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?