Allow this site to...
85% Chris Dodd
83% Dennis Kucinich
83% Barack Obama
80% Mike Gravel
80% Hillary Clinton
80% John Edwards
78% Joe Biden
78% Bill Richardson
39% Rudy Giuliani
29% John McCain
21% Ron Paul
21% Mike Huckabee
21% Mitt Romney
16% Tom Tancredo
11% Fred Thompson
2008 Presidential Candidate Matching Quiz
P.S. Where was Rosie Perez on that list?!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Sadly Obligatory Obit
It's an appropriately grey and gloomy day here in Los Angeles, fitting for the news I've just discovered. We've lost one of the finest actors of our generation, baby Matilda's lost her father and Jake lost his dearest co-star.
Tragic.
Rest In Heath*
*copyright blc
Tragic.
Rest In Heath*
*copyright blc
Monday, January 21, 2008
In The Closet
I lost my debit card last night at a Taco Bell.
I searched my car.
I searched my room.
I searched my pockets, and all I found was a crumpled receipt.
I reviewed the receipt.
I ordered a chicken soft taco and a fiesta chicken burrito. The grand total....
$3.18.
The Taco Bell rule of thumb is that you should NOT spend more than 5 dollars per person. If three people roll up to the Taco Bell window and start screaming out their order, the total should not exceed 15 dollars, by my calculations. That same rule applies to you big ballers out there who are ordering the Mexican Pizza. (Which was my routine order for years...86 the olives please!)
Anyhow, this post was supposed to be about Martin Luther King Jr., but it's now in honor of Bridget. This blogger is still learning how to streamline a topic, but have patience, please.
So, back to the Taco Bell receipt at hand. I confirm that I did in fact use my debit card to pay, and my heavy taco bell diaper bag was indeed my last purchase. I theorize that I was in such a mad rush to squeal out of the drive thru and get the party, er, fiesta, started in my mouth that I forgot to retrieve my BofA card back from Taco Bell.
It's now lunch time and I wanted to run out and grab something to eat. (Grocery shopping's for pussies.) In need of some dinero - no, not you Robert - I bolted to my Bank of America around the corner only to be greeted by this sign.
CLOSED - In honor of Martin Luther King Jr. Day
MY first reaction: Damn, shit, fuck, I'm starving, I have no cash, how am I going to get a delicious thai lunch!?!
MY immediate CORRECTED reaction: MLK was the man!
Reality check: I know as an (above) average white man, I'm not technically allowed to refer to Martin Luther King Jr. as "the man". I, in fact, am the man. As in the white man. The oppressor. The status quot. The establishment. "Stick it to the man!"
You get the drift....
But before I was the MAN, I was a boy. And as a chubby little white boy growing up in Connecticut! - talk about white-washed - I worshiped Martin Luther King Jr. By forth grade I had moved to Florida and adopted Donatello as my new hero. (And yes, I'm talking the purple bandanna wearing Turtle prone to ninja moves, not the historic artist prone to sculpting.)
But in the third grade, MLK was my hero. I can vividly recall checking out all the MLK books from the library. I remember learning about him in class and grilling my teacher Mrs. Irwin on everything MLK related. (My nickname in that grade was QB...Question Box...oy!)I remember reading about him in our dusty collection of Encyclopedia Britanicas. The only topics I ever looked up in those things were dinosaurs, sex and Martin Luther King Jr. Isn't that what's on every boy's brain: Paleontology, Procreation and Progress? Social progress, that is.
One spring day, Mrs. Irwin announced a class project we would all participate in. We were to select a historical hero of our choice, come to school dressed up as him or her, and deliver a speech about your hero.
It should come as NO surprise that I was writing my speech on Martin Luther King Jr. before class had even ended. (Had this project been assigned a year earlier, I would have dressed up as Ernest from the Ernest Goes to Camp oeuvre.)
I powered through my essay on the great one.
Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream, and as a dreamer myself, I was ready to share his message of racial equality to my entire third grade class, every single one of us white. I was, in fact, preaching to "The Man" after all.
(I should have saved this speech for the following year, when I moved to Florida, and was in a more appropriately melting pot of whites, blacks, hispanics, asians, jocks and rednecks.)
The night before the big day, I recall reading my speech to my parents, who were by this point pretty accustomed to being held captive as an audience member to my written flights of fancy. (A couple years later I remember waking them up on a Sunday morning and forcing them to watch the inspired play I adapted from the film, My Cousin Vinny, which would have won a Tony in it's day, I swear! You should seen me as Marisa Tomei, taking the stand, er, sitting on my desk chair, flubbing my Jersey accent...but I should save that story for the Joe Pesci King Jr. day)
After approving my speech, we moved to the next critical phase of my presentation: WARDROBE! My mom pulled out my suit and tie, and dressed me up. I looked in the mirror. I was a chubby white kid in a suit. I was Brooks Brothers. I looked like I was doing my speech on Arthur Miller. I was NOT MLK Jr, not at all. Even then, I was a stickler for artistic integrity, and realized this boring hum drum suit was not achieving MY DREAM of getting into character! I remember telling my mom the materials I needed in order to achieve the full look of my costume. My mother took a backseat, and agreed to let me run the show. We formed our morning battle plan and I went to bed, while visions of black pride marches danced in my head.
The next morning was THE DAY! I ate my breakfast. I packed my backpack. I buttoned up my suit. I slicked back my hair. My mom put a black stocking on my head. We smeared black shoe polish all over my face and hands. I looked in the mirror and remember thinking, "Now THAT'S more like it." I was in full black face (and hands) and I probably looked more like a bank robber with the ridiculous stocking on my head, but hell, I felt full of pride as I left my house for school that morning. I never doubted the look for a second. If I was going to BE Martin Luther King Jr, I felt like I HAD to be different. I had to be black. And the only way I could get there was with some globby shoe polish. I had no idea that I was a walking minstrel show. I had no concept that this could be offensive. I was just a boy with a dream, and a speech tucked into my backpack.
The actual school day brings back NO memories.
I don't remember walking into class.
I don't remember the teacher or student reaction.
I don't remember how my speech went over.
My ONLY recollection of that day was LUNCH.
(INSERT FAT JOKE HERE)
I do recall I was making one helluva mess with my shoe polish hands, which had streaked my desk with black finger paintings. When lunch time came around, my teacher came over to me and expressed that they thought my costume was too messy to take into the cafeteria, and I had already made a mess of my desk.
She told me that she had set up a little lunch table in the closet, yes a CLOSET! (albiet a large supply walk in closet, but STILL!) She wanted me to eat my lunch in the closet - alone - by myself. She ushered me into the closet where she did in fact have a little table, a little chair and a little school lunch laid out for me. She told me I could out when I was finished, leaving the door open just a crack as she left me alone with my tray of pizza and corn (I don't remember the lunch, but I can only assume!)
At the time, I don't remember being upset or annoyed. I was accommodating.
I sat, alone, in the closet, with black shoe polish prints covering the crust of my pizza.
It would have made sense for me to just wash off my little paws before heading into the cafeteria with my class, but my teacher never once asked me to take off the makeup.
In retrospect, I'd like to think that my teacher was trying to teach me a lesson on segregation. I could dress up like MLK, I could write a speech on MLK, but until you've been ostracized from society due to the color of your skin, you could NEVER know what it felt like to be MLK, a man who made it his life's mission to fight racial prejudice and social injustice. Not to fight with violence, but with words, with marching, with song, with speech.
When faced with the closet, I didn't run. I didn't hide. I didn't take off my costume. I didn't rinse off my grubby hands. I didn't fight.
I was probably just starving and wanted to wolf down my slice o' pizza, but I like to think of myself as the person who accepted this lunchtime segregation not with violence, not with childish rebuttal, but in peaceful, starving protest.
Peace,
Brian
I searched my car.
I searched my room.
I searched my pockets, and all I found was a crumpled receipt.
I reviewed the receipt.
I ordered a chicken soft taco and a fiesta chicken burrito. The grand total....
$3.18.
The Taco Bell rule of thumb is that you should NOT spend more than 5 dollars per person. If three people roll up to the Taco Bell window and start screaming out their order, the total should not exceed 15 dollars, by my calculations. That same rule applies to you big ballers out there who are ordering the Mexican Pizza. (Which was my routine order for years...86 the olives please!)
Anyhow, this post was supposed to be about Martin Luther King Jr., but it's now in honor of Bridget. This blogger is still learning how to streamline a topic, but have patience, please.
So, back to the Taco Bell receipt at hand. I confirm that I did in fact use my debit card to pay, and my heavy taco bell diaper bag was indeed my last purchase. I theorize that I was in such a mad rush to squeal out of the drive thru and get the party, er, fiesta, started in my mouth that I forgot to retrieve my BofA card back from Taco Bell.
It's now lunch time and I wanted to run out and grab something to eat. (Grocery shopping's for pussies.) In need of some dinero - no, not you Robert - I bolted to my Bank of America around the corner only to be greeted by this sign.
CLOSED - In honor of Martin Luther King Jr. Day
MY first reaction: Damn, shit, fuck, I'm starving, I have no cash, how am I going to get a delicious thai lunch!?!
MY immediate CORRECTED reaction: MLK was the man!
Reality check: I know as an (above) average white man, I'm not technically allowed to refer to Martin Luther King Jr. as "the man". I, in fact, am the man. As in the white man. The oppressor. The status quot. The establishment. "Stick it to the man!"
You get the drift....
But before I was the MAN, I was a boy. And as a chubby little white boy growing up in Connecticut! - talk about white-washed - I worshiped Martin Luther King Jr. By forth grade I had moved to Florida and adopted Donatello as my new hero. (And yes, I'm talking the purple bandanna wearing Turtle prone to ninja moves, not the historic artist prone to sculpting.)
But in the third grade, MLK was my hero. I can vividly recall checking out all the MLK books from the library. I remember learning about him in class and grilling my teacher Mrs. Irwin on everything MLK related. (My nickname in that grade was QB...Question Box...oy!)I remember reading about him in our dusty collection of Encyclopedia Britanicas. The only topics I ever looked up in those things were dinosaurs, sex and Martin Luther King Jr. Isn't that what's on every boy's brain: Paleontology, Procreation and Progress? Social progress, that is.
One spring day, Mrs. Irwin announced a class project we would all participate in. We were to select a historical hero of our choice, come to school dressed up as him or her, and deliver a speech about your hero.
It should come as NO surprise that I was writing my speech on Martin Luther King Jr. before class had even ended. (Had this project been assigned a year earlier, I would have dressed up as Ernest from the Ernest Goes to Camp oeuvre.)
I powered through my essay on the great one.
Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream, and as a dreamer myself, I was ready to share his message of racial equality to my entire third grade class, every single one of us white. I was, in fact, preaching to "The Man" after all.
(I should have saved this speech for the following year, when I moved to Florida, and was in a more appropriately melting pot of whites, blacks, hispanics, asians, jocks and rednecks.)
The night before the big day, I recall reading my speech to my parents, who were by this point pretty accustomed to being held captive as an audience member to my written flights of fancy. (A couple years later I remember waking them up on a Sunday morning and forcing them to watch the inspired play I adapted from the film, My Cousin Vinny, which would have won a Tony in it's day, I swear! You should seen me as Marisa Tomei, taking the stand, er, sitting on my desk chair, flubbing my Jersey accent...but I should save that story for the Joe Pesci King Jr. day)
After approving my speech, we moved to the next critical phase of my presentation: WARDROBE! My mom pulled out my suit and tie, and dressed me up. I looked in the mirror. I was a chubby white kid in a suit. I was Brooks Brothers. I looked like I was doing my speech on Arthur Miller. I was NOT MLK Jr, not at all. Even then, I was a stickler for artistic integrity, and realized this boring hum drum suit was not achieving MY DREAM of getting into character! I remember telling my mom the materials I needed in order to achieve the full look of my costume. My mother took a backseat, and agreed to let me run the show. We formed our morning battle plan and I went to bed, while visions of black pride marches danced in my head.
The next morning was THE DAY! I ate my breakfast. I packed my backpack. I buttoned up my suit. I slicked back my hair. My mom put a black stocking on my head. We smeared black shoe polish all over my face and hands. I looked in the mirror and remember thinking, "Now THAT'S more like it." I was in full black face (and hands) and I probably looked more like a bank robber with the ridiculous stocking on my head, but hell, I felt full of pride as I left my house for school that morning. I never doubted the look for a second. If I was going to BE Martin Luther King Jr, I felt like I HAD to be different. I had to be black. And the only way I could get there was with some globby shoe polish. I had no idea that I was a walking minstrel show. I had no concept that this could be offensive. I was just a boy with a dream, and a speech tucked into my backpack.
The actual school day brings back NO memories.
I don't remember walking into class.
I don't remember the teacher or student reaction.
I don't remember how my speech went over.
My ONLY recollection of that day was LUNCH.
(INSERT FAT JOKE HERE)
I do recall I was making one helluva mess with my shoe polish hands, which had streaked my desk with black finger paintings. When lunch time came around, my teacher came over to me and expressed that they thought my costume was too messy to take into the cafeteria, and I had already made a mess of my desk.
She told me that she had set up a little lunch table in the closet, yes a CLOSET! (albiet a large supply walk in closet, but STILL!) She wanted me to eat my lunch in the closet - alone - by myself. She ushered me into the closet where she did in fact have a little table, a little chair and a little school lunch laid out for me. She told me I could out when I was finished, leaving the door open just a crack as she left me alone with my tray of pizza and corn (I don't remember the lunch, but I can only assume!)
At the time, I don't remember being upset or annoyed. I was accommodating.
I sat, alone, in the closet, with black shoe polish prints covering the crust of my pizza.
It would have made sense for me to just wash off my little paws before heading into the cafeteria with my class, but my teacher never once asked me to take off the makeup.
In retrospect, I'd like to think that my teacher was trying to teach me a lesson on segregation. I could dress up like MLK, I could write a speech on MLK, but until you've been ostracized from society due to the color of your skin, you could NEVER know what it felt like to be MLK, a man who made it his life's mission to fight racial prejudice and social injustice. Not to fight with violence, but with words, with marching, with song, with speech.
When faced with the closet, I didn't run. I didn't hide. I didn't take off my costume. I didn't rinse off my grubby hands. I didn't fight.
I was probably just starving and wanted to wolf down my slice o' pizza, but I like to think of myself as the person who accepted this lunchtime segregation not with violence, not with childish rebuttal, but in peaceful, starving protest.
Peace,
Brian
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Project Runway Commandment #11
Thou Shall Never Throw Thy Sweet Pea Under The Bus.
Go drape yourself Rami...
Go drape yourself Rami...
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Get Your Fix
My dear, dear friend (as my dad would say, but in his case it would be referring to a women he's met twice, but in my case it is my dear friend) who shall remain nameless, moonlights as the hostess (the fetching, feisty, fresh-faced hostess) at one of the hottest restaurants in Los Angeles. She emailed me at 1:00am after returning home from a late night shift. The email was a LOL-inducing account of her night where she encountered a number of A-list actors, including a famous power celesbian (her word, not mine). My friend may have been "foster"ing a crush on the actress, who was a true brave one based on her choice of partner. Seems like this Oscar winner's life mate could compete with Cynthia Nixon's St. Bernard, cough, girlfriend in a showdown between the pusty power partners who prefer pussy.
Oh hell no?!?!
More like, "Oh NELL No!"
The email was sent off to me at one in the morning, but I didn't get the email until I returned home twenty minutes later. I know what you're thinking, one of Brian's late night tricks, but no, no, you see I was up late, working the night away on my screenplay. Upon realizing I ran out of my writing fuel, I laced up my sneakers and headed out into the night. My typical late night run for my d.c. aka my diet coke (No offense Don Cheadle.) So, I raced out the door, crossed Hollywood Blvd, and walked right up to the 24 hour Rite Aid located around the block from me. (Who needs waterfront property when you've got all access to the Rite Aid!?!)
I headed directly to the refrigerated section in the back of the store, hell bent on picking up an ice cold case of diet coke. (I know, I'm so hardcore, watch out Winehouse!) Cut to me, crouched on the ground, the cold air blowing out of the cooler, my arms scrambling for the coldest case of diet coke, when I hear someone approaching. Moments later a dirty pair of motorcycle boots stomp up to me, stopping inches from my face. Wow...big boots!
The man tears open the door to the adjoining cooler, revealing the cases of beer he's rummaging through. The man's on a mission to find his brew. I can hear him scoffing and huffing. Dude is majorly agitated for sure. I find an ice cold case of diet coke and I cradle my bundle of joy in my arms and stand up from the floor, slamming the door behind me. The motorcycle man, alerted to my presence, momentarily stopped his manic booze hunt and turned to get a good look at me. We made eye contact....
Ladies and gentleman, I give you Danny Bonaduce...or should I say Bona-douche-e, because a) it's a play on words, and b) he looked like a douche.
I know he was on the Partridge family, but I never watched that show, preferring to watch the Walsh, Conner, hell, even the Tanner families instead. I know the Bonadouche from his douchey morning radio show in Los Angeles that I would sometimes catch, along with his his douchey appearances on VH1 reality shows and a really douchey publicity stunt at a C list award show where he appeared naked on the red carpet, covering himself with only a hat.
I've seen the uncensored picture form the red carpet where he dropped the hat and showed the full monty, once and for all proving that Danny is not only a natural douche, but he himself has a natural red carpet. Well, orange carpet to be exact.
[Here's the link to the picture. The doodle's courtesy of Perez Hilton. Look at your own risk, or better yet, don't!]
http://img.perezhilton.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/10/aabonaduce02__oPt.jpg
The man is roided up beyond all belief. He's jacked, ripped, diesel, whatever you wanna call it, he's it. But in no way is this an endorsement or an approval. The man looked so tweaked out of his gourd, his body pumped up to unhealthy and unnatural levels and if there ever was to be a movie made based on his face, it would be called Snakes on the Veins. The serious raised veins on his body seemed like they were trying to communicate with me. His veins were akin to a sick twisted version of braille, and if you were brave enough to run your hands over the veins they would spell out some of the world's greatest secrets. He's the walking, breathing Douche-Vinci Code. (Bad Brian, Bad!)
Whatever steriod cocktail Barry Bonds was sipping on, the Douche was downing pitchers of them, and twice as fast. Look, if you're going to be an annoying, douchey, roided out red-headed bottom feeding freak, at least be Carrot Top. Dude gets to stay at the Luxor...for free!
I admit, I'm being overly critical and obviously my own body issues/gym fatigue are coming to the surface and I'm taking it out on the Douche, but my body, for better or worse (and mine's the latter, for those keeping track) but for better or worse, my body's mine, and if I want to put shitty chemicals in my body, I'll chose something legal, like Diet Coke, thank you!
At the end of the day, Danny and I were evil twins, both of us bulging out of our t-shirts as we scoured the aisles of Rite Aids, scratching ourselves in withdrawl, desperate to find our drug of choice at a run down convenience store in the wee hours of Monday morning. The only difference between us is that my goal was to sufficiently caffeinate myself to a level in which I could stay up and write another three pages of dialogue even more rambling and meandering than this blog. (Can you imagine?)
His goal was to get a little pick me up because it was obvious the guy was coming down from a really good high, or in his case, a really sad high. Sad, because he's the cock-flashing, roided out Bonaduche.
So, back to the scene at hand, I'm secretly staring at the Bonadouche, scanning his outfit from head to toe, or should i say from hair (wet!) to boots (scuffed).
and yes, you read that right, wet hair.
...Brian, get away...
I ESCAPE.
I RUN to the cashier.
I AVOID the SNAX that are calling my name. (No Kit Kat, NO!)
I HEAR his boots approach.
I FORK over my cash.
I FEEL his presence behind me.
I GRAB my fridge pack of Diet Coke.
I HEAR him twitching/tweaking. I HEAR his veins.
I HAVE to get a look at what he's buying.
I MUST see what he's purchasing. I'm intrigued.
I TURN around.
I SPY his purchase.
(in spite of this) I KEEP MY SHIT TOGETHER.
I exit the store, walking back home in the darkness, smiling to myself.
I get home, I flip open my laptop, I read the hilarious email my friend sent me, I LOL at her celebrity encounters.
And that's when I was forced to ask myself the tough question: Who's got the better story in the celebrity showdown. On one hand you have an Oscar winner demanding more Pelligrino on the other hand you have a D-list Former TV/Current Reality TV Star buying a case of Mike's Hard Lemonade.
Yes, THAT Mike's Hard Lemonade.
What a douche!
Peace, Love and Rite Aid Snax,
Brian
Friday, January 11, 2008
My Special Girl
D-listed reports
**************
Talk about bad timing!
Actress Courtney Thorne Smith gave birth to a baby boy today.
She named him Jacob ‘Jake’ Emerson Fishman.
Ok, now back to Xtina and Nicole!
**************
Ok, well, sure Courtney Thorne Smith's delivery from the stork may not be Jennifer Lopez caliber baby news, but that's some stiff competition. (She's only in her second trimester and I feel like I've already seen the headline for J. Lo & Behold: Lopez Welcomes Twinsies!) And I really doubt if little Jacob Emerson Fishman is ever going to rival baby Kingston in the cutie department, but when has Ms. Thorne Smith's style ever been compared to that of Gwen Stefani's. Courtney may have made a sweet escape away from the celebrity limelight, but none of the famous mothers to be (that means you Halle! listen up Nicole!) none of these so called A-listers have put in more valuable face time than Courtney has this year.
Other's may have Oscars, Vanity Fair hollywood issue prime placement and the best table in the house at Mr. Chow, but none have landed the cover of the breakfast touchstone of the dieting community.
Thanks for the morning facetime CTS.
P.S. The only real project that Courtney ever stood out it, IMHO, was her stellar, subtle, refined work in the Mark Harmon vehicle, Summer School. Damn, everytime Court's character daydreamed in class I was always feeling her pain, as she stood trapped in the oppresive school, always staring out the window, her head miles away at the beach, imaging herself riding out some killer wave. Ride it out girl, ride it out...
**************
Talk about bad timing!
Actress Courtney Thorne Smith gave birth to a baby boy today.
She named him Jacob ‘Jake’ Emerson Fishman.
Ok, now back to Xtina and Nicole!
**************
Ok, well, sure Courtney Thorne Smith's delivery from the stork may not be Jennifer Lopez caliber baby news, but that's some stiff competition. (She's only in her second trimester and I feel like I've already seen the headline for J. Lo & Behold: Lopez Welcomes Twinsies!) And I really doubt if little Jacob Emerson Fishman is ever going to rival baby Kingston in the cutie department, but when has Ms. Thorne Smith's style ever been compared to that of Gwen Stefani's. Courtney may have made a sweet escape away from the celebrity limelight, but none of the famous mothers to be (that means you Halle! listen up Nicole!) none of these so called A-listers have put in more valuable face time than Courtney has this year.
Other's may have Oscars, Vanity Fair hollywood issue prime placement and the best table in the house at Mr. Chow, but none have landed the cover of the breakfast touchstone of the dieting community.
Thanks for the morning facetime CTS.
P.S. The only real project that Courtney ever stood out it, IMHO, was her stellar, subtle, refined work in the Mark Harmon vehicle, Summer School. Damn, everytime Court's character daydreamed in class I was always feeling her pain, as she stood trapped in the oppresive school, always staring out the window, her head miles away at the beach, imaging herself riding out some killer wave. Ride it out girl, ride it out...
Thursday, January 10, 2008
I'm A (Workout) Slave for U
So, earlier today I was driving to the gym, en route to wail away on my pecs (jealous?) when out of the blue I spotted the madness.
The shouting.
The screaming.
The vague foreign accents.
The rat-at-tat clicking of the cameras.
The Paparazzi!
And we're not talking about a trio of lurking pervs with cameras...
I'm talking PAPARAZZI worthy of the one, the only....
Yes, Britney.
Now, I didn't jump to this conclusion judging from the sheer chaos of the scene before me, I jumped to my conclusion based on the location of the scene...
Starbucks.
Does Britney like her Starbucks!??!?!
Like, Duh!!!!
SCUZZY PARASITES WITH CAMERAS + SUGARY FRAPPAHELLYEAHS ='s BRITNEY?
Looking at the insanity to my left, I followed my first natural instant and immediately slammed on the brakes. My heart was steering the wheel, but my head trying to interrupt me the entire time: "Go to the gym, Brian, leave the poor girl alone!"
But my heart had different ideas: "Shut The Fuck Up Head...You Gotta See This Mess For Yourself!"
I finally got a clear view of the parking lot I was heading into, and never in my life have I seen this kind of frenzied mob, it was a goddamn madhouse, I swore I saw a dancing bear in the midst of it all....
So, I'm sailing into the parking lot via the exit only lane, and suddenly they spy me and a couple of them start screaming at me. "THEM" being the paparazzi, or as I call them after my personal run in, THE PAPS.
So, the Paps are getting hysterical and a few of them scream at ME in vague foreign accents, for pulling in through the exit lane.
WRONG WAY, WRONG WAY!
EXIT ONLY, READ THE DAMN SIGN!
Lord, what a fucking oversensitive bunch. When did they get all high and mighting for following the rules?!!?
Have you ever noticed how incensed they get when they scream things at the celebrities, even if it's about the most mundane act. Picture it: Lohan's leaving the hospital (for dehydration, hardy har har) and while running to her car she happens to drop her pen, and suddenly they (the PAPS) start shaking with uncontrolled, unhealthy, unnerving energy and scream out:
"Lohan, you dropped the pen.
Your pen.
THE PEN MY CHILD,
YOU DROPPED IT,
THE PENNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!"
(Back to Reality)
In MY own uncontrolled, unhealthy, unnerving impulse, I pulled into a pretty decent spot in the middle of the parking lot of hell.
Confession: At that moment I was honestly disgusted with myself based on the fact that I willingly, dangerously (the lid to my diet coke was unscrewed!) and deliberatly was throwing myself into the world that has contributed to (and in my opinion) enabled the demise of Britney Spears. A demise that is gleefully being featured on a weekly basis by an industry with the most artistic integrity...the tabloids! I'd say look for yourself, but how can you not?!
So, I'm in the parking lot, I've braked and before I can open my door handle, I take a quick glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.
.
..
...
....
Ewwwwww!
Honestly, I looked freaking sicccccck. Before I jumped in my car to head to the gym, I had taken the dogs I'm dogsitting for on a walk around the block. (Where I spotted Jenny...from the block...and for what it's worth I was fooled by her rocks.) Anyhow, the walk unfortunately led to me stepping in dog shit (symbolic for my later with the shitty paparazzi? hmmmmmm....) Dog-shit-stepping-in led to a sneaker hose down in the backyard, which led to me getting totally drenchd. (The hose had a totally gnarly spray, the nozzle dangerously dialed to some powerful turbo mode.)
So, I'm sitting in the car, I haven't even worked out yet, but I already look like Whitney three songs into a concert...aka dripping wet! (How dated was that diss?)
When I turned on the hose, it jerked rapidly and my head bore the brunt of the spray as evidenced by my hair, matted to my skull as if I had just dipped my hand into a jar of green Depp gel and slapped my forehead as hard as I could. Unflattering? Yes!
Also of note: I got the sneakers pretty clean, but there is an off chance that some leftover canine excrement (dogshit) was still stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
My hand still hovering on the door handle, my eyes transfixed on my soppy, sad, saggy grey workout gear, my sneaks quite possibly reaking of crap, I had to ask myself:
"Brian, do you really want to barge into the Starbucks just to get a glimpse of a woman (girl) who is suffering from a drug problem or a legitimate mental disorder?"
I answered, quickly: YES!
I had to ask the immediate followup:
"Brian, do you really want to get caught in the background of a blurry Britney paparazzi shot looking like you just emerged from the the fountain located in front of the Starbucks?!
I answered, quickly: NO!
You see folks, it's called personal dignity!
It's called respect. R-E-S-P -you get the idea....
I started up my car, I buckled up, I pressed on, heading for the exit lane, this time with the intention of exiting. As I passed the Starbucks entrance which was the center of attention for all the paparazzi's lenses, I slowed down, as if passing a bad accident on the highway, which I kind of was. I strained my head out the window as I circled around the Starbucks, still secretly hoping I might spy a hand cupped to her mouth or a whisp of her matted hair extensions?!
No such luck.
So I exited.
I held my head up high, basking in the pride I felt for not giving in to my sick, scary impluse.
I drove to the gym.
I wailed on my pecs.
The whole time thinking...
Britney, was that you!?!
Peace, Love & Snax Me Baby One More Time,
Brian
The shouting.
The screaming.
The vague foreign accents.
The rat-at-tat clicking of the cameras.
The Paparazzi!
And we're not talking about a trio of lurking pervs with cameras...
I'm talking PAPARAZZI worthy of the one, the only....
Yes, Britney.
Now, I didn't jump to this conclusion judging from the sheer chaos of the scene before me, I jumped to my conclusion based on the location of the scene...
Starbucks.
Does Britney like her Starbucks!??!?!
Like, Duh!!!!
SCUZZY PARASITES WITH CAMERAS + SUGARY FRAPPAHELLYEAHS ='s BRITNEY?
Looking at the insanity to my left, I followed my first natural instant and immediately slammed on the brakes. My heart was steering the wheel, but my head trying to interrupt me the entire time: "Go to the gym, Brian, leave the poor girl alone!"
But my heart had different ideas: "Shut The Fuck Up Head...You Gotta See This Mess For Yourself!"
I finally got a clear view of the parking lot I was heading into, and never in my life have I seen this kind of frenzied mob, it was a goddamn madhouse, I swore I saw a dancing bear in the midst of it all....
So, I'm sailing into the parking lot via the exit only lane, and suddenly they spy me and a couple of them start screaming at me. "THEM" being the paparazzi, or as I call them after my personal run in, THE PAPS.
So, the Paps are getting hysterical and a few of them scream at ME in vague foreign accents, for pulling in through the exit lane.
WRONG WAY, WRONG WAY!
EXIT ONLY, READ THE DAMN SIGN!
Lord, what a fucking oversensitive bunch. When did they get all high and mighting for following the rules?!!?
Have you ever noticed how incensed they get when they scream things at the celebrities, even if it's about the most mundane act. Picture it: Lohan's leaving the hospital (for dehydration, hardy har har) and while running to her car she happens to drop her pen, and suddenly they (the PAPS) start shaking with uncontrolled, unhealthy, unnerving energy and scream out:
"Lohan, you dropped the pen.
Your pen.
THE PEN MY CHILD,
YOU DROPPED IT,
THE PENNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!"
(Back to Reality)
In MY own uncontrolled, unhealthy, unnerving impulse, I pulled into a pretty decent spot in the middle of the parking lot of hell.
Confession: At that moment I was honestly disgusted with myself based on the fact that I willingly, dangerously (the lid to my diet coke was unscrewed!) and deliberatly was throwing myself into the world that has contributed to (and in my opinion) enabled the demise of Britney Spears. A demise that is gleefully being featured on a weekly basis by an industry with the most artistic integrity...the tabloids! I'd say look for yourself, but how can you not?!
So, I'm in the parking lot, I've braked and before I can open my door handle, I take a quick glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.
.
..
...
....
Ewwwwww!
Honestly, I looked freaking sicccccck. Before I jumped in my car to head to the gym, I had taken the dogs I'm dogsitting for on a walk around the block. (Where I spotted Jenny...from the block...and for what it's worth I was fooled by her rocks.) Anyhow, the walk unfortunately led to me stepping in dog shit (symbolic for my later with the shitty paparazzi? hmmmmmm....) Dog-shit-stepping-in led to a sneaker hose down in the backyard, which led to me getting totally drenchd. (The hose had a totally gnarly spray, the nozzle dangerously dialed to some powerful turbo mode.)
So, I'm sitting in the car, I haven't even worked out yet, but I already look like Whitney three songs into a concert...aka dripping wet! (How dated was that diss?)
When I turned on the hose, it jerked rapidly and my head bore the brunt of the spray as evidenced by my hair, matted to my skull as if I had just dipped my hand into a jar of green Depp gel and slapped my forehead as hard as I could. Unflattering? Yes!
Also of note: I got the sneakers pretty clean, but there is an off chance that some leftover canine excrement (dogshit) was still stuck to the bottom of my shoe.
My hand still hovering on the door handle, my eyes transfixed on my soppy, sad, saggy grey workout gear, my sneaks quite possibly reaking of crap, I had to ask myself:
"Brian, do you really want to barge into the Starbucks just to get a glimpse of a woman (girl) who is suffering from a drug problem or a legitimate mental disorder?"
I answered, quickly: YES!
I had to ask the immediate followup:
"Brian, do you really want to get caught in the background of a blurry Britney paparazzi shot looking like you just emerged from the the fountain located in front of the Starbucks?!
I answered, quickly: NO!
You see folks, it's called personal dignity!
It's called respect. R-E-S-P -you get the idea....
I started up my car, I buckled up, I pressed on, heading for the exit lane, this time with the intention of exiting. As I passed the Starbucks entrance which was the center of attention for all the paparazzi's lenses, I slowed down, as if passing a bad accident on the highway, which I kind of was. I strained my head out the window as I circled around the Starbucks, still secretly hoping I might spy a hand cupped to her mouth or a whisp of her matted hair extensions?!
No such luck.
So I exited.
I held my head up high, basking in the pride I felt for not giving in to my sick, scary impluse.
I drove to the gym.
I wailed on my pecs.
The whole time thinking...
Britney, was that you!?!
Peace, Love & Snax Me Baby One More Time,
Brian
Friday, January 4, 2008
The Man Who Would Be (Burger) King
Huckabee, Obama enjoy huge night in Iowa.
DES MOINES, Iowa (CNN) -- Barack Obama and Mike Huckabee have claimed victories in Iowa's first-in-the-nation caucuses.
With all Democratic precincts reporting, Obama had the support of 38 percent of voters, compared to 30 percent for John Edwards and 29 percent for Hillary Clinton.
With 92 percent of Republican precincts reporting, Huckabee, former governor of Arkansas, had the support of 34 percent of voters, compared to 25 percent for Romney.
Okay, timeout! So suppose, for just a moment, that the primary ballots cast by the good, decent people of Iowa (can I get a Muscatine shout out?!?) are reflective of our country as a whole, and that this year's upcoming presidential election will feature a showdown between Obama and Huckabee.
You with me here?
Obama vs. Huckabee....Who's it gonna be?
The answer is simple, and you don't need to look at each candidate's voting history or campaign promises to figure it out. It's all on the surface. Just open your eyes and look.
That's what we do, isn't it?! People are talking, but who's really listening? We bloggers don't listen, we judge. We pin point and criticize. We throw a verbal dart. We gossip. We snark. We pfffffffft. We zoom in. We pffffffffft some more. We don't want to here what's being said if we don't like to look at where it's coming from. (Look at all the hatred spewed on Rosie.)
Take a minute and imagine 5 hungry and broke teenagers squished into a Chevy Prizm and ask them to collectively agree upon which fast food drive thru they're gonna hit up for some late night snax. If all five started shouting out their preferences "In & Out!" "Carls Jr!" I guarantee that the request being screamed from the heinous, sweaty beast who's cramped in the backseat will be ignored. He's the guy hiding behind a stained hood, pulled up to cover his matted, greasy hair, he's the guy who's already passing gas in the backseat with the windows locked up even BEFORE he's downed the white castle he's craving, he's the guy who's still got a bit of ranch dressing caked under his fingernails from last night's binge...that utter slob of a man is NOT going to be the first person you're listening to.
Now, if you're the tall, attractive, guy in the driver's seat it's another story. We're talking about the guy who's saying the right thing, the guy who's doing the right things, but making it look cool, most importantly, he's the guy that has the look, not a look, THE look, a look you want to get behind. Now, I can guarantee you that once THAT guy (the guy!) makes a bold stand for something different, something new, something that serves their sandwiches toasted, once he takes a stand behind it, promises it's greatness and offers to drive them there, I believe everyone in the car is suddenly more than happy to stuff a Classic Italian Quizno into their mouths.
For better or worse, we can be a nation that focuses on what "IT" looks like, verses what does "IT" stand for. Today's top story on CNN.com was not the Iowa results, or even about the woman stranded in the elevator for two days (dumb bitch) it was the story documenting Britney's midnight joyride to Cedars Sinai in the back of an ambulance. Or as she was calling it, the Whambulance because Brit Brit's so sad these days :( I hear her weave had scabies and the fire department was called to the house to give a court ordered deep-pressure hosing to the infected weave. See, even I'm getting sucked in here. Which is my point exactly. As a country, we'd rather watch streaming paparazzi footage of a Starbucks swigging sad sack of a "singer" (she wishes) then follow the electoral process that will usher in a new leader who we are counting on to change our global image now than ever.
And the person that's going to benefit the most from our superficial on the surface society....
He's the good looking guy in the driver's seat offering to drive us to Quiznos...
Yes,
OBAMA!
Because at the end of the day, we have to watch the first family for the next 4-8 years of our lives, and honestly, which one's going to be easier to stomach?!
And yes, keyword is stomach. Runner up keyword: stripes?!?!
VS
When I close my eyes and imagine the idea of the "presidency", I am flooded by iconic, almost untouchable images. George Washington crossing the Delaware, Abraham Lincoln's monument towering above the reflective pool of water in our nation's capital, JFK and Jackie O waving to the masses, teeth and hair healthy and beaming.
When thinking of presidential majesty, I do not imagine the family sitting across from me at the Golden Corral, as they load their all you can eat buffet plates (with refillable beverage of choice for only $8.99) with fried country fried steak fried chicken steaks and steamy piles of steamed shrimp, which they will proceed to peel and complain how the slippery lil suckers (anyone?) aren't juicy enough. Now, I wanted this blog to stay politically neutral, non-partisan snax in the city, but by golly, I'm taking a stand and I hereby pronounce that I'm hope the next time CNN reports that Huckabee enjoyed a Huge Night in Iowa, it's at the local Waffle House with a quivering tower of silver dollars piled on his plate! This guy's the chunk wedged in the backseat of the Chevy, screaming about his disgusting cravings, wanting us to give in to his weaknesses, I'm not listening. Someone put a piece of bread in his mouth.
On the flip side, I'm not saying that Obama has the picture perfect portrait. The black and white decision is way too strategic. The Huckabees may have looked like the Pitt-Jolie clan if they chose a flattering black and white theme over their color-coordinated stripe disaster. Moving on, I also take issue with Michelle Obama. For starters, she's smuggling god knows what in those cheeks of hers, and she's almost taunting me with her puckered lock down of a smile. I look at the picture and want to ask her "Whatchu got hiding in those cheeks, Shelly?!" But she does not answer. She instead chooses to taunt me in the photo and I suddenly can hear Brittney Murphy from that damned Michael Douglas movie where she plays a locked up crazy with a secret, and her voice is suddenly Michelle Obama's voice and it answers my query with an annoying "I'll never tellllllll......"
In summation....
Our candidates need to inspire our nation to reach for something grander, to reach for something greater, not to reach for something extra mayo-ey. The only inspiration I get from the Huckabee card is inspiration to pitch a new reality show to NBC while the writers are still on strike, it's called The Biggest Loser: Commander in Chief Edition!
Peace, Love & Huckabee family sized super Snax for all,
Brian
DES MOINES, Iowa (CNN) -- Barack Obama and Mike Huckabee have claimed victories in Iowa's first-in-the-nation caucuses.
With all Democratic precincts reporting, Obama had the support of 38 percent of voters, compared to 30 percent for John Edwards and 29 percent for Hillary Clinton.
With 92 percent of Republican precincts reporting, Huckabee, former governor of Arkansas, had the support of 34 percent of voters, compared to 25 percent for Romney.
Okay, timeout! So suppose, for just a moment, that the primary ballots cast by the good, decent people of Iowa (can I get a Muscatine shout out?!?) are reflective of our country as a whole, and that this year's upcoming presidential election will feature a showdown between Obama and Huckabee.
You with me here?
Obama vs. Huckabee....Who's it gonna be?
The answer is simple, and you don't need to look at each candidate's voting history or campaign promises to figure it out. It's all on the surface. Just open your eyes and look.
That's what we do, isn't it?! People are talking, but who's really listening? We bloggers don't listen, we judge. We pin point and criticize. We throw a verbal dart. We gossip. We snark. We pfffffffft. We zoom in. We pffffffffft some more. We don't want to here what's being said if we don't like to look at where it's coming from. (Look at all the hatred spewed on Rosie.)
Take a minute and imagine 5 hungry and broke teenagers squished into a Chevy Prizm and ask them to collectively agree upon which fast food drive thru they're gonna hit up for some late night snax. If all five started shouting out their preferences "In & Out!" "Carls Jr!" I guarantee that the request being screamed from the heinous, sweaty beast who's cramped in the backseat will be ignored. He's the guy hiding behind a stained hood, pulled up to cover his matted, greasy hair, he's the guy who's already passing gas in the backseat with the windows locked up even BEFORE he's downed the white castle he's craving, he's the guy who's still got a bit of ranch dressing caked under his fingernails from last night's binge...that utter slob of a man is NOT going to be the first person you're listening to.
Now, if you're the tall, attractive, guy in the driver's seat it's another story. We're talking about the guy who's saying the right thing, the guy who's doing the right things, but making it look cool, most importantly, he's the guy that has the look, not a look, THE look, a look you want to get behind. Now, I can guarantee you that once THAT guy (the guy!) makes a bold stand for something different, something new, something that serves their sandwiches toasted, once he takes a stand behind it, promises it's greatness and offers to drive them there, I believe everyone in the car is suddenly more than happy to stuff a Classic Italian Quizno into their mouths.
For better or worse, we can be a nation that focuses on what "IT" looks like, verses what does "IT" stand for. Today's top story on CNN.com was not the Iowa results, or even about the woman stranded in the elevator for two days (dumb bitch) it was the story documenting Britney's midnight joyride to Cedars Sinai in the back of an ambulance. Or as she was calling it, the Whambulance because Brit Brit's so sad these days :( I hear her weave had scabies and the fire department was called to the house to give a court ordered deep-pressure hosing to the infected weave. See, even I'm getting sucked in here. Which is my point exactly. As a country, we'd rather watch streaming paparazzi footage of a Starbucks swigging sad sack of a "singer" (she wishes) then follow the electoral process that will usher in a new leader who we are counting on to change our global image now than ever.
And the person that's going to benefit the most from our superficial on the surface society....
He's the good looking guy in the driver's seat offering to drive us to Quiznos...
Yes,
OBAMA!
Because at the end of the day, we have to watch the first family for the next 4-8 years of our lives, and honestly, which one's going to be easier to stomach?!
And yes, keyword is stomach. Runner up keyword: stripes?!?!
VS
When I close my eyes and imagine the idea of the "presidency", I am flooded by iconic, almost untouchable images. George Washington crossing the Delaware, Abraham Lincoln's monument towering above the reflective pool of water in our nation's capital, JFK and Jackie O waving to the masses, teeth and hair healthy and beaming.
When thinking of presidential majesty, I do not imagine the family sitting across from me at the Golden Corral, as they load their all you can eat buffet plates (with refillable beverage of choice for only $8.99) with fried country fried steak fried chicken steaks and steamy piles of steamed shrimp, which they will proceed to peel and complain how the slippery lil suckers (anyone?) aren't juicy enough. Now, I wanted this blog to stay politically neutral, non-partisan snax in the city, but by golly, I'm taking a stand and I hereby pronounce that I'm hope the next time CNN reports that Huckabee enjoyed a Huge Night in Iowa, it's at the local Waffle House with a quivering tower of silver dollars piled on his plate! This guy's the chunk wedged in the backseat of the Chevy, screaming about his disgusting cravings, wanting us to give in to his weaknesses, I'm not listening. Someone put a piece of bread in his mouth.
On the flip side, I'm not saying that Obama has the picture perfect portrait. The black and white decision is way too strategic. The Huckabees may have looked like the Pitt-Jolie clan if they chose a flattering black and white theme over their color-coordinated stripe disaster. Moving on, I also take issue with Michelle Obama. For starters, she's smuggling god knows what in those cheeks of hers, and she's almost taunting me with her puckered lock down of a smile. I look at the picture and want to ask her "Whatchu got hiding in those cheeks, Shelly?!" But she does not answer. She instead chooses to taunt me in the photo and I suddenly can hear Brittney Murphy from that damned Michael Douglas movie where she plays a locked up crazy with a secret, and her voice is suddenly Michelle Obama's voice and it answers my query with an annoying "I'll never tellllllll......"
In summation....
Our candidates need to inspire our nation to reach for something grander, to reach for something greater, not to reach for something extra mayo-ey. The only inspiration I get from the Huckabee card is inspiration to pitch a new reality show to NBC while the writers are still on strike, it's called The Biggest Loser: Commander in Chief Edition!
Peace, Love & Huckabee family sized super Snax for all,
Brian
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
Nu Yeerz Yo
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' auld lang syne
Merry New Years to everyone! I was able to ring a ding ding in the New Year back home in Los Angeles, and if you're suffering an anti-climatic new years boredom you may click on my moist and meaty mug in the picture above to check out my New Year's Eve photo album. Most include my annoying, posing mug, others feature annoying, posing mugs of drunken friends and drunken strangers, some, in fact, feature the non-annoying mug of the deaf girl from weeds, who is an amazing actress, and who happens to be both a drunken stranger and now a drunken friend.
I am now in desperate need to learn the sign language translation for "You're the life of the party" and while I'm at it "Girl, you're losing your top!"
I'm not going to post an obligatory blog about my whiny New Year's resolutions (1) Try to learn dark magic in order to metamorph myself into a tiny person/creature (2) try to read the entire newspaper [that means you Business section] not just dive into the Arts & Entertainment section and leave the leftover messy pile of paper as a means to mop up spills (3) learn that bottled water is your friend, not your foe. (4) Try to write something meaningful, first step being to abandon this blog (I've left like 4 posts and I so want to quit you, already. Abandonment issues much!?!?)
Instead, I'm giving you a resolution to watch this video I'm posting below...the whole thing...it will change your life...near...far...wherever you are!
Peace, Love and Healthier Snacks for a New Year,
Brian
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' auld lang syne
Merry New Years to everyone! I was able to ring a ding ding in the New Year back home in Los Angeles, and if you're suffering an anti-climatic new years boredom you may click on my moist and meaty mug in the picture above to check out my New Year's Eve photo album. Most include my annoying, posing mug, others feature annoying, posing mugs of drunken friends and drunken strangers, some, in fact, feature the non-annoying mug of the deaf girl from weeds, who is an amazing actress, and who happens to be both a drunken stranger and now a drunken friend.
I am now in desperate need to learn the sign language translation for "You're the life of the party" and while I'm at it "Girl, you're losing your top!"
I'm not going to post an obligatory blog about my whiny New Year's resolutions (1) Try to learn dark magic in order to metamorph myself into a tiny person/creature (2) try to read the entire newspaper [that means you Business section] not just dive into the Arts & Entertainment section and leave the leftover messy pile of paper as a means to mop up spills (3) learn that bottled water is your friend, not your foe. (4) Try to write something meaningful, first step being to abandon this blog (I've left like 4 posts and I so want to quit you, already. Abandonment issues much!?!?)
Instead, I'm giving you a resolution to watch this video I'm posting below...the whole thing...it will change your life...near...far...wherever you are!
Peace, Love and Healthier Snacks for a New Year,
Brian
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
