Keyed Up.

For the lovely Sara Allocco's birthday, we took a quick jaunt to Key West, Florida. It was an adventure, to be certain. On the first evening, we were so exhausted from staying up all night the night prior to departure having a slumber party at Sara's that we ate a tasty sea-food laden dinner and ended up stumbling home, comepletely sleep deprived. The next day after sunning ourselves and napping by the pool, we went the local Winn-Dixie for supplies and then on a stroll to the local shops a plenty. We were harassed by a small, drunk Cuban man on a bike who called us fucking lesbains in Spanish, and then "rescued" by some mulleted gentlemen who, sadly, seemed in possesion of as much mischief as our attacker. One particularly choice exchange came when one of these knights asked us, "Do you know that guy?" And I replied deadpan, "Well, yeah, I mean he's my Dad." C'mon, people (rolls eyes, stomps foot, tilts head comically while making sure to face camera & hold mic low for maximum face time at Premium Blend taping)!!!

Later that night came a goss consumption of alcohol, which, in hindsight, was not wise on my part. Why, you ask? Oh, I'd have to say drinking a quarter bottle of cheap champagne, two huge glasses of white wine, 4 or so shots of mostly straigh Bacardi with a touch of Coke for color, and shotgunning a beer in the span of two hours -even on a full stomach- is just not good form. I turned into the person I love to mock and I acted like a drunk jerk. I'm not proud of myself but I also learned my lesson. In 2006, I, Brandy Barber, will be adhering to a new set of booze rules. That's right, no more shots, and I am going to make a concerted effort not to mix hard alcohol with champagne. Champagne is to only be mixed with lots more champagne. Let's see how well that works out- I'll keep you posted. Anyway, aside from my hideous drunkeness, and harassing of the citizens of Key West, I managed to have some fun on an all night adventure, the details of which I have removed from this blog.

Anyway it was fun.
























I'm torn between these two garments.

The pelican gives Sara a trial run of my later behavior.

Playing spin the bottle with stuffed animals. Ang has to kiss the pelican.





















Hey there, sailor!

Happy Hogmanay!

Have a wonderful New Year's Eve- and the best to all in 2006!

Locals Say Elm.

People, I just took "my" (read: Mom & Dad's) car on a spin down the coast in order to watch the sunset here, which was amazing. I stopped off of the newly re-named Carlsbad Village Drive (used to be called Elm, and most of us still do refer to it that way) at the fabulous Alejandro's for 3 rolled tacos with guacamole and cheese. I doused them in their homemade hot sauce, watched the waves, and blared David Bowie's "Sound & Vision" while parked at Tamarack (one of the many gorgeous state beaches within a minute of the folks' house). This is due to the fact that I found the box set of Bowie my Dad gave me when I was 15, when The Thin White Duke announced he was "retiring" (this was also when the Who and the Rolling Stones did their first rounds of farewell concerts way back when).

All in all, it was like being back in high school, except I wasn't ditching 6th period, tanned, wearing grey calf-high Ugg boots, my Dad's Levi's 501s that I made into cutoffs and a Beatles t-shirt over my purple string bikini. Oh, or prepping to neck with my 6'4" Mormon surfer boyfriend, who was, if I do say so myself, hot like fire. He sure was easy on the eyes. And the puss. Ah, thank you. Oh, Mom quit crying.

I'm finally, really in love.

This has been the most romantic Christmas, EVER.

The Great Santini Redux.

My Dad just made me help clean up our family room because someone is coming over to put in a new dishwasher, as our 15 year old one has finally kicked the bucket (Sorry Mister Maytag man). I asked why, since what do they care if there's a stray book or my necklace laying on one of the side tables? My Dad started howling about how this is his house and he takes pride in it. That doesn't really answer my question per se, but man, is it entertaining to watch.

Being a former military officer as well as harboring a fine case of OCD makes my Dad incredibly sensitive to mess- everything MUST be in its place, MUST be in order or he goes bananas. I unfortunately am not so concerned with organization and as such it is a constant battle of wills. I will reading a book, having just set it down to go and get myself a can of Dr. Pepper, come back, and find it gone because the man has re-shelved it. He will take things out of your hands and throw them away. He will pick up glasses of beverages you are drinking from and scowl at you and say, "Are you gonna finish that?" in anticipation of taking the glass and rinsing it out so it can more quickly be returned to the cabinet. Never a dull moment.

When I was in the spa last night, I guess my brother went to bed and left his socks on the floor. I came in and went straight upstairs to tend to damp. slightly chlorinated bikini removal, so I didn't get a chance to remind him to grab them before bed lest Dad espy them. Since I have the misfortune of bneing the second family member downstairs this lovely morn, I was trapped & now have to deal with the mania. Steve owes me one. I think my Dad is going to have him brought before a firing squad. I mean, he is in a state over the two seemingly innocent socks at the foot of the couch. He stood in front of these socks and pointed for a good minute or so. When I refused to acknowledge this, he then barked at me to pick my goddamned pontoons up. When I explained that last time I checked I didn't wear white x-tra large men's athletic socks, but I suspected my 6'4" brother might, he then pointed again and said, "Well can you pick them up please? Godammit, the smell could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon."

This is how he talks all the time. And you wonder where I get it.


LATER: Now I am getting a lecture on how great vessels were lost because of lack of communication, and having that made an allegory for Steve and I leaving the flat screen on all night because we each thought the other was going to turn it off when we went to bed. This is, to his credit, being given in an old timey sea-fearer voice but there's a glimmer of seriousness in it. "Many a ship went into the shoals when someone said, 'I thought he did it'". Thanks, Daddy.

Hey Hey, You're The Monkeys.

Just don't go back to Big Sur. Baby, baby please don't go.

I, sires and madames (copyright Sara Allocco 2005), have had way too much red wine tonight. I went and sat in my parent's hot tub, looked up past the palm tree canaopy at the stars, and listened to my iPod. And marveled at how drunk I managed to get playing Scrabble with my folks. I haven't been drinking since I've been home and as a result my tolerance went to "reset". Eeep.

I am now in my huge bed, listening to musics and such, eating Jelly Bellies and hyperfixating on stupid things I have no control over. Or more to the point, I have control that I don't want to use. I hate being all adult and making good choices. But I am going to have to. Being thirty means knowing better, even if I pretend sometimes that I don't.

Fucking fuck. Now I am listening to "Me & Mrs Jones". What. More wine, my liege! I miss my friend Aram Monisoff right...NOW.

Check the Rhime. All the time, Tip.

"What's This "We" Shit? Do You Have A Mouse In Your Pocket?"

This, one of Terry's classics, was uttered to me when I suggested we should go to dinner at a local sushi place.

I went to a baby shower today and felt utterly at sea. I was fascinated by the babies in attendance, who were all well behaved and cute. Alternately, I was terrified of them and kept trying not to look too much at them lest I become a ninny and start yammering about wanting to get married and "settle down in a few years".

"Settle down"- what a lame phrase. Settle down is what people say to me when I'm whup-ass drunk and I start ripping holly branches off of Brooklyn street poles, just for fun. It's not something I plan to do in the event I ever get married, which at this point is up for speculation. I've yet to have it made appealing to me. I mean, the party part is really all I care about, and I admit I have propsed to my gay friends repeatedly in an effort to split the gifts we'd surely rack up because people, Barber lusts after a Cuisinart like Kirstie Alley yearns for another 3 dozen Kripsy Kremes.

Sara and I, for example, have elaborate plans about our "weddings" which really boils down to what songs we'll play ("Through The Fire" is one we both agreed on one drunken night) and what we'll sing when we perform for our guests ("Someone to Watch Over Me" is Allocco's choice, I suspect there could be some ELO or maybe even DeBarge from me if I can swing it) and how we'll pose in the announcements (I kind of fancied a photoshopped re-envisioning of "The Best of Blondie" cover for mine, me in a white dress holding a reflection, etc.), how kids are banned because we want all our adult friends drunk and not distracted, and so on and so forth. I think someone once tried to point out to the two of us (unwisely) that we might want to actually consider that the poor bastards who endeavored to marry us might want a wee bit of a say in the festivities. I believe Sara and I smiled politely at this person, blinked, then turned our backs on them and, promptly made each other cry about how I wanted someone to slow-dance to "I Love You" by Climax Blues Band with me at my nuptials. And also, "Don't Disturb This Groove" by the System. And how can we forget "Nite & Day" by Al B. Sure!. We simply can't.

Which may be why I will never need to worry about all this baby nonsense after all.

Degas & Dog.

I am trying to convince my Dad to call up a French bulldog rescue and get a new dog, and it seems to be working so far. My Mom keeps scowling at me and cutting me looks over her mystery novel while I say, "Daddy! Look at this one! His name is Butterball!" and show him lots of cloying, adorable pictures. Such as the one below.

We'll see who wins this round. All bets on me, folks.

Terry, Take A Bow.

My Dad just pulled into the driveway in a brand new Honda Civic Hybrid. Immediately, our 80 year old neighbor enthusiastically accosted him and the car, leading my father to announce that the Hybrid "sure is a ho magnet."

Yuck.

Yorktown, Steve and Schubert Impromptu.

Everything You Ever Wanted, Everything You Ever Thought Of...

...is everything I'll do to you.

The first time I heard a Liz Phair song I remember being in a state of awe. Like, this is amazing, she can't be saying these things. Because this is the way I think about men and sex and all my girlfriends seem to be stuck in some fucked up Disney movie with hand holding and malts at the soda shop and promise rings all wrapped up in angora-sweatered bullshit. Liz Phair was a dirty girl, an unapologetic self-proclaimed tramp that not only liked to hump, but sought it out.

TO BE CONTINUED...post Xmas dinner. My Mom sure will be proud that while we were eating prime rib and toasting to the family, I was thinking about the wording on this particular essay.

I remember when Liz Phair was on the cover of Rolling Stone and I was thrilled. I clearly recall buying Exile in Guysville (along with the Urge Overkill great Saturation, natch). I listened to it over and over that summer, driving around in a bikkni and cut offs, being angry and letting all those songs fuel the bold, unapologetic version of me I eventually became. It meant something to me on some sort of primal level- the embracing of being feral, of being OK with wanting male attention for a purely sexual reason instead of expecting that every dofus I made out with was my new emotional soul mate/boyfriend as all my girlfriends did.

When Whip Smart came out, it was smoother and less raw, maybe a bit more fancy-schmancy produced but still, very sharp and full of sassy foul language. I can remember singing the lyrics to "Supernova" with my best friend Suzanne while we backpacked through Europe that summer, looking forward to the day I'd meet and fall in love with the man worthy enough for me to want to be queer enough to sing those lyrics to in earnest. Whitechocolatespaceegg contained an evergreen drunk feel-sorrier-for-me classic (which is oft-mentioned in this ridiculous blog) "Polyester Bride", that I never get tired of. It was the theme of my Halloween costume this year, in fact. Liz Phair was gold to me, no doubt about it.

And then things got bad. Real, real bad. I won't bitch about it, because it's been shit on enough. And to be fair, I bought the album that will not be named that came out in 2003 and was a total dick-suck to Avril Lavigne, because as mad as I was about the mediocre crap that she shit out onto it I still have a place in my heart for her. But seriously, Liz. You hurt my feelings. And I know you said you didn't care what any of us thought of you, and you shamelessly chased sad, bad mainstream pop fame in a way that made me cringe at you like the blatantly gay, closeted kid in dance class who claims he has a crush on the most popular girl in school as he minces about to Miami Sound Machine's "Conga". But I'm torn because it's that same shamelessness that allowed you to write openly confessional songs about doing it, and getting your heart broken, and then doing it some more to try and quell the pain. I hate to scold you, even though you clearly need it.

It makes me mad, because I love her. I really do. But I also want to punch her. So the act of, say, listening to Whip Smart at top volume in the shower yesterday because I found it lodged in my desk drawer in my room at my parent's house is akin to a hate fuck.

Extra bonus points for having my Dad bang on the bathroom door and tell me to keep it down while I'm singing the f-word repeatedly.

This ends my exploration into my love-hate relationship with my former idol and current dissapointment, the filthy-mouthed sprite known to all as Liz Phair. Ah, thank you. Now if you'll excuse me I'm going upstairs to lather myself up while yowling "I won't decorate my love" over and over until Terry pounds in the door and utters the words, "For Chirssakes are they killing a cat in there?!"

Merry Chimpmas.

I couldn't resist. That's what happens when you have zero self control. That, and STDs. Eeek.

Anyway, merry merry!









*Special thanks to Ms. Guila Rozzi, who provided the picture and is spending her first Xmas as an "honest woman" with her fiance', the delightful Tim. Oh, and sorry about how I grabbed his junk at the Holiday Hi-Jinx party. Let's put that behind us in the New Year, shall we? Gracias.

Look At/Listen To Me!

I have a bit of a crush on Dj Quik. Who doesn't, though?

But hey! Why read my psuedo-literate babbling when you can listen to my voice, which was once described by my demented 63- posing-as-23-year-old psychotic bitch boss as being so phone sex worthy that it sounded as if I was "fucking the customers"? Even more upsetting was the fact that they were all new age assbites who had most likely just given themselves high colonics with patchouli prior to calling! Yikes is right, mon frere.

Merry Fucking Xmas.

From Mike Burns and Jameson. Jameson, the official drink of forced family holiday gatherings.

It...it was...soap poisoning!

I got food poisoning from something I ate at the stupid JetBlue TErminal at JFK yesterday, and spent my first day home in Sunny Southern Californina in bed whinging at whomever had the misfortune of listening to me.

My Mom fed me flat 7up and ministered to me. At one point she tried to make me feel better by putting on the TV, but unfortunately she turned on "Regis & Kelly" and that made the nasuea oh, so much worse. I want to take a dump in Kelly Ripa's mouth. That's a to do.

I just started to feel better at about 8 this evening, so I finally came downstairs and had old school soul sing along party with my Dad, one of our favorite activities. He puts on a random song and I have to guess the title and artist, then we sing a few bars, then it starts all over again. My Mom meanwhile reads on of her mystery novels and glares at us from time to time. My Dad has jerry-rigged his laptop so that his iTunes has a wireless connection and he can play dj from the couch. Once in a while, the family bassett hound Yorktown wakes up from his bed, whimpers, and then passes back out. It's pure heaven, aside from the incredibly painful stomach cramps I'm having and the fact that I can only eat chicken broth and rye toast, no In N Out Burger and no wine. Curses!

I'm hoping I'm better tomorrow so my newly 21 year old brother and I can make the rounds of the local beach trash bars here. I can't wait to call my Mom and make her pick us up, drunk as skunks. The long sighs and head shaking that will surely accompany this are going to be a pure delight.

Drink Scotch Whiskey All Night Long, And Die Behind The Wheel.

I am going to California in 4 hours. I just cleaned the kitchen in orange lace boy shorts and a wife beater while singing loudly & poorly to "Deacon Blues", and maybe cried a bit when they sing about how writing this song made them cry. Or maybe it was because I realized I left the blinds up in the kitchen and that the Asian family across the way were gathered to stare at me on my hands and knees scrubbing the residue of those smashed mini chocolate donuts I drunkenly threw at Anne during my cocktail party off the floor like Cinderella.

Now I am listening to "Polyester Bride" and completely ignoring the fact that I have to pack for the trip I'm taking home in, of I don't know, oh yes, 4 HOURS.

Ah, yes ain't that fresh, now everybody wants to get down like that.

Penetrate! (snicker)

I'm Ghost Like Swayze.

I love you, Chris Parnell. You do good work and when Lorne Michaels or whoever it was made a dumb choice to let you go, you were so missed by not only people who watch SNL but your own castmates that you came back. I admit I don't know the honest to god details regarding your departure and return to the show and frankly, I don't care. I think you're awesome and I like your comedy stylings.

And this link? This is why.

http://nbc.com/nbc/Video/?c=Saturday_Night_Live/snl_1432_narnia

Oh Angel Puppy, Show Us The Way.

This is dedicated to two special angel puppies who have been very lovely and inspirational to my comedy muse & partner Ms. Sara Allocco and myself. Thanks for being so supportive of us with our sketch at the last minute yesterday, and just overall. You know who you are.

Now why don't you two go shove it in each other as per usual, you queers?

with respect to engrish.com

Have You Seen This Ape?

Seriously? Have you?

In The Beast-Womb.

Scrawled on a napkin I just discovered in my pocketbook: Remember the Air Marshall thing. Yeah, I should do that. Forgot to write it down on the flight home yesterday. I also forgot about my tampon. Long story. I am back from Florida. I am not going to drink for a month when I am in California. I am full of stale Xmas cookies leftover from my party and also, spite. Some things never change. I'll post more about FL later.

Our Little Incident.*

Based on recent political events in this fine country of ours, I've decided to share a heartwarming, life-affirming story that will surely make my Mom so very glad that she and Terry had a "do-over" by producing another child 11 years later and not just the one. Mom, look! Steve's at Annapolis! Go Navy!

A while ago (or maybe it was today- who can say? I'm forgetful), I was in need of a special dessert treat that's super easy & fun for all your holiday parties called RU 486, or, Plan B.

By the way- thanks to whatever smartass frat-trash-cum-pharmacuetical-exec guy that thought up that catchy, kitschy little moniker because I surely appreciate your fey wit when I'm terrfied that there's a fucking fetal-alcohol syndrome infused infant brewing up my raw vaginal canal after a night of faulty prophylactics and poor choices. Keep it white at the Sig Ep reuniuon, "Todd". Bros before hos!

I digress.

I live in a very neighborhood-y neighborhood here in lovely Brooklyn. It's full of lots of Italian and Middle Eastern families that have been here for years and own all the street level businesses that are strewn up and down my block (this also means there are lots of artsy yuppies with ergonomic strollers and adorable expensive pure-bred lap dogs and genetically superior infants that speak French fluently at 3 years old that are shod in $100 gold Dankso clogs and also, me). I know all of the people whose businesses I frequent personally on a first name basis. I love that when I call the pet food store, Mohammed asks after Nigel and puts an extra mousie toy in the cat food deilvery bag,or that when I call the laundromat to have my laundry picked up for washing Sal asks how I've been. I adore that familiarity. However, it's also somewhat daunting at times. This is why recently I started buying my "grown-ass lady sex tramp" supplies at the ultra fab drugstore.com. I know, I'm a wuss and I give my female friends high-brow uppity talks all the time about not having hangups and taking charge of their sexuality. So I'm a hypocrite, yes. But I also like to pick my battles and in this case, I don't want to win the "HEY EVERYONE ON BROOKLYN'S UBER HIP SMITH STREET RITEAID LOCATION #276 I'M GETTING FUCKED TONIGHT! MAKE THAT TWO BOXES OF MAGNUMS FOR ME! AW, YEAH! SILKY SILKY NOW!" battle.

I have a form of epilepsy called partial seizure disorder, which means I've had maybe 2 major seizures ever, all when I was in the fifth level of hell also known as grad school, and none of that ilk since, give or take (not counting when I saw Ron Weasley in a tank top in the new Harry Potter movie- ay-o! Who let Ed McMahon in here and where are his trousers?). As such I had to take anti-seizure medication called Lamictal daily and developed a close realtionship with the entire aforementioned Rite-Aid pharmacy staff family. Close like, I know the names of one of the women's kids and also that one of them is a holy terror, and of course you all know he's my favorite to ask after.

Back to the lecture at hand, Snoop. First thing after the special sharing and caring episode that could potentially result in a squalling newborn, I called my ob-gyn and frantically explained the situation. He (yep, male gyno who also- no lie- happens to be an orthodox Jew- this is why I live in New York) was nice enough to let me know which places by me carried this controversially awesome little problem solver. HINT: Starts with Rite ends with Aid and is on "Brooklyn's Hippest Destination, trendy Smith Street!!!". Due to the time issue, I didn't have the option to go to the wonderful Planned Parenthood and beg their annonymous, non-neighborhood chum mercy so...I sucked it up and like a big girl who attempts responsibility when sober, headed out to RiteAid with my game face on.

I would like to now tell you how it feels to go to your down-home corner pharmacy to pick up Plan B. Your NEIGHBORHOOD pharmacy where they offer you Christmas cookies and wave at you when you pass on the street and they're on a smoke break. MAGICAL. Extra points if you show up with huge dark circles under your eyes, reeking of cigarette smoke because you've been trying to calm yourself down from the stress by smoking a shitload of Lucky Strikes. Why not go for the gusto and, when you're reaching in your bag to flash your insurance card, knock out not only a stray condom but a fucking Miller Hi-Life (The Champagne of Beers, really people) twist off cap right onto the counter? Watch the cashier with the son who frequently pulls his pants down at school assemblies look that cap as it skitters across the counter and rests by the cash register which is flanked by some blood pressure pamphlets. Watch closer and you can actually see that miniscule twitch when what she thinks of you changes and she makes the choice to never make small talk with you again, you drunk fucking whore. Take your bag of slut anitidote and beat it.

Now people, after that how can anyone not be pro-choice? Because seriously, who thinks Barber should have a kid? Show of hands? No? Didn't think so. Tell your senators to support RU 486, and make sure to write graphic sexual entries in a public internet forum so your Mom can cry about what a fuck off you are again. PEACE.

*I almost titled this entry "My Chemical Romance" but then I realized I don't get paid to write smarmy photo captions for TimeOut New York. YET.

"The Monkey Live Here. You Just Visiting."

“I live in racist America and I'm uneducated, yet a lot of people love me and like what I do, and I can make a living from it,” he once said. “You can't do much better than that."

It sucks when you're so busy being a self-absorbed drunk jerk that you don't even know one of your childhood heros died until a day later. Sorry.

The Floor is Lava.

This is purely for my enjoyment and/or anxiety.

So Show Me, And Tell Me, That You Feel The Same Way, Too.

On Wed, Dec 7, 2005 at 8:24 PM, Anne Woodward wrote:
> i finally saw your busted ass gangsta picture. jesus, you took quite a
> spill!
> took me a couple days to see it. i realized i don't do well on the the
> internet social scene.
> well i hope your face is better.

On 12/7/05, Brandy Leigh Barber wrote:

That just made me laugh. What are you my grandpa! "i realized i don't do well on the the
internet social scene." WHAT


On Wed, Dec 7, 2005 at 8:24 PM, Anne Woodward wrote:

grandpa wins by a mile! i am a grandpa!

Rolltop Desk.

My Mom: I am looking at everything you're typing now.
Me: Quit pestering me!
My Mom: Get to work. Do your thing.
Me: You sound like some gross disco song. Can it, Sylvester.
My Mom: (oblivious to the sarcasm) As soon as I see you type something on your work--
Me: YOU WANT ME TO TYPE SOMETHING!?! HERE YOU GO!!!
(I type in the letters "F U", show computer to My Mom)
My Mom: (sniffs disdainfully) That stands for "follow up".
(steam pours out of my ears)

LATER. A "Sex in the City" promo comes on TBS.


My Mom: Which one is a lesbian?
Me: Cynthia Nixon. I like her.
My Mom: Now, she's a very good actress.
Me: Yeah, I respect her for coming out. She was married and I guess she felt she was living a lie-
My Mom: Well so was Anne Heche, and she was just confused.
Me: Nah, she's crazy, I read her biography and it was so sad. Her Dad was a closeted gay pastor who molested the entire family.
My Mom: Oh dear.
Me: People who claim to love Jesus seem to molest people a lot.
My Mom: I love Jesus.
Me: No you don't!!! Don't say that, don't be religous because everyone else is, it's trite.
My Mom: Well, I belive in a higher spiritual power.
Me: OK So do I but I don't have to call it a stupid title with a bunch of stupid associations.
My Mom: I don't beleive in organized religion per se-
Me: OK.
My Mom: (muses) But I do love Jesus.
Me: Oh, here we go.

She Is Trying To Break My Heart.

My Mom has turned on a re-run of "7th Heaven" and claims to have "lost" the remote control. I am being forced to watch it because I am too lazy to move to change the channel. I want to vomit. I am in no mood to have religious bullshit shoved down my throat. I keep yelling about how awful it is but my Mom is humming and entertaining herself by trying to go through all my belongings without my noticing and making snotty comments. She claims she's able to tune the TV out. I, on the other hand, cannot seem to ignore the spectacle of the pastor scolding his son for going behind his back and getting a part time job caring for a kid who's dying because he wants to make sure the son realizes how serious it is, and some sort of tripe about the girls not realzing that being a stay at home Mom is their Mother's dream job!!! Because that's what Moms do, make cakes and sew and sing about jesus in Sunday School, right?!? It rankles me and I get hopped up on spite. Not hopped up enough to move and change it, however. But still.

My Mom is clearly trying to kill me.

UPDATE:

Me: I'm hungry.
My Mom: Go make something.
Me: There's no food here.
My Mom: Go make some Rice A Roni and we'll have that.
Me: Are you high?! I'm not eating just Rice A Roni. Is that what you want?! Just a bowl of Rice A Roni?
My Mom: Sounds good to me.
Me: Quit being an a-hole. You're acting like an a-hole.
My Mom: I'm not being an a-hole Brandy. I'm being a realist.
Me: You're being a realist a-hole.

"Did you touch the dishwasher?"

My mother is driving me crazy.

She insists that I have to get off the internet and do something productive. It's MADDENING!

I just said: Hold on a sec, I just have to do one thing on my blog.
My Mom: What? Post something mean about me?
Me: (furious thatshe can read my mind so easily) Why do you say that?
My Mom: Because you're mean and spiteful.

Help me.

I Fell Down the Fucking Stairs On My Fucking Face.

Everything was going so well! I was having so much drunk fun, molesting anyone within my grasp as is evidenced here...and then all hell broke loose.















Does anyone recall the episode of "Absolutely Fabulous" where Edina falls into an open grave at a fueneral because she's so shit-faced? Me, too, because I think I've transformed into her. You see, after inhaling various beverages of the adult variety at our Holiday Hi-Jinx party this past Saturday night, I managed to become the butt of my own smart-ass joke (which was the grand olde idea of hurling a stack of free postcards at Sara & Brad on the stairwell). I chucked the cards into the air creating a nice shower of confetti, I hollered "Hey assholes" and then I think I slipped on one of them and FELL DOWN THE FUCKING STAIRS ON MY FUCKING FACE. Please see the results. You can't see the swollen split lip, but I look very Meg Ryan-collegen injection.
















Yes. Yes, it did hurt. Yes, it still does hurt, especially to smile. And yes, I am fine- thanks everyone for calling to check in on me. I'll spare you any photos of the bruises on the rest of my body. They are also really quite spectacular.

On the train a lady was staring so I said really loudly, "This is what happens when I talk back" and she looked away.

Porter warned me about how I I tend to get destructive & violent when I drink, and I said "Hogwash!" Ok, I didn't, it was more like something involving the f-bomb and perhaps I flipped him off. But I sure wish I did. Anyway, he was right. Oh Porter! You sage!

This is just further proof that I, like Missy Elliott says, am sophisticated fun.

In closing, I'd like to say: WHAT AN ASSHOLE I AM. LOOK AT ME! I'M A DUMB DRUNK WHO FELL DOWN THE STAIRS ON MY FACE! JESUS H. CHRIST ON A BIKE!!!!!

Holiday Hi-jinx 2005: The Trilogy Comes to a Close.

At this point, Sara and I began a siege of misteltoe-induced kissing attacks upon our friends. Here, Vinnie gets the business.

Sara channels "Lick It Up" by KISS. I tend to be more of a biter.

Mason pays extra for the Chicken Ranch girls to lick his chin.

Mike was nice enough to agree to let me "share" his drink, which means I drink it really fast in one gulp to take advantage of his generousity.

Holiday Hi-Jinx 2005: Part The Second.

Brianne is a classy lady. Me, not so much.
















Rosanne wishes I'd lay off the mistletoe already.
















Sara's sexy big sis Aimee lures me in for a smooch. Also I have shar pei tounge from my gum (yes,I considerately chewed it to ensure fresh makeout breath)
















Porter and I display how we feel about meeting under- that's right- the misteltoe.
















Matt Sears and I like to discuss cover songs by Fountains of Wayne and/or Mattew Sweet & Lindsey Buckigham. What a pair of dorks.

SONS OF BITCHES, BUMPESES!!!

FUCKING BLOGGER!!!!

Sorry,the image upload isn't working...I have lots more pictures of myself to post. Liam, I won't dissapoint you by not being onanistic to the umpteenth!

Holiday Hi-Jinx 2005: Part the First.

Four of your five hosts (Sans Annie!): Ang, Sara, & Giulia- and me as "The Meanest Mommy Ever".
















John & Jimena, just back from Mexico. John work with the lovely Mexican folk singer songwriter Lila Downs, and he also used to share a glorified broom closet of an apartment with me in Harlem, and didn't murder me. Someone give this man a Nobel Peace Prize.

















Earlier, we tapdanced the time step while watching ourselves in the mirror. Queer.
















Merry Fucking Jesus Birthday Day! Me, Porter, Sass and Rob.





















Sara has Webber where she wants him. The exit.

All The He Said, She Said, And The Neighborhood Highlights.

What.

Seriously, WHAT.

What happened last night? All I know is, I fell down the stairs, face first.

Pictures to follow.

To Live The Good Life & Love The Black Hummingbird.

Game on! This fine photographic image was snapped at the birthday soiree of one Robert Webber this past year. This is but a few moments after I, in a Belvedere-rocks fuled rampage, pulled my pants down, shoved my lime-green thong clad ass into the brithday boy's face, then flopped down onto that couch, posed, and screeched "I LIKE PARTIES!!!". What you don't see is the next part of the shennanigan, where I grab a long-stem rose some douchenozzle bought to try and impress some bottle-blonde dolt, chomped it, and then spat the petals out at all my horrified onlookers. The looks on their faces were not unlike those that a Kenyan zookeeper must get when a rhino turns on them during a safari. Sadly, no tranquiliaer darts were readily available. That these people still talk to me when I'm sober makes them living saints in my book. But oh, does Mama like her drinks!


I spent Wednesday preparing for my performance in the evening (with my baby doll of a comedy partner Ms. Sara Allocco) by sleeping in ridiclously late and then eating nothing. I did drink my can of Dr. Pepper, and when I got to Mo Pitkin's, one of our two gracious hosts for the evening, Ms. LiAnne Stokes had thoughtfully brought a box of Munchkins from Dunkin' Donuts. I made up a new game titled, "Who Can Eat The Most Horrifying Amount of Fried, Sugared Dough", and boy was my fat ass in it to win it!!! Like the wily shrew, I also must consume twice my body weight daily, be it soda pop, pastry, or even my personal favorite, Maker's on the rocks.

The show went well and I was so exhilarated after. There's nothing quite like having someone laugh at something you wrote, nothing at all can compare to that high. Plus, I got to see a bunch of other wonderful comics who either performed or were there to support, so it was a grand night all around. That is, until everyone bailed on me when I was in the bathroom. It's cool, I'm not still crying (No, I'm not! It's allergies). I called Sara and made threatening comments to her as she sped home in a cab with Giulia, and to her credit, she was very pleasant and did not call the authorities on me. This time.

Anyway, this was all child's play because I've been saving all my love for our Holiday Hi-Jinx party this Saturday night. We abstained from drinking tonight and will do so tomorrow as well so as to make sure we're in top form for Saturday's all night dance-a-rama.

Speaking of...today I talked to my ex-boyfriend and mentioned I was excited about Saturday because I was going to style my hair all fancy-like for the party, which I never do because I mean...look at it! It's got its own crazy style that I just don't have the patience to even attempt to override 99% of the time. So this is a big deal, at least to me. Ben, in his typical fashion, said, "Well, why should I care? I don't even like straight hair." And I howled in indignance, "I AM NOT TRYING TO SEDUCE YOU!!! I'M EXCITED ABOUT MY HAIR!!!" Was that necessary? No. Was it funny in a disturbing way? No. Not one bit. In my defense, I then said, "Also you do too, you like that awful Chewbacca look alike Denise Richards." Boy,I sure showed him! Right, guys! Guys?