I Like To Think Of Myself As A Pure Rebel.

A radical thinker on a musical level.

So tired. Have nothing to offer. Going to bed. Look at this picture of a makeup artist putting coverup on my hickey so that the continuity isn't ruined since someone decided on the night before day two of the shoot to go out and slurp down Hoegardens instead of sleeping like a mature person might. There's nothing like showing up for your 7:00 am call at 7:45 am in sunglasses wearing your hangover like a crown of thorns with "makeout chin" that delightful red rash from stubble friction.

Classy Lady Alert.

I expect better from you, people.

If you're going to post some passive agressive pointedly sexist comment under a pseudonym that you took the precious time to register for a Blogger account for, the least you could do is pick a name that's not a blatant giveaway to your inherent wackiness. That name reeked of Cannonball Run II and Dave Thomas from Second City rapping in his comedy special as "The Mad Dad". Just cringeworthy, really. I don't know if you really are pitiful enough to be freaked out by women being sexually forward or, you're just a creep that has some issue with me personally. But either way, you really didn't give your 110%. Nowhere near as spiteful and savvy as I'd expect-I mean, you live in New York. At least, that's what your IP address says. It also says a lot of other really, really informative things. Isn't then internet neat? We think it's all annonymous and shit, but it's really not. But let's not dwell on that, IP address that begins with 63.118. C'mon, champ- let's hug that anger out!

And yes, I do have a penis. So do feel ever so free to suck the dick up to the hiccup. You're welcome.

Dear Boy I Fell In Love With During A Lunch Break At The McDonald's:

You have no idea what I could do to you. Given a solid two to three hour block of time, a fairly sturdy mattress and a variety pack of condoms, I am confident enough to say I would ruin you. It all started when I took a gander at those shoulder blades of yours. I knew right then and there I wanted to sink my teeth into one, perchance during a reacharound. Then the hair. Dear sweet infant of christ, that hair, it is BEGGING for me to put my hands into it and yank your nice tall head down to my mouth for a raw, teeth-grinding hot hard long frenching. You, and your hawt scrawny ass, and your mad fire fashion sense, and the way I bet you smell (like late night band practice at your boy Kyle's loft in Red Hook and Parliaments and Ivory soap and Red Stripe and angst) all combine to make you NSFW. You are a trip to the bathroom to work out that knot as we tramps like to say. I don't ask for much, lord knows. But if there is justice in this universe, then one night our paths will cross at Lillie's and we'll do a bump off your band's van key and then I will take you into the bathroom and mount you like a fucking Koons sculpture and tear your favorite black t-shirt that you got from a thrift store in Oregon. You're fucking KILLING me with that shit. You, young man, are what the old folks call "a sure-fire panty soaker". I celebrate you and the fact that you, by just being you, made my nipples hard. Word.

Make It Big Like Wham.

1. Shoot video in the park.
2. Get all whored up.
3. Shotgun beers in the back of a cab to Williamsburg with Allocco.
4. Discuss which boys we will encounter that night are decent makeout choices. Consider strengths, weaknesses, and overall appeal based on whether or not they know who Jeffrey Osbourne is or were even born then.
5. Arrive at party and immediately drink Maker's on the Rocks and horf a bloody cheesburger on the immense patio.
6. Find out they have the High Life. In cans. 16 oz cans. Shed a tear of joy.
7. Decide there needs to be dancing STAT and yell at whoever keeps playing acoustic Beatles B-sides to knock that shit off.
8. Trip over a German Shepard that is inflagrante with an obese cranky Boxer.
9. Eat half of a bite-sized cupcake. Spit out the other half. Convince yourself you don't have an eating disorder. That's for summer.
10. Smoke Anne's cloves.
11. Realize as you're hitting on a cute guy that you're screaming for no reason. Realize you're drunk.
12. Pretend to be doing coke in the bathroom with comedy partner.
13. Yamamoto smokes a tampon.
14. Angela makes you laugh until you spit beer regarding P.P. Tresses.
15. Become disenchanted with bar-b-que and demand dancing.
16. Tell everyone you're leaving.
17. [One hour later] Everyone else leaves.
18. Get in cab to Black Betty.
19. Sara trips herself and sends herself home.
20. Drunk text message everyone you know & love to tell them to come out.
21. Go to another bar where it is dark, there are bricks, and a loft. Webber buys you a nice drink.
22. Go to another bar where it is filthy and there are Xmas lights.
23. Drink a Miller High life from the bottle. Thank jesus.
24. Discuss the how awesome it was when Boba Fett flew with Nathan.
25. [blank]

Wake up naked in bed with no idea how you got home and an empty sugar free Watermelon Jello cup clutched in your ape paw. Good night. A very good night.

Kathleen Anne.

with kudos to PostSecret.

Picture Wish List: Check.

A dream is a wish your heart makes, when you're fast asleep. As you may recall, I was too drunk to take adequate photos pf myself being a jackass last Friday and listed the ones I only wished I'd managed to snap. And then, lightening struck and luck was with me. I don't even know what I just typed, I'm honestly so exhausted right now. Anyway here is a picture of Aubrey in my white sunglasses. Check that one off the list.

Elle est tellement admirablement triste.

All images snapped by the fantastically talented Ms. Anya Garrett. You should contact her if you're seeking a photographer. Anya is also a skilled film-type lady and a self-taught web programmer, in addition to being a comedy fan and all around bad-ass. Check her shit out and show the respect. She collaborates, she creates, she supports, and she 's a funny lady onstage as well. Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like her?

ALL ABOUT ANYA:

Anya keeps a watchful eye on the NYC comedy world-and beyond- here.

Anya's Adventures are detailed here.

Anya's tasteful, aesthetically pleasing portrait photography can be found here.

These are some of the photos that will be used for the oft-promied, never delivered Brandy & Sara website- and also, you may see them out to use for our new monthly show, The Kissing Booth, which will be on the fine evening of June 9th, 2006 at the Tank. Keep your eyes here at all times for updates, but there will be a great bunch of performers, host hi-jinx from Brandy & Sara, and a karaoke duet with an authentic video chock-a-block with cameos from members of Party Central USA, Johnny Lunchpail, The Royal We, and the hardest working comic in NYC, the beloved John F. O'Donnell. And directly following- a huge ass debut show kick off dance party galore. Not to be missed!

Special bonus question: How many tall cans of Coors Lite did Brandy & Sara consume the night prior to the photo shoot in the bathroom of Tai Lounge? Multiply this by the amount of bags under both ladies' eyes (which Anya, who also did our makeup, managed to spirit away) then divide by number of hickeys deflected during public slobber makeout and you'll have your pin code. I am SERIOUS you guys it WORKS!!!!

That "Just Fucked" Feeling.

Had some much needed Brooklyn Friendships with the beloved Porter Mason last eve. We sat in a window seat and drank a beer and I told him the mildly amusing story of being feebly shit-talked in a manner most ill-informed on someone else’s blog. I always have somewhat enjoyed playing the role of self-righteous martyr, and so in this case, I took the spiritual high road by simply shrugging to Porter and saying, “Have fun with all that, tough guy.” Whereas my first instinct in the past would be to beat the fucking innards out of someone who so much as looked sideways at me, lately I’ve been thinking it’s not worth bloody knuckles. Especially when the person who seems to be begging for a pounding doesn’t really know what they’re even talking about- and that’s not their fault, so are they really being a jerk? In the most pure sense, no. It makes it easier for me to muster up amusement about the whole episode, because I’m sure I’d take the same approach given the circumstances. Bet.

MOMENT OF CLARITY: Did I just waste more of my precious time on Earth sniping someone on my narcissisictic blog who tried to snipe me & by association my friends on their subpar blog? Yes. Yes I did. How very mournful. What next in this pantheon of interweb intrigue for me: de-MySpacing someone? It’s the next logical step I guess.

Here's how it go: “I’ll fix you! I’ll click on a button and take away the manna of my electronic companionship! You heard me. No more bulletiens about my shitty shows or quizzes about how to find my Terrorist Dictator name. Now how are you going to leave the house in the morning? Enjoy the sleepless nights you’ll spend wondering what you did to lose the all-important bond forged in cyberspace betwixt us. Oooooohh! BURN! Do you feel that?! Huh?! HUH!?! That’s the feeling of totally getting de-MySpaced and it’s colder than subfreezing ice vats in hell but if hell had snow blizzards instead of like, devils and flames and lava and shit. Yeah! Take it! Take it you goddamned filthy whore!”

I am real, real mature. What a prize for all the guys, is Barber. Puke.

The lovely Annie sent me an email full of silly sex facts. One stood out to this lady- it said, in essence, that sex begets sex. As in, if you’re humping someone, your pheromones will emit an allure that means even more people will want to climb up on you. You’ll be showered with more attention from potential mates if you’re mating. I had to laugh at that, because based on this weekend, I am in agreement. I like science when it validates my sexuality. This gives my constant pursuit of naughtiness a rather scholarly air, and I find that quite appealing. It conjures up images of pipes, black lace hot pants, courdoroy blazers with leather patches at the elbows and, perchance, kiwi-flavoured lube. You know. The usual.

Falling asleep sitting up at desk. I cannot wait for lunch when I will sneak off to nap in an abandoned office. Not only am I the world’s worst employee, I am, it would seem, some sort of a hobo. A hobo with a very expensive brow & bikini wax. I keep that shit tight, holmes.

More Cinco.

Ang- is that you?! I suggest all chumps look out.
















I seem to think I'm auditioning for Solid Gold. In my head, I am. Livia tolerates me because she is polite. Sara, Anya & Marianne are astounded by my mad fire dance skillz, son. OK. That was sad.















How cute is Nathan? SO CUTE. West Coast Represent!


All pics from the flickr page of the lovely Ms. Heather Fink. Dig it.

Like Things, Grouped.

It all makes sense to me now.

I Miss Porter.

Cinco De Mayo, By Liz Phair.

CLOCKWISE FROM TOP RIGHT: Ang & Sara like comedy nerds; I can feel Anya's bosoms!; Ang is a very special lady, and a very exciting girl (lucky Greg); Brandy & Sara planning the downfall of those seriously in need of a fixing (please note my green flip flops); I so do not approve of green soccer shorts; the most crushed upon Canadian ever, Aubrey & lovely Marianne.

A very funny, certifiably manic-depressive suicidal alcoholic boy I was in love with once used to make fun of my beloved Liz Phair CD and sing atonally along to that song: "Cinco De Mayo, is the fifth of May in Spanish..." then turn off the car stereo and threaten to throw it out onto the 405. Just a fond memory. But you guys, he was so much fun! Especially when he was drunk, he said the nicest things! (sigh) Isn't it dreamy when boys smell like Maker's and wrist sutures and evil?

There should be so many more pictures from Friday. But I showed up already plastered off a bottle of wine and proceeded to trash it up with lots and lots of shitty beer. I mean, really. The night felt like it was 10 minutes long, but I don't think we left until 3 so...I don't know what to tell you. When I'm too drunk to take endless glamour shots of my fat ass, you know I'm blotto. Anyway after some discussion with Allocco, I have compiled a list of what I wish I had photographed, and here it is:

-Sara and I shotgunning Coors Lite in the mens' bathroom, laughing about the last time we were in there together and the unfortunate consequences
-Livia Scott and her lovely red skirt
-The busted strawberry pinata on Jack Kukoda's head
-Sara dancing with Oren
-me wearing Nathan's red hat
-Aubrey in my white sunglasses
-Ang in my white sunglasses
-Sara in my white sunglasses
-Brian spinning the pinata
-Herzog on the mic
-the dance contest
-Anya & Marianne
- Fink's sexy top
-Katie & Negid
-Gregory dancing
-adorable Brendan's white Birkenstocks
-me screaming out trivia answers about 70's music drunkenly and unnecessarily
-Sara and I harmonizing for NO REASON during a break in the music
-Sara and I screaming at some perverts who unwisely tried to catcall us at an outdoor cafe as we went to the deli to buy-that's right- Coors Light cans
-Kukoda scurrying away after pinching Allocco's ass
-Allocco grinding on mens
-Ang putting the Staten Island on the pinata
-me pawing the very polite, very taken Aubrey on the dance floor
-me thinking I was busting a move but most likely stumbling drunk into anyone unfortunate enough to be near me

There was a pinata, DJ Craig Baldo played "Magic" by Pilot, I danced inappropriately with so may hot hot boys, there was make out on the dancefloor. I kept either trying to pull Sara's dress up or down, alternately. I guess there were pinatas and a whole spectacle with trivia and the like, but Sara and I heckled party host Seth at that point because we couldn't be bothered to stop the dancing. I shared my ridiculous oversized white sunglasses with all- Angela saw some kid we didn't even know with them on and screamed at him and took them away- I guess he said they were on the floor? WHAT. Speaking of my Tuna: she as usual had my back and all I know is, I wouldn't stand close to her when she's blindfolded and holding a stick. I love that Allocco and I kind of decided it was our party, too (WHAT?!?) and called everyone and insisted they show up. Love Boat Cruise Directors? We bring the magic, people. We bring the DANCE MAGIC. All in all it was a fucking awwwsss night and I had so much delight in it, and I wish I remembered more of it. Because it was grand. Oh, well.


R.I.P. Kelly green Havainas flip flops. You served me well.

Open invitation to all in attendance: If you can think of a photo I should have, but did not due to shit-facedness, take- please feel free to post it in the comments section. Hell, even if you weren't there feel free to chime in.

Put Your Hands Opposite To The Ground, If You're Loving That Sound.

After rehearsal, Sara and I went shopping. I seem to have misplaced my beloved gold hoops in my drunken state Friday night, and I had decided last week during a lunch break to finally go and get nameplate gold hoops for summer. I told Sara of my plan and she loved the idea, so now we're both getting them and they will be worn during our new monthly show. Oh, it's ON.

I won't stop there, though. I will also be getting the full on 2 or maybe even 3 finger scratch ring, as I have wanted to since I was one of only a handful of honkies at my high school. It's about time.

You just watch me. I am, once again, the boss of Me, Inc.

I Live By The Sword.

Again, this is for me and me only. As is this blog. And quite frankly if you don't like that then you are cordially invited to go fuck yourself. Also, Devastatin' Dave will come to your house and insist on being fed Grape Kool-Aid and a casserole of some sort. So there.

On The Good Foot.

Wild Rhythms!
Escape To Paradise!
Spicy Rhythms!
Ethnic Zebra!
Secret Land!

I am working at a company where these terms are bandied about with a straight face on conference calls. Seriously. Are you kidding me here? Barf. I knew working in the fashion industry (I want to kick myself for utilizing that term by the way) was going to be gross, but what I didn't anticipate was blushing with shame for others while at my desk, fucking off. It's like that feeling you get when you see some poor guy in a plush taco costume, handing out flyers for some godawful Mexican restaurant. It's eye-avertingly, half-hearted smilingly uncomfortable.


As I was walking to the F train this fine morn, a young lady drove by in her Jeep blaring "Conceited" by Remy Ma. I strolled along to it as if I was in a music video and mentally calculated what I would wear were I to star in it. Also, I picked my back up dancers and was halfway through their coordinating, complementary-to-but-not-overpowering-towards-my-outfit get ups when the light changed, she sped off, and the music faded. Bittersweet. I take this as an omen. It's going to be a good day.

Sorry about my arm herpes.

After last night, I made a new rule: no bringing home "cool stuff" I find on the street when drunk to decorate the apartment. Because as anyone who's fallen in love at last call knows, what's cool when you're liquored up has a way of being not so neat in the harsh light of day. I think when one is swilling Coors Lite, it seems perfectly rational to trudge home with a giant antique handwriting chart that's been discarded from the grimy public school next door. But when one wakes up to take a perfunctory shower before work and is startled by the newest addition to her rat's nest, then one must set sober boundaries for herself.

My catchphrase update:
Here are some contenders-

"My bosoms!" (to be shreiked and pronounced, bah-zooms)
"I'm the boss of applesauce!"
"No panties, no justice."
"My shirt got me laid."
"My woes are overrated."
"Lose the pants, handsome."

More updates on this to follow.

Crystal Blue Persuasion.

Process of crystallization
Stendhal describes or compares the “birth of love” in a new relationship as being a process similar or analogous to a trip to Rome. In the analogy, the city of Bologna represents indifference and Rome represents perfect love:

Stendhal's depiction of "crystallization" in the process of falling in love

When we are in Bologna, we are entirely indifferent; we are not concerned to admire in any particular way the person with whom we shall perhaps one day be madly in love with; even less is our imagination inclined to overrate their worth. In a word, in Bologna “crystallization” has not yet begun. When the journey begins, love departs. One leaves Bologna, climbs the Apennines, and takes the road to Rome. The departure, according to Stendhal, has nothing to do with one’s will; it is an instinctive moment. This transformative process actuates in terms of four steps along a journey:

Admiration – one marvels at the qualities of the loved one.

Acknowledgement – one notices the return affection of the charming person.

Hope – one envisions gaining the love of the loved one.

Delight – one exults in overrating the beauty and merit of the person he or she loves.

First, one admires the other person. Second, one acknowledges the pleasantness in having acquired the interest of a charming person. Third, hope emerges. In the fourth stage, one delights in overrating the beauty and the merit of the person whose love one hopes to win. This journey or crystallization process (shown above) was detailed by Stendhal on the back of a playing card, while speaking to Madame Gherardi, during his trip to Salzburg salt mine.

Applications
Psychologist Dorothy Tennov describes the process as a transformation in which the loved one’s characteristics are crystallized via mental events and neurological reconfigurations such that attractive characteristics are exaggerated and unattractive characteristics are given little or no attention. She uses this basis for her description of a "limerent object", related to the concept of limerence.


*excerpted from here.

Aw, Shucks. Let's Hug It Out, Chief!

This is the last time to catch Brandy & Sara for the next few weeks- I'll be travelling and for once, Allocco won't. Also I'm the rapper, she's the DJ. Let's get into THAT later.
So come and be olly olly oxen free until June when I will begin re-bombarding you in the manner of reggae-rap mega-superstar Shaggy, who, it is rumored, is on occasion "boombastic". Seriously enough with the 90s urban contemporary radio referecnes, Barber.

Brandy & Sara at

VARIETY UNDERGROUND
@ Parkside Lounge
E. Houston @ Attorney
TONIGHT May 4th, 2006
7 PM $3 PBRs (you cannot resist that, you lush)

Loving You Makes Life Worth Living, Whitney Houston!

From: Lianne Stokes
To:"Brandy L. Barber"
Subject: Yer blog
Date: May 3, 2006 1:13 PM

Yay! Was hysterical at my mug!

Am I that territorial? Glad you captured that moment. I don't recall
it, but I think I was like, "EWW BEAT IT..."

Ya think?

I hear you made out after I flitted on Friday? Check plus! While you were enjoying quality of life, I was on the train bombed and reading
"Bitter is the New Black" a memoir....

JEALOUS?

Shut Up Before I Punch You In Your Dutch Face.

This makes me laugh so hard that tears are literally coming out of my butt.

MINTYFRESH presents The Singles Show!

Hosts Sparkle & Skip (Katina Carraro & Shawn Hollenbach) were in fine form. Fine, latently homosexual form.




















Ms. Michelle Buteau brought the sexy shoes "that you leave on" to the Singles' Show.




















Pat Stago used the word "cock" numerous times and then worked Steven Segal into the mix. Word.




















That Ms. Michelle Collins is a force of nature. She referred to herself as a "gi-gi". WHAT. New hero. Heroine? My new lady. Ah yes, that's better.















Contemplating why Sara's pictures all turned out cute, even though we agreed they were going to be "really ugly" ones of us.















Really making that 110% effort here. Pu-push it real good.


Many thanks to the ever-gracious Mintyfresh crew for including us in what may turn out to be the LAST installment of the Singles' Show this past Monday (sounds like it'll be back soon with a spakly new format- but you'll have to attend to find out the truth). All in all it was mad fire, son. We had a great time and there was a lot of blaring Journey so it was clearly awesome. Now you KNOW that's right.