God of Mercy, Hear My Plea, OR, "Please, just let me put the tip in."

Look, here's the thing. I don't ask for much (unless you were stupid enough to ask me on a date, then that's your problem, chump- pay up! That Blue Label isn't going to pour itself over them rocks).

But this, this is a shirt that speaks to my very soul. It made me laugh such that I spit out the mouthful of Vernors I had just taken. This is serious business, as that shit is tough to get ahold of unless you bawled and made your Dad buy it at the gourmet grocery store, even when he snapped at you that there was perfectly good Seagram's Ginger Ale at home.

Someone, anyone, please. If you love me, get me this shirt. I beg of you! If that means a round trip to Tokoyo, then by all means, I suggest you do what you have to make me happy. Don't make me angry. You wouldn't- oh nevermind. Can it with the David Banner shit, Barber.

(cue that fucking queer "Calling All You Angels" pop-crap ballad garbage)

Soma.

I'm starting to go stir crazy here in Southern California. The lack of walking and high calorie consumption have made me feel quite sloth-like, and today I freaked out and started to cry. I want to go home to New York. This sucks. I love my family dearly, but I can only take so much sitting in front of the flat screen watching football before I start to crave the crisp sensation of an ice cold metal shotgun barrel in my mouth. I hate suburbia. I hate that we have to take the car to pick up the mail instead of walking (god forbid). I hate the way everyone here seems able to be happy just shopping for shitty groceries and getting up to work dead end clockwatcher jobs so they can afford soccer uniforms and yearbooks for their awful stupid spoiled kids who will, in turn, get knocked up and then perpetuate the same cycle of putting cutesy vinyl decals in the rear windows of their fucking minivans such as two big pairs of flip flops for the parents and little pink & blue ones for their kids. And of course we can't forget the requisite jesus-fish sticker. What a load of crap.

Lately I think maybe I'm just jealous because I wish I was that stupid, to want only that for my life and to just be OK with it. To be OK with marrying someone because they're there and it's better than being alone, to just accept religion because everyone else does, to be OK being a fucking sheep whose life is dictated by primetime televison and Turducken and whatever celebrity disease is hip, doing whatever Oprah or the mall or Family Circle Magazine tells you. They all seem to be pretty fucking happy, even if they aren't too far removed from zombies to me. Now who's the stupid one?

(image courtesy of the fantastic PostSecret.com. Buy the book.)

Sad Eyes by Robert John.

In order to bribe my Mom to buy me anything my miniscule black heart desires at Trader Joe's, I decided to help give Yorktown, the ancient family basset hound, a much needed bath.
















He stood with his legs locked like this for a good 5 minutes of coaxing, then we dragged him.















He hopped into the tub as commanded, but made sure to pout about it.















I'm all smiles as I perform what looks to be the Vulcan Death Grip on Yorktown to keep him from fleeing, coated in suds.















Pitiful Escape Attempt # 7.















Toweling off with Egyptian Cotton bath sheets. Only the best for Yorky.

Drip dry.

Drip dry.
Originally uploaded by Brandy For Sale..

There have been an handful of torrential rainstorms here, which has really cut into my plan of getting a decent tan for the first time in a long while.

My bikini is just hanging sorrowfully off my bedroom door, pouting. No strap marks for Barber.

OMG!!! Totally My Hopes 'n' Dreams 4 The New Year!!!!!!!!!

Things We Want To Happen in the New Year. *

-as drunkenly dictated over the phone & hastily typed by me at 3 am Eastern/12 am Pacific, by MikeBurns .

1. Bring back the trend of people calling cigarettes "fags". Although in 2006, cigarettes will fuck guys in the b-hole.

2. Eminem releases a re-mix of 2 Live Crew's "We Want Some Pussy" about daughter Hailey Jade.

3. More women to refer to "penis" as "wang" in sexual situations. Saying "dick" is so eightes.

4. 20% more black-on-black crime.


5. A middle-aged R&B singer who was overlooked even though he posseses a great amount of talent recieves recognition prior to having a fatal heart attack. Johnny Gill, I hope you're reading this.




6. More homeless crack addicts will exclaim, "I'm the boss of applesauce!" before stabbing a Wall Street piece of shit for thier pocket money.

7. A sharp increase in pro-lifers committing suicide.

8. (Insert unpleasant item that people don't like to ingest) will taste like bacon wrapped in wet dreams and sin.






9. All you can eat buffets will hire overweight mediocre self-deprecating amatuer stand up comedians to quip, "Are you sure want another serving? You don't want to end with more rolls than Puffy got Bentleys!" while manning the roast beef carving station.






10. There'd be just as many In-N-Out Burgers as Subways.


11. Frito will introduce new Don Henley-flavored Doritos.





12. Baby kitties finally evolve to the point where they can exclaim, "I love you, Mama!"






13. Jesus Christ finally returns to America, one final time, to rape Paris Hilton. (Of course, this goes without saying, but I'm clearly referring to Jesus Christ Hernandez, a dishwasher from Tiajuana who steals his cousin's 1993 Toyota Camry, drives to Los Angles in the midst of a meth rampage, breaks into Ms. Hilton's palatial estate, and sexually assaults her while holding her at bay with a screwdriver. For the record, Ms. Hilton has 3 orgasms).

14. Everyone refers to the vegatable celery as "trombone donuts".


15. 20% less black-on-black crime.

16. Women who type self-important blogs about things they want to happen in the new year will be impregnanted by sweaty busboys and then have to explain why their bastard child has a tan in the middle of a Midwestern winter.






17. Hires Root Beer will bring back Diet Hires Asparagus-Come-Flavored Root Beer, if asparagus produced semen. But they don't. So I guess that probbably won't happen. FUCK YOU, 2006!

*(with poor transcription and a few half-assed suggesstions from me that he humored but ultimately ignored for the good of all involved).

Use That Extra Second Wisely.

My Dad is very vociferous in his disapproval in Dick Clark's hosting "Rockin'" (quotes used to show disdain because I am a mega cunt) New Year's Eve, (TM). He insists they should not let Dick Clark talk because it's upsetting. When Hilary Duff squeaked, "How great is it to have Dick Clark back, you guys?" as she robotically performed her West Coast NYRE (TM) 2006 host duties Terry yelled "Not, in fact it's really creepy and disturbing." Then when she was "singing" her new "single" (again cunting out with the quote marks- boy do I know how to dish out the punctuation zingers or what?!?), my Dad said he wished the drummer who was pretending to play would flip Hilary's newsboy cap off, pound her drumsticks on Hilary's head in a staccato fashion, and then jam both the sticks in her eyes. Awesome.

Now the Pussycat Dolls are on, and I love them and each and every one of their outfits, so I am defending them from my Dad who is calling them "hoochies". I want to know where my Dad learned this word. Then again, he was also listening to "Peoples Come First" by Dilated Peoples earlier, which I gather he stole from my iPod. So there you go.

Now my parents are discussing the dog's bowel movements and the fact that the neighbors are having a loud party, which Terry has already been spying on for quite some time. I am drinking the bottle of Moet at an alarming rate and hope to pass out in the next 5 minutes. Now you know that's right.

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.