewing the show away, like a precious bottle of champagne or a box of fancy Jaques Torres chocolates, to spoil myself with some chilly winter night. Alternately, as mentioned, I wished to torment myself with a headful of honest, touching romantic notions that hold as much water in my real life as unicorns.

Of course, I do so love unicorns.

In further The Office nerd trivia: Someone from Slough checked my blog. That this excited me somehow should make you, reader, feel sorrier for me than e'er before.

Dreams Really Do Come True.

I got to see Dog the Bounty Hunter give a "scared straight" anti-drug lecture to teenagers at a high school on A&E tonight. One facet of my prayers was neatly addressed.

If only the one involving me, the actors who play the Weasely Twins, and a bottle of Crisco could come true, I suppose I will once and for all revoke my declarations of aetheism.

Because that's what aethesists do, right? They pray until they get what they want, then grudgingly decide they believe in god?

Put It In Me, Already!

Won't you, Pete Yorn? Please?!

Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.

Jonny Lee Miller shall portray the infamous Lord Byron on BBC, about whom, the above quote was offered by Lady Caroline Lamb.

Byron was always one of my favorite poets. Which is a lovely coincidence since Jonny Lee miller is one of my favorite men to masturbate about. Ah, serendipity.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Ronnie, Bobby, Ricky, and Mike- If I Love The Girl, Who Cares Who You Like?

OK, here's how it goes. I want everyone to help me make a list of awesome boy band songs. They have to have lots of harmony and be dripping with hormones and hairgel. Bonus points if they try to sound "street" and/or rap earnestly. The more times they warble "girl", the better. I will negotiate based on your arguments- for example, I would consider allowing Marky Mark based on the argument that he was in no way a rapper (that one's for you, Allocco).

Here are some of my faves (yes, I AM dancing in my chair as I type, because I am a dork):

1) We Fit Together - O Town
2) Back For Good - Take That
3) When The Lights Go Out - Five
4) Can't Stop - After 7
5) If It Isn't Love - New Edition
6) Please Don't Go, Girl - NKOTB (that's right, I used the intials because THAT'S HOW I DO)
7) I Want You Back - N*SYNC
8) I Wanna Sex You Up - Color Me Badd
9) Right Kind of Love - Jeremy Jordan
10) Shape of My Heart - Backstreet Boys

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Porter Will Scold.

I recently stumbled upon the chance to write movie reviews for a truly kick-ass site called Pajiba. This is my first foray into film commentary, other than some graduate classwork in the CU Film School courses I blatantly crashed since my program sucked. I've been lucky enough to write book reviews for BUST (seriously, if you don't have a subscription you suck) for about 2 years now, and the chance to try out a new style of writing was exciting to me. I like a challenge. And the Pajiba guys were kind enough to have me, so I wanted to make them proud.

It's harrowing, writing a film review. There are moments where I felt not unlike some fat Roman emperor, giving the thumbs down to the bedraggled gladiator at my be-sandaled feet. And I feel a great deal of responsibility to not only the artists behind the movie, but also to the viewers. That probably sounds silly, to be so concerned that my half-assed comments mean so much. But I take it seriously, and as such, it puts me through the washing machine emotionally.

But I forgot that everyone's a critic. And I had no idea that putting my criticism out there would result in me being criticized. Meta. (Ewww. Excuse me while I put Moving Pictures on my record player).

Some of this criticism is warranted and, as spiteful as it is, it's spot on. Some, not so much. Take, for example, this exchange. To set the story up: In a review of the movie "Waiting...", I referred to a mid-twenties character being consistently attracted to underage women, who I called "Lolitas". This popped up in the comments thread for the review.

FYI, Lolita was about eleven, not seventeen. The term "lolita" shouldn't be used in reference to developed teenagers. If you were an English major, didn't you read Nabokov?
Posted by: elle at October 11, 2005 04:10 AM

I'll try in future reviews to not only have my editor fact check the details regarding the film, but every single reference that has its own pop cultural life. This will include the misuse of the term "ironic", which strikes me as yet another intensely personal battle a literate stickler such as yourself must go to various message boards and annonymously, smugly comment on.
Keep on fighting the good fight.
Posted by: Brandy at October 11, 2005 01:58 PM

It just goes to show you, no matter what you do, there's always some asshole out there just champing at the bit to completely strip you of dignity in order to make themselves feel better. And the ability to hide behind a computer monitor only allows there to be more hatefulness.
I re-learned something this week. Most people are fucking assbites.

PS I emailed this poster privately and, wouldn't you know it? The email address was a college one. Nothing like not having to live in the real world to fuel your rage at the abuse of the work of Nabokov! Now, off to the dining hall for extra Tater Tots with a side of "total fucking loser".

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Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Dutch Girls Must Be Punished for Having Big Boobs.

David Brent, talking about Chris Finch:

He was in an argument once and he went "How can I hate women, my mum's one?"

Who stayed up all night and re-read her copy* of The Office Season One Scripts? This nerd.

*signed, "To Brandy, Cheers, Ricky Gervais". NERD CRED.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

The Sex Life of the Polyp.

"It's sexist, and I hate it." - David Brent

Q: When did you realize you were a feminist, Brandy?

A: One particular moment stands out. My best friend in high school, Becky, went to go see Johnny B. Goode at the Plaza Camino Real Cinemas (still there, still only 4 screens and still a great place to see a Marine getting a hand job). She relayed to me, with dismay, a scene where a cheerleader, in order to woo the hotly pursued footbal prodigy played by Anthony Michael Hall to go to her particular school, does backflips without underwear on. I felt sad and sort of ashamed. I didn't know why it was gross (I hadn't yet learned the terms "objectification" or "the male gaze"), but I knew it was.

Cut to me looking at this classy cat costume the other day in Ricky's (A NYC cosmetics chain store frequented by drag queens that goes into crappy costume overdrive come October) and feeling sad, a wee bit smug that I have enough self respect not to try and dress "sexy" on Halloween (anymore), and mostly embarassed. All this, as the fat guy in a Nets jersey behind me at said Ricky's location keeps repeating, "Aw yeah! Here, pussy pussy!" and laughing uproariously at himself.

Happy Halloween!

Monday, October 10, 2005

Tampon Angel.

Oh, dear me. I am hoping this is a well orchestrated joke. Because if it is, I will be jealous and excited that someone beat me to making fun of people who use crafting to attempt to impress jesus in a truly unique-and poetic- way.

Have a look, won't you?

Saturday, October 08, 2005


Perfect Saturday afternoon.

Wake up.

Pet Nigel.

Check email.

Finish reading "Polite Sex" by James Wilcox.

Cry over how good "Polite Sex" was.

Move to couch, still wearing giant Lucious Jackson t-shirt, circa 1996 from the Tower Records at the Costa Mesa Anti-Mall (not my title, they made it up; it also has an Urban Outfitters- wicked alt!).

Eat macaroni and chese from the pot.

Watch Cable Guy and feel unmitigated delight, especially at the sight of David Cross with more hair.

Talk to Sara about clothes, comedy performances.

Get angry about racism.

Desire ice cold can of Dr. Pepper.

Devise new game show pitch: "UTI or STD? YOU Be The Judge!"

Watch Nigel nap in a shoebox, atop my "Naval Academy Class of 2006" totebag.

Feel bad for how mean I was to this one kid, Brian, in high school.

Wish more movie theaters carried fountain Dr. Pepper.

The age old dilemma: Pants or no pants for Ms. Barber?

Mourn the fact the Mike Nelson is married.

Admit to self that transformation into Crazy Cat Lady is nearing completion.


kudos to

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

"Lizbeth! I'm comin'!"

Holy shit, I love Sanford & Son. Seriously. Tonight the best episode was on. Aunt Esther gets in a fight with her husband and has to come live at the house. Fred is horrified and, at one memorble point, puts a paper bag over her head when she shows up at the breakfast table with curlers on. Aunt Esther is at least a head taller than him and you almost think she may, at any given moment, kick the shit out of Fred. LaMont, as is his way, is the peacemaker. And, the token nerdy honky cop popped on, to talk in a stilted voice and delight the studio audience with his uptight honky-ness. All in all, a delight.

The pure unadalterated joy I get from this show seems like it should be criminal. Recently at an audition they asked me what my favorite show EVER was and Sanford and Son was what I picked. I just remember watching it with my Dad, cracking up. So what if it's sloppily scripted and the acting is a bit stilted? I loved it as a kid and I love it as an adult. That's not something I can say of some other childhood pastimes, such as drinking an entire liter bottle of Coke and eating 2 or 3 Snickers bars in one sitting without puking, or The Cosby Show.

This one's for you, Redd Foxx.


Frog or toad? YOU be the judge.

I am in what the kids these days call "a state". I would like to say that I am at the end of my rope, and in closing, that I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore. I hate grad school. I hate what it did to my life, that I chose to go and that I have so much shame associated with it.

I feel like this little frog/toad, in the slowly simmering pan of hot water, boiling to death but not hopping to safety.

Monday, October 03, 2005

Choose The Right.

I'm in the process of putting together a gift package for someone, and I made a list of all sorts of little treats to fill it with. Just in case I missed an idea, I decided to do a search on Google for any more creative things I'd missed.


Sunday, October 02, 2005

Shall Bit Bit Play Gollum?

OK, does any one else find it kind of sad that, true to life, in her retarded ad for her new, stupid perfume "Fantasy" that Britney Spears tempts her gigolo Kevin by throwing a shiny jewel at him? It may as well have been a recording contract.

The commerical's script, with Britney’s unnecessarily breathy prank phone call narration, may well have been written in Crayola by a gifted second grader. But only if that same second grader had consumed a large quantity of red dye #5 fruit juice. Which reminds me…I want some Hawaiian Punch for the first time in 2 or 3 years.

Overall, the whole ad seems like an unholy cross between a very late Lord of the Rings audition tape and an infomercial for the sad, bad "chaotic" DVD relationship. I suppose the Magic The Gathering crowd is overjoyed by Britney's inexplicable attempt to capture their demographic. And, as always, their erections. Boooing!

Britney Spears

OK, does any one else find it kind of sad that, true to life, in her retarded ad for that stupid perfume (cross between a Lord of the Rings audition tape a la Sean Young and an infomercial for their sad relationship) that Britney Spears tempts Kevin by throwing a shiny jewel at him? The script, with Britney’s unnecessarily breathy narration, may well have been written in Crayola by a gifted second grader. But only if that same second grader had consumed a large quantity of red dye #5 laced fruit juice. Which reminds me…I want some Hawaiian Punch for the first time in 2 or 3 years.