Sunday, October 30, 2005
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
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.
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
|You Are a Very Bad Girl|
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Saturday, October 22, 2005
He really is the world's most magical cat.
"Ewww, your breath reeks of gin." - Nigel
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
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.
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 Amazon.com reader list. Pinky swear.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
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.
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?
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
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
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
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
"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.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Have a look, won't you?
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Perfect Saturday afternoon.
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.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
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.
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
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
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!