Yesterday I attended my friends Mark and Hans' annual Christmas Party, this year's theme being Holiday at Tiffany's.
I have to give these boys credit. My Christmas party would have featured pigs in a blanket, a yule log and Destiny Child's "8 Days of Christmas" on constant loop with Home Alone 2: Lost In New York playing in the background on mute, in honor of my probable costume, that of the homeless pigeon lady!
Luckily for all of us in attendance, their elegant soirée was just the opposite: a classic affair which featured a signature house drink (White Christmas Cosmo), digital rear-screen projection and nary a Culkin reference in sight... although at one point I was tempted to run out of the party screaming, "I'm not afraid anymore!"
The only thing the party was sorely missing was a track from the 90's one hit wonder band Deep Blue Something, which is tragic because I so wanted to break into chorus:
And I said, "What about 'Breakfast at Tiffany's'?" She said, "I think I remember the film, And as I recall, I think, we both kinda liked it." And I said, "Well, that's the one thing we've got."
If you're not singing along then just sign off now....
Anyhow, towards the end of the evening there was a photo call for all the Audreys to take their places on the spiral staircase for a photo shoot. Channeling my inner, er, outer Capote I decided I simply must take my place at the foot of the staircase. With all these ladies preening and posing, it was too good of an oppourtunity for me to pass up.
As I darted into the lineup, the random Tiffany I nudged beside (who I'm sure looked the part when the film came out...in 1961...Oh, snap!) dropped her doe-eyed, demure Audrey Hepburn pose in exchange for an evil Katherine Hepburn glare as the brim of my hat infringed on her eye line. She pointedly tapped her gloved finger on my shoudler and decided to break some shocking news to me, "Excuse me, but you're not a woman!"
I snapped back, "Oh, really?! So that's why I'm bursting out of these panties?! Thanks for the news!"
Not really, but seriously, after she alerts me to the fact that I do not have a vagina, i.e. "you and your man-testes (is there any other kind?) need to get the eff out of this photoshoot, I respond with an immediate flick of my fan, a roll of the eye, and an accusatory: "How DARE you!"
...and CHEESE!!!
A Closer Look:
Peace, Love & Snax, Brian
P.S. While on poster tour with Bridget in 2005, one of the bestsellers that we would sell to the insecure freshman girls looking to cover their bare walls (in addition to a Sex and the City 8x10 from Season 1 featuring Miranda with Kool-Aid red hair) was the quintessential Audrey Hepburn black and white still of her perched in front of the Tiffanys window. After Bridget would neatly roll the poster and rubber band it, I would deviously set the trap. I couldn't resist. "So, what's your favorite Audrey Heburn movie." At this point one of two responses would come out of their confused little faces. a) "Wait, she's in movies?!?!" or b) "Breakfast at Tiffanys." My immediate followup, "No, besides Breakfast at Tiffanys?!"
Crickets............
P.S.S. One person in the photo went by the name Hot Chocolate. Can anybody guess who?!
I've always stated that my best asset resides directly above my forehead.
I reiterated my personal mantra to my hair stylist, Molly, as she tied the cape around my neck, in preparation to give me a much needed hair cut.
She replies, "Well, if you've got a good brain, that's all that matters!"
I scoffed, "My brain?! How DARE you. I'm talking about my hair...Hello?!" I exclaimed while pointing to the shampooed dripping wet mess on my head.
She smiles, "Well, if you've got fabulous hair and a fabulous brain, you're way ahead of the game."
If only...
Unfortunately, along with my thick head of hair, I've got the legs, stomach and cheeks to match. My hair and my body have stayed with my through thick and thin, minus the latter. In fact, the only thin I'm fluent in is the mint. (Thanks Girls Scouts!)
Based on the genetic betrayal that is my legacy (anyone?) I've always felt the need to overcompensate with my pelt of hair in order to distract from other areas that dare not speak their names. (That means you Wendy, i.e. my left breast...take that Daniel Day.)
I typically get my hair cut at the Rudy's Barbershop in Silverlake which is within walking distance from my place.
http://www.rudysbarbershop.com/
Don't let the name fool you, this isn't your father's barbershop where your friendly neighborhood barber whips out his clippers, buzzes you a generic flat top, asks you whether you want the back rounded or square, discusses the local weather and politely sends you on your way.
At Rudy's, the stylists are inked from head to toe in designs their abstract artist friends customized for them, the walls are plastered with magazine cutouts of emaciated, brooding hipsters hiding behind strategically disheveled bangs and/or Chloe Sevigny/Michael Pitt and the idle chatter is not the weather, but whether or not Winehouse is a fool to stand by Blake as he rots in the clinker or whether Radiohead are fools for their latest pay-it-your-way album "In Rainbows". (I paid 6 pounds, fyi.)
I always let the stylists do their thing, way too embarrassed to whip out the crinkled, folded up picture of Jake that I ripped out of Details magazine as a visual reference point, which I carry on me at all times in case of emergency. You never know when you'll need to whip a picture of Gyllenhaal out of your back pocket, but I think I'll wait for my first bar fight.
Point of the matter, in spite of never detailing exactly what I want, I've never left Rudy's with a bad haircut. So, the day before I was leaving Los Angeles to come back to Florida for the holidays, I was desperate to get my hair chopped off as it had grown to a undesirably shaggy length. That final day in question, I was going to the wrap party for NEXT and although I have true faith in my Rudy's, I was scared that my regular rockabilly hipster might have called in stoned and I'd get stuck with a random aggresive vegan who might take her protein deprived anger out on my head and I'd be immortalized in the wrap party photos with some hideous Fall Out Boy inspired mess...so I decided to be patient and wait 'til I got down to Bradenton to take care of my elongated tresses.
I was more than happy to be patient, being that my friend Jessi's mom, Lynne, is an accomplished hair stylist who has been giving me inspired chops for years and years. I knew that Lynne is normally booked months in advance, especially around the holidays, but I figured she'd be able to squeeze me in somewhere. No such luck :( Jess informs me that her mom is overbooked, and I'd better pray for a cancellation. Well, I prayed for two weeks straight, but GOD has bigger concerns on his plate than my 'do, proof that GOD perhaps is a man after all (Sorry Rory!)
As my hair continued to grow, my spirits started to fall and I slowly felt myself slipping into a hair depression not seen since the days of Rosie.
The other day I was staring in the mirror and I realized I was the poster child for No Country For Old Men, the amazing new film from the Coen Brothers. The star of the film, played by the genius Javier Bardem (you must see him in Before Night Falls, which I just re-rented...Thnx Netflix.) Anyhow, in No Country For Old Men, Javy rocks the most ridiculous pageboy haircut which is as frightening as anything else in the film.
It was the same cut that I was staring at in the mirror. No Haircut for Chubby Men, the Brian Reiss story was currently playing, and I made it my mission that it would have a happy ending afterall.
I called Jess again, insisting she do anything in her power to get me on her mother's appointment roster. Sadly, the wife of the mayor of Bradenton takes precedence over Brian Reiss, yet I've seen ZERO evidence to support such a foolish hierarchy. As the television ads for No Country For Old Men started popping up on television, I felt mocked and humiliated, desperate to take matters into my own hands as I considered grabbing the scissor myself. It's me or the girls over at Fantastic Sams, and I'm sorry, but I've had my haircut there back in the day, and the highest compliment one could bestow on poor Sam would be mediocore at best. Fantastic my ass, nice try Sammy Boy.
Well, God must have found a brief opening in his schedule to consider my 'do because Jes texted me that her mother's colleague at her salon would be able to fit me in for a haircut the following day. I assume the minute God got word that Oprah was flying to Iowa to stump for Obama, he breathed a sigh of relief, realizing Oprah could substitute for him for a hot sec while he turned his powers to more urgent matters at hand, my hair.
The next day I triumphantly entered the salon. As I settled in the chair, I looked at my dome, I breathed a cathartic sigh of relief, as the moment, many months in the making was finally here!
My new stylist, Molly (not her real name, but I shall use this moniker in order to protect her identity) went at it with her shears.
Snip, snip, snip...
Large clumps of my hair falling to the ground, my pageboy 'do was a don't of the past!
Halle-berry-lujah! (Bad Brian, Bad!)
Halfway through the cut I started to laugh.
"Molly" dropped her scissors to her sides, "What's so funny?"
Me: "Look, I'm rocking the Posh!"
By Posh, I'm referring to the ubiquitous haircut of 2007 brought to the limelight by the vapid, vile, Victoria B. herself. A woman who's only real friend, or so it seems, outside of the fab five (love to Sporty) happens to be Katie Holmes. Katie Holmes!!! Sick. This is a woman who's only strength is her honesty, being that she just recently admitted that she can't really sing or dance THAT well. In fact, I read a review of the Spice Girls concert that stated that all the girls sing a solo except for Posh, who instead chooses to do a catwalk routine to RuPaul's "Supermodel". You gotta admit that this girl knows her role, and instead of inflicting any pain on her fan's eardrums, she (wisely) chooses to vamp down a runway with her cellphone. Poor thing.
Hideous!!!
Anyhow, as I'm staring at the man in the mirror (Thnx Michael!) I can't help but scoff. Molly had already chopped off half my hair on one side, and parted the longer locks to the other side of my face, giving me a temporary Posh. A tosh. As I posed in the mirror for a moment, I couldn't resist pulling Molly's chain.
"You know what, I should seriously rock this. How amazing would it be if I tried to pull off the Male Posh?"
My stylist interjects, "Well, we could do something kind of creative if you like"
Me, deadpan, "Just do whatever. I totally trust you."
I go back to chit-chatting while she goes back to snip-snapping. Before you know it she's exchanged the scissors for clippers and starts tidying up my sideburns and touching up my neckline. She drops the clippers in exchange for some hair product and does a little sculpting. She turns my chair so I'm facing the mirror dead-on.
Molly announces, with pride, "We're done!"
Within twenty minutes my hair went from Pageboy to Poshboy.
Aside from a few minor snips and a little styling, after I made my Posh joke, the hair cut was done.
I had a male Posh.
A Mosh.
A total Botch!
Speechless for the first time in the seat, I sat there frozen in terror, staring at my Mosh. Well, staring out of one eye to be honest, the other eye covered in my newly asymmetrical bang.
God, thou has forsaken me! Oprah must have fucked up because the almighty ditched Bradenton for Iowa and left me as Speechless Spice.
TO BE CONTINUED....
I swear on all that's holy (that means you Mary J) it gets worse!!!!
Before I churn out this blog, I have something to confess. I was not raised Jewish. (Sorry Jackie!) My mom's a nice Irish Catholic girl and my dad's a naughty Jewish boy. (Which sounds kinky, but I mean in a paternal manner, I swear.) Being that my mother was the one who had to carry my fat ass in the womb for 9 months, her religion ruled out. (Have you seen the size of my head? Even then it was huge, and that's not fun coming out of you, ok?!)
As a baby I had my Christening. At thirteen, I squeezed into a hideous J.C. Penny's suit from the husky section for my Confirmation. I still wear a St. Christopher's medal around my neck to this day.
That being said, I grew up with a major case of Jew envy. I share my birthday with Jesus, so it's only natural I share a affinity with the most famous Jew of all, Mr. Hay-seuss himself. My dad gave up his religion for my mother's sake, but when she wanted to name me Christopher aka Christ himself my dad put his Jewish foot down. Thank god! Imagine if I was a Chris? You know it'd be pronounced Kress. Sick! So I'm just Brian. But for those who want to worship the ground I walk on (or want to nail me in any terms :) you can call me Baby Bresus!
Now, back to my childhood...
No Bar Mitzvah. No Hebrew School . No Bris. Although the few lucky ones who've seen my schmekel (and by few I mean one) they know that I've been circumsized. (Too much visual information? I apologize, and promise not to mention my penis in this blog unless it's integral to the plot, I swear!)
In fact, the only real Jewish influence in my life were the snax. I'm fluent in the world of brisket, kugel, latkes and macaroons. It was when I first attended my dear cousin Josh's Bar Mitzvah that I realized that I had an major itch for everything the Jews had to offer, beyond the culinary world. Tables overflowing with gifts in silver and blue paper, a DJ walking us through the Chicken Dance on the dance floor, cheesy neon 80's sunglasses party favors...I wanted it all. I wanted to smear my lox on my everything bagel while gobbling down matzah balls while trekking to the holy land on Yom Kipppur. I wanted to sing baaaa-rukkkke-a-toooooooy-ada-noy as my voice cracked and zits formed, dammit!
My family didn't celebrate many Jewish holidays, but when Hannukah came around, we'd always whip out the dreidels and the menorahs and when they were dry and ready, oh Jewish we did play! My major issue with Hanukkah (besides the spelling...H? Ch? Whatevs...) was the date. Sometimes it came before Christmas. Sometimes it appeared directly afterwards, this year I think it started on Halloween (i.e. two days ago) and I seriously remember holding a joint oscar/menorah lighting party in high school. I don't quite remember, I tend to block out the days in which Helen Hunt wins an Academy Award.
The advantage of coming home for the holidays early this year was that I was fortunate enough to spend the first night of Hannukah with dear old dad. He called me up and invited me over to his house for a nice family father-son Hanukkah celebration. "We'll light the menorah, we'll say some prayers, we'll hang out together. Come over, it'll be nice."
Well, it all started out according to plan...
My dad just moved into his new house, and being that his real menorah was packed away in storage, we resorted to running out to Walmart to purchase a cheap plastic version. (P.S. There's nothing more priceless than asking a Walmart employee where we can find a menorah and having them reply "That's some Jewish hat, right? We ain't got none of those here." I do NOT exaggerate. Eventually we did find someone who knew that a menorah a) is NOT headgear b) is located in the seasonal section, FYI)
Anyhow, we lit the menorah. (i.e. screwed in a bulb)
We said a prayer.
We took the Hanukkah party into the living room and as we sat down on the couch, I noticed my dad had a fleet of stuffed animals lined up on his coffee table.
"Dad, why in earth did you pull out all these stuffed animals? Were you playing with them earlier?"
He fills me in that his current girlfriend Cynthia (she's his "moon goddess") lined them up on his coffee table as a welcome home surprise, accompanied with a note reading "Welcome Home Big P."
I reply, "Awww, that's sweet."
He looked up from the stuffed animals and a devious smile spread across his face and his eyes began to bulge, in a the most wicked diabolical sense.
He began to speak, his voice tinged with a most sinister tone, "She didn't enjoy the position she found them in the next morning!"
The sad thing is I knew exactly where this was leading, but being that it's Hanukkah, I figured I'd humor the man, so I asked him the follow up question which he so obviously baited me on...
"Dad, what position did she find them in?"
My father, with utmost delight, began to visually take me through the most detailed recounting of how he positioned these poor defenseless stuffed animals. Luckily for ya'll (ya'll? I'm in Florida right now, cut me some slack!) I was able to whip out my camera to capture a few candids during the graphic scene you're about to witness.
Clearly no expert on the Jewish faith, I know enough to assume that the events which happened next are not typical of most family Hanukkah gatherings, nor were they documented in the Torah - possibly because no hebrew translation for the phrase, "plushie gang-bang" existed back in the day...
If the first night of Hanukkah produced the following results, can you even imagine what is in store for these animals by the 8th day?!
Look at the man's face, something is not right up there. God love him :)
Accused: The Sesame Street Version
Look at this poor animal's face!!!!
If this is may Dad's idea of a Hanukkah celebration, is it any wonder my mother insisted on raising us Catholic?!
On that note, Happy Hanukkah to all, and to all a goodnight!
Unable to catch a cab at this ungodly hour, I decided to make a go for it and walk home...alone! What else is new :( Working my way uptown, still dressed in last night's fabulous outfit and fiercest - albiet uncomfortable - shoes, I clutched my Fendi clutch (not some chinatown knockoff. the real deal. jealous?!) tight to my chest as I crossed 14th Street. The sun beginning to rise, my spirits started to fall (get it?!) as the city streets became crowded with the morning commuters, hitting the pavement in their pressed suits and sensible shoes. (Gag me with a silver spoon!) God, who are these "people", I wondered to myself. What were they doing up so early?! I hadn't been up that early since the Imitation of Christ sample sale (And with all the eye candy in the room, let's just say I sampled way more than just the designer goods...Get it?) As my mind wandered from the good looking fellas to the morning city dwellers, I could only imagine where they were speeding off to with their briefcases. Some ungodly OFFICE I assume. (Shudder...) They say the early bird gets the worm, but unless it's floating at the bottom of a tequila bottle, you can keep the worm, I'm hitting the snooze button on my alarm clock. (Thanx Brookstone!)
Waving hello to my doorman, I offered him a drag of my breakfast (American Spirt anyone?!) but he politely turned me down. (This stood in stark contrast to last weeks events in which he politely turned me on, but that's another column.) As I settled into my apartment, I began to strip down to my skivvies, but alas, my skivvies were no where to be found. I checked again, but to no avail. Yep, my undies were officially lost in translation, without a Bill Murray or a Sophia Coppola in sight.
Whilst pondering the unfortunate (but not entirely unexpected) loss of my undergarments, I couldn't help but wonder.......Are we sluts?!?!?!
Ok, I keed, I keed (longest gag ever, i know!) but seriously, don't let the pun in the blog title fool you, this is so not some hideous Carrie Bradshaw-inspired blog in which I will laboriously ponder (and pun-der) my exploits of love and lust in the city, nor will I strictly be pondering the (much more) familiar world of puddings, pop tarts and pepperoni. I'm hoping to dish out a delightful combo of stories for you to snack on - most will be boring, some might be incredible, all will be edible!
Snax are merely little treats, which I will be serving to you in blog form on occasion. The last thing I need in my life is another forum to distract me from my professional writings, but i always give in to my cravings for better for worse. So, when you need a little pick me up, be it an afterschool bite or a late night nosh, come on over! Some snax will be tasty and meaty, some will be narsty and sour (i.e. Renee Zellwegger) but have no fear, in no way, shape or form will they be good for you. So, if you find this blog devoid of any value (nutritional, or otherwise), don't say I didn't warn you.
I'm a drifter, a dreamer, a lover, a fighter, a comic, a drama queen, a loser, a winner, a sinner and a lover of dinner...not to mention breakfast, lunch and of course, snax.
