Snax In The City

Counting Down

2008-10-31T12:51:00.000-07:00

I apologize to any of my readers (all 6 of you) who've been craving "Snax" these past 8 months. I've let you down. I disappointed you. I abandoned ship. I deprived you of juicy morsels from my life, and at this point you should tell me to take my "Snax" and choke on them.

Well, my friends (not in a McCain kinda way...I actually mean it) I'm swallowing my pride and attempting to resurrect my presence in the blogosphere. This was all motivated by a new change in my life that I feel selfish depriving you of.

I've been carrying a secret around for a long time, and in the interest of full disclosure, I feel the need to come out...and admit the truth.

I joined Weight Watchers.

And you guys, it's no fucking joke.

You think rehab's rough?!?
You think a break up's traumatic?!?
You think a strap on is painful?!

You haven't experienced SHIT until you've sat through the Upper West Side Weight Watchers meeting on 73rd and Broadway. Ellen's the team leader, and she rules that meeting with an iron fist!

She will tear out your throat if you accidentally utter the phrase "i'm on a diet"

She will force you to call out a family member on thanksgiving if they tell you to "treat yourself...you'll go back on the diet tomorrow."

She literally made me swear I would call that family member out as a saboteur, and pointedly ask them, "do you want me to fail?!?"

yes, i even considered saying it...

DO YOU WANT ME TO FAIL?

:)

Anyways. I've been counting points...

I'm down a couple of snax...

and am struggling to safely snack in the city!

Peace, Love and Sensible Snax,
Brian

Woof

2008-03-12T22:07:00.000-07:00

Damn, this picture ain't helping my argument!!!!!

One word: milquetoast...

(i lie...seven more words: Her sensible sweater wraps it up, literally!

Give A Dog A Bone

2008-03-03T21:05:00.001-08:00

...give me your commentary on this breaking entertainment "news" story...

(FROM VARIETY) – Grey's Anatomy star Eric Dane has joined Jennifer Aniston, Owen Wilson, and Alan Arkin in Marley & Me, Fox 2000's adaptation of John Grogan's bestselling memoir. David Frankel (The Devil Wears Prada) is directing the movie, about an ambitious reporter (Wilson) who moves with his wife (Aniston) to Miami for a newspaper job and decides to adopt a puppy before starting a family. The dog, Marley, starts out as a cute, little Lab puppy but grows up to be quite a handful, barreling through their home, eating everything in sight, and even getting booted out of obedience school. Dane plays the reporter's best friend, who helps talk him into getting the dog. Shooting starts this month. The last feature projects for Dane, who plays Dr. Mark ''McSteamy'' Sloan on Grey's, were 2006's X-Men: The Last Stand and Open Water 2: Adrift. (Variety)

You better leave the room Team Aniston, current members: 3, because this seems like another empty Jennifer Aniston non-role to me. Aniston needs to be really careful about her public image, and I think she needs to get more strategic. Angelina is a globe-trotting, do-gooding, iraqi-storming, indie spirit nominated actress who moonlights as a heavenly vessel, who will soon bear forth the human messiah that is growing in her immaculate billy bob-free womb....all this while Aniston is signing up to play mother to a dog!

a dog!

named Marley.

sick!

Owen has an attempted-suicide get out of jail free card on this one, so you know all the blame's gonna fall on Aniston here.

Give a dog a bone, er, give that dog a break!

Alan Arkin be warned!!!!!!

Now, I'm hoping this blog post can turn into a discussion forum. Let's discuss in the comments below.

Peace, Love & E freaks,
Brian

p.s. Anyone got a plastic bag for her?

The Superbowl

2008-02-24T13:06:00.000-08:00

Or more accurately, The Gay Superbowl, as the Oscars have become known as. And as silly and ridiculous as that nickname is (seriously, what's a Gay Superbowl without nominations for John Travolta, Hillary Swank and Zac Efron?!) there is an small element of truth to it, because I woke up this morning with a ravenous craving for chicken wings, pizza and everything and anything related to the word queso.

You see, this year I was deprived of the Superbowl, the real Superbowl, the Straight Superbowl. Not that I gave a shit about missing all those first, second or even third downs, but I did miss the all American Superbowl tradition of gorging on a hodgepodge of fried disasters and artery cloggers, be it dips (onion, spinach) chips (bbq, sour cream, tortilla) and chicks (wings, fingers, breasts.)

This past Superbowl Sunday, I was sitting in Jackie's living room, eating a meal she made me of carrots, hummus, veggie patties and sprouts when she announced to me that the Giants won the Superbowl. (She found out via text.) The healthy meal I consumed that day was delicious, but I realized upon consuming the nutritious plate of greens, I committed a crime. Eating sprouts on superbowl sunday is a major faux paus. It's like a good Christian gorging on a Friday night dinner of Rump Roast during Lent. Like a good Jew downing non kosher Francis Ford Coppola wine on Passover. It's like vegan pariah Alicia Silverstone skinning a live bear and rocking it's fur coat for the Oscars. BLASPHEMY!

Well, today I make up for it. Today is Oscar Sunday...and if my refrigerator says anything, it confirms it is indeed the Superbowl.

And now that I've covered the pregame, let's move on to the game itself!

I am proud to present SNAX & THE CITY'S FIRST ANNUAL OSCAR PICKS!

Now, in the last few years, I've made it my solemn mission to screen every nominee in the main categories (Best Picture, Actress, Actor, Supporting Actress, Supporting Actor, Director, Adapted Screenplay, Original Screenplay)

I'm the first to admit that every single year I've failed in this goal. There is always that one film or performance that I just couldn't find the motivation to see. Be it Charlize Theron in North Country (you're dirty, you're in a mine, you're blue collar...you're a dirty, mining, blue collar serious actress, I get it already!) or Peter O'Toole in Venus (insert snarky Peter O'Toole joke here, I can't think of any!)

This year, I am proud to report I have accomplished my goal for the first time. Well, almost. The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford is stilllll playing on my DVD player as I write this blog. The pace/length of the film is directly proportionate to the neverending title of the film. (Where's The Englishmen Who Went Up A Hill But Came Down A Mountain when you need it...) If I end my Oscar picks with Best Supporting Actor category, it's only because I'm trying to give Casey Affleck his fair shot at earning my support in his category. (You're welcome Casey!)

So, I've seen the movies, I've let them sink in, so let's get to the nominees. Now, I'm not going to list who I think is going to win, there are a million other blogs for that and the expected wins seems pretty uniform this year. (No Country, Daniel Day, Christie, Javier, Cate, Diablo Cody, etc.) Besides, there aren't many categories that are a true toss up (other than best supporting Actress. Cate better watch out because Ruby Dee's stock's on the rise. For those who saw her ponderous speech at the SAG awards, I pray that Ruby Dee is a Ruby Don't!)

I may have a BFA in Film, but I'm no film critic. That just means I got to write papers on the mis-en-scene in Die Hard. If you want real, critical film analysis, head on over to my friend Tom's Back Row Manfiesto (http://blogs.indiewire.com/twhalliii/) where he goes beyond waxing poetic on films, he actually buffs and polishes them to their inner most truths. I, on the other hand, am just going to give you some random Brian commentary, pick who I want to win, and send you merry folk on your merry way....

BEST PICTURE

ATONEMENT - Otherwise known as "A Mole Through The Ages", as Bridget so spectacularly called it. Look, there are a lot of Atonement haters out there, and I can't say that I'm one of them. Problem is, I'm not a lover either. I just wish the entire film matched the energy, pacing, inventiveness, wit and intensity of the first 45 minutes where Director Joe Wright (not nominated!) cleverly and boldly sets up the doomed romance of Keira and McAvoy's characters, filtered through that little bitch Briony. Damn, what a little pheck.

I can't handle that name, Briony! and ultimately, I got tired with the film and Keira's teeth.

This film is relevant for being the only nominee for best picture that contained an unintentional ten minute ad for Revlon where Keira sits at her vanity and prepares herself for the night where she gets to show off her famous green dress. A dab of lipstick, a squirt of perfume, a brush of powder. Keira loved getting ready. Joe Wright loved watching her get ready. So they shoved it down our throats...

And it was probably the highlight of the film.

Except for Keira's teeth baring that is.

CHEESE!

JUNO - Yes, Juno, another film that has a lot of haters in the blogging community. Critics loved it, audience loved it, so of course, hipster bloggers need to trash everything about it....from the clever script to the inspired ensemble to the twee soundtrack to the whole pop "indieness" of it all. Juno is not my pick for Best Picture. In fact, I wish The Diving Bell and the Butterfly stole it's slot. That being said, I saw this film the day after Christmas, and let's just say the two hours I watched this film on the 26th were better than all 24 hours of the 25th. (And the 25th is my birthday. Me, Jesus and Ricky Martin!) From the brilliant Allison Janney's nail-centric character to Bleecker's hobbit chunk of a mother racing Juno up the stairs, the movie nailed it. And I honestly and admittedly teared up when Juno and Bleeker sing their duet to Anyone Else But You at the closing of the film. A film that can send you into constant cackles and brays of delight and can then eventually invest you in the emotions of the cartoons that Diablo Cody has written is a true achievement.

Sorry hates, Juno, while not the best film of the year, was one of my favorites.

MICHAEL CLAYTON - Look, the film was expertly crafted, with a stellar cast, inventive storytelling and a kick-ass Wilkinson performance, but to me this was just an A plus Grisham movie. And if I had to pick my favorite Grisham character, it's Darby Shaw, not Michael Clayton. NEXT!!!!! (that's for you Tom!)

NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN - The first time I saw this film I was a nervous wreck. From Javier's first moment onscreen, I recoiled into my seat. It was only this last Sunday when I saw if for the second time that I was able to sit back and appreciate the film for it's true awesomeness. It wasn't the underlying tone of doom, of the decline of our father's America or the ominous sense that you can't run from what's coming that scared me. It wasn't even that fucked up oxygen tank/weapon that had me shitting my pants. It was that freaking pageboy. Girl needed to get her hair did....

Only the Coen brothers could get away from it. And for their achievement alone, I should grant them the SNAX IN THE CITY pick for Best Picture. The film deserves a best picture Oscar. But No Country For Old Men will have to settle for being Hillary Clinton this year. And not because both share unfortunate hair. Any other year, Hillary would be the front runner to secure the Democratic nomination, just as No Country would be picking up Best Picture. And just as the uber-worthy Hillary may wind up second to Obama, the uber-worthy No Country will have to play runner up to this year's Obama, because my favorite film of the year was:

THERE WILL BE BLOOD - I am admittedly a PTA dork. When Bridget and I met writer/directorPaul Thomas Anderson at a Saturday Night Live after party in 2000, where he was a guest writer on SNL and I was an apple martini spilling intern, Bridget and I both totally orgasmed all over the man. We were ready to worship at the man's feet. In fact we did, slipping our email addresses into his pocket, begging to work with him. (Bridget's email being briecheese28@yahoo.com and mine being BriNYU12@gmail.com, he probably took one look at those unfortunate email names on the napkin, before using the same napkin to wipe off the cocaine residue on his table, so he'd have a clean surface to fuck the crying, sad mess that was Fiona Apple in her post Roseland breakdown When The Pawn days.

Point being, I worshipped the man. And for me, seeing There Will Be Blood was akin to God sending Jesus back down to earth. PTA came through for us, years after one of my favorites, Punch Drunk Love, and he's totally earned the crown of thorns around his head.

I could go on and on, but the man's a god. The film was the best cinematic experience I had this year...and of course, it's my pick for best picture!

Okay, so I have to be honest, the red carpet is starting in 10 minutes, and it deserves my full attention. Sally Kirkland is probably already waltzing around the red carpet as we speak. I actually love the first ten minutes of the red carpet the best, when the no-names and the crazies arrive. I wish I was with Rory during those first ten minutes. It's just too good.

Anyone, my point is that I need to wrap up this blog. This is my problem, I spent all my time rambling about snax, and now when I need to delve into the real content, with all the hours I've researched into watching these films, I've totally run out of steam. Give me a break, I haven't blogged in awhile, so I'm pretty tired.

Therefore, I'm going to race through my thoughts on the other categories. I've got 10 minutes before Emily Blunt storms onto the carpet with her dour face.

BEST ACTOR

GEORGE CLOONEY - Great performance. But I think this was a makeup nomination for getting snubbed for One Fine Day.

DANIEL DAY LEWIS “I drink your MILKSHAKE. *SLURP* I drink it up!” That's all I need to say. The man, the myth, the method actor! Winner!

JOHNNY DEPP - You know he and Helena Bonham did their own hair and makeup and reveled in applying their foundation. Johnny's never met a crazy white streak in his hair that he didn't like.

TOMMY LEE JONES - Beautiful, reserved performance. I just wish, like Johnny, he sang in the film. He had the perfect opportunity to do a Rihanna-esque performance to the title track "In the Valley of Elah-Elah-Elah, Ey Ey Ey, Under My Valley of Elah!" but sadly he whimped out. Get some balls, Tommy Lee Jones! Speaking of....

VIGGO MORTENSEN - Brains, beauty & balls. Congrats!

(Sidenote: E News is interrupting red carpet coverage for breaking Britney parental visitation news....I'm going to puke...but I hope they cut back if any real breaking news occurs. Imagine if she storms the carpet? Best Supporting Weave!)

BEST ACTRESS
CATE BLANCHETT - Phenomenal, powerful, pretty...but I thought Angela Bassett could have done this part in her sleep, as the sequel to Elizabeth was basically How Elizabeth (Tried to) Get Her Groove Back!

JULIE CHRISTIE - Alzheimer’s chic! My runner up performance. Also, I know this is insensitive, but I found out that Alzheimer's is a great excuse to fuck around on your husband while you're in the nursing home. Also, Julie's Christie's onscreen husband, Gordon Pinsent, was the true heart of the film, and deserved more recognition.

MARION COTILLARD My pick, all the way. The beautiful, luminous french hottie Marion Cotillard's transformation into Rice Pilaf was my favorite performance this year. Her insane, hunchback troll/chanteuse was not only a brilliant metamorphosis, but hopefully, my next Halloween costume.

LAURA LINNEY - My second runner up. Linney is one of my favorites, a consistently solid actress and she was predictably moving in this role, even in her terrible hair. I pray that her curlz were a weave, speaking of Brit. She's almost uniformally frump in front of the camera, so I really hope she kills em on the red carpet tonight. I want her dress to be hiked up to her cooter. Now that'd be something you can count on. Ohhhhhh!

ELLEN PAGE - TCO. Total Cuteness Overload. I bet she has her ipod in on the red carpet. Sharing one ipod bud with one of the Moldy Peaches or the Crumbling Cookie, as someone called them. I'm mad I'm blogging during the red carpet, instead of reviewing the performances I'm now just anticipating their appearances. We all know Ellen Page is a mega talent and if Hot Topic customers were voting for the Oscars, she'd win!

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR

CASEY AFFLECK - I just saw his performance a second ago. In fact, I think the movie might still be running. But my DVD player stops showing chapters after 80. Casey has been one of my favorites since To Die For. He gave a great, unnerving, scyophantic performance in this movie. Plus, he kept the mumbling to a minimum. After Violet, he's my favorite Affleck.

JAVIER BARDEM - My pick, duh! Look, I know who Javier is. I worshipped him in Before Night Falls. I know he's effing Penelope Cruz in real life. The entire time he was onscreen I kept telling myself this, trying to imagine him tackling Cruz to the floor, but no matter what my head said, my eyes were covered during much of his performance. I was always terrified he would pull out his oxygen tank and go to town on some poor ugly texas folk. His voice! His stature! His hair! Hair-ye! Hair-ye! I declare a winner! NEXT!

PHILLIP SEYMOUR HOFFMAN - My hero, and it's not just because I have been told I resemeble him. He's the best of our generation, and should have been nominated for the powerful BEFORE THE DEVIL KNOWS YOUR DEAD, where he delivered the best male performance this year. He was the best part of Charlie Wilson's War, but when your rival is Julia Roberts, in that ridiculous hair/makeup/southern accent "why hello chhhhhhahlie" that's not saying much. He doesn't stand a chance tonight, but he's got his Oscar, so who cares. I hope he brushes his hair tonight! Long live PSH! He was snubbed for his role in Boogie Nights. Long live Scotty! In fact, he also could have won Best Supporting Actress and Best Sound Design.

HAL HALBROOK - The heart of Into the Wild, which was another overlooked film I loved. The ratio of tears spilled to minute of screentime was dead even. The man's eyes showcased his entire performance. I would love for this old stud to win, but he's nominated along with Javier Bardem, so a celebratory shag from his Designing Woman bride will have to be his reward tonight.

TOM WILKINSON - God, this category is full of amazing runner ups to Javier. Tom slayed the role, and without him, the film would not have grabbed all the nominations. His performance was operatic. The role almost made me forget about his role as a trannie in Normal. Now that role was truly fabulous....Alright, Will Wilkinson Winkinson?! Not this yearkinson. NEXT!

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS

CATE BLANCHETT - I want to make love to this woman just so I can be inside greatness. I'd even do her in the Dylan getup. In fact, that'd be way hipper. All the ladies were fab in this category, but Cate was literally electrifying. I want to be in her. She's my pick!

RUBY DEE - This tiny thing is a powerhouse actress. That being said, I hope this tiny thing stays seated. If I see her pull out her glasses in preperation to read a giant speech where she thanks Mickey Rooney, I'll cry. Ruby's a gem, but a gem that needs to stay seated tonight.

SAOIRSE RONAN - Ugh! Briony is back! What a fucking little bitch. She got nominated because the girl who played older Briony was so bad, it made Sunshine, Soybean, Saorise, whatever her name is looked good by comparison. The girl has talent, but she's no Breslin. And I bet she's just as bitchy in real life. NEXT!

AMY RYAN- My Uncle Mike swears that Amy Ryan is Amy Adams. He said that Amy Adams was in Gone Baby Gone. No matter how I reasoned with him, he would not accept that Amy Ryan was the actress in the film. Therefore, I nominate Amy Adams as my runner up. She went from the charming Enchanted to the gritty Gone Baby Gone. Uncle Mike was right, we have a chameleon on our hands. Seriously, we do!

TILDA SWINTON - In a lesser film, Ashley Judd would have played this stock role and no one would have cared. You put a powerhouse like Tilda Swinton in this role, and people take notice. And that one scene where she's in her bra, looking disgusting in front of the mirror, rehearsing her false bravado is so brave. I wore a belly shirt and boxer briefs in a project I filmed last summer and I totally could not concentrate on the scene. The fact that Tilda looked hideous and stayed in character is a testament to this lady. I can't wait to see her crazy metallic pant suit she will show up in. She's a crazy and I love her. Quick question: I think she really is Wes Anderson in drag.

Honestly, has anyone ever seen Tilda and Wes Anderson in the same room?!?! Just asking....

DIRECTOR

PAUL THOMAS ANDERSON (THERE WILL BE BLOOD) - I already established he is Messiah. He deserves the Oscar, but I'm giving my pick to someone else. He already has the knowledge that he's not a mortal.

ETHAN COEN and JOEL COEN (NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN) They are Gods too. They deserve the Oscar too. (Not Josh Brolin, who thinks its all about HIM!!!!!!!!! for anyone who saw him on the SAG awards.) That being said, I'm spreading the directing love elsewhere tonight! These genuises will have to settle for the Snax int the City screenwriting award.

TONY GILROY (MICHAEL CLAYTON) - I would have liked his direction better if Darby Shaw was involved....

JASON REITMAN (JUNO) - His direction is underrated. The tone he pulled off in the movie is consistent, but c'mon how does he have a nomination and his father does not?!?!? Ivan's the man and Kindergarten Cop's the shit!

JULIAN SCHNABEL (THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY - This crazy's my pick! The direction of this film was so inspiring, I almost cried out of both of my good eyes. The movie was a literal work of art, and the true artist should claim this award. I could say the same of PTA and the Coens, but I want to spread the wealth. And I want him to display his Oscar in his pink mad house palazzo in Manhattan....Plus, as I whine how the red carpet coverage is still going on and I'm stuck writing, I only think of having to transcribe this blog by blinking it out in alphabet form and I get immediately humbled! I'm lucky to have two good eyes and a killer ass. NEXT!

ADAPTED SCREENPLAY

PAUL THOMAS ANDERSON (THERE WILL BE BLOOD) - He's too busy walking on water to get this award.

ETHAN COEN & JOEL COEN (NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN) - The brothers Coen are my pick! Incredible novel by McCarthy was turned into a classic film, with a restrained, haunting screenplay. Someone needs to give the Coen's their due...i.e Frances McDormand better get on her freaking knees. They deserve a happy ending tonight...both of them! You know they get it on together. Incest is best!

CHRISTOPHER HAMPTON (ATONEMENT) - This blog is so long I've forgotten what happened in this movie. Seriously.

RONALD HARWOOD (THE DIVING BELL AND THE BUTTERFLY) - Blink 182, the movie!

SARAH POLLEY (AWAY FROM HER) - I love how the checkout girl from GO is now an Oscar nominated writer. I never thought Polley had the strength to walk a dog, let alone write and direct a movie. I guess she's not as anemic as I thought....

ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY

BRAD BIRD, STORY BY BIRD, JIM CAPOBIANO AND JAN PINKAVA (RATATOUILLE) - Great film, but I prefer some of the other Pixar work better, including Brad Bird's The Incredibles. Besides, the only rat that deserves a nomination this year is that Atonement bitch!

DIABLO CODY (JUNO) - What the blog, I totally fell for it. She wrote the script in a Starbucks, which gives me hope, as I like to write at Koo Koo Roo! I also love her stage name. I'm writing my scripts as Briony Breiss, my bitchy alter ego. She's my pick!

TONY GILROY (MICHAEL CLAYTON) - I'd like the script better if Darby Shaw was involved!

TAMARA JENKINS (THE SAVAGES) - The script was savage and fierce. Sorry, it's the gay superbowl, I had to use the word fierce.

NANCY OLIVER (LARS AND THE REAL GIRL) - My runner up! I was totally taken with this movie and funny enough, I really identified with this film, and so did my sex doll, Cletus!

Enjoy the Oscars!!!!! Cletus and I sure are....

I'm going to defrost all my goodies...

And I typed too soon earlier. John Travolta, minus his weave, is now prancing and posing on the red carpet. It really is the Gay Superbowl now!

P.S. Fingers crossed for Once in the Original Song Category!

TOUCHDOWNNNNNNNNNNN!

Self Centered

2008-02-24T12:13:00.000-08:00

Hello Dear Snackers,

I'm going to start this off with an old fashioned, I'm sorry!

I apologize for my extended absence. Anyone who relies on Snax In The City for their weekly nourishment must have withered away from starvation (...and for any of you who can now squeeze into your skinny jeans due to your snax depravation, you're welcome!) I don't want this blog to deteriorate into a total buzzkill, but in order to justify my online disappearance, I must confess that I suffered a tragic loss last month. A loss that shook me to the core. A loss that radiated into all fibers of my being. A loss that took me by surprise and left me grappling to understand things that I knew to be true and concrete.

You see, I lost my ability to questions things.

Literally.

My question mark key stopped working.

One day I was uploading a new myspace picture (gotta keep it fresh, you know) and when I went to type in my picture caption I realized that my question mark key pulled a Bin Laden and took off into hiding. The caption I typed in was something modest like, "How cute am I." It was supposed to be followed by a question mark, but as I furiously slammed away at the button (kinky, right?) I realized nothing was coming out. So instead of putting out a question to the world, it appeared as if I was making a declarative statement.

How cute am I

Not a question. A statement.

How cute am I!

No room for dissent there.

And that's when I realized the lack of a question mark can turn any curious, gregarious fellow like myself into a truly selfish bastard. In my email correspondence, I would yammer away about myself without tossing off any questions back to my friends. It was all "I'm doing great!" or "Yeah, I'm parting it differently, thanks for noticing" or"Don't worry about it, I didn't smell a thing." but not once was I able to toss back a "Hey, whatchu up to" or "I got a few boxes, you want the thin mints or the tagalongs" or "Did Herveiner attend the gala"

I couldn't stand asking a question without tagging on that cute squiggly little question mark symbol that we all take for granted.

I became a self centered asshole, and a lazy one at that, as a trip to the Apple Store to take my baby in for some doctoring was put off in lieu of more pressing trips, i.e. Zankou Chicken. Eventually, I got bored with myself (hard to imagine, I know) and I found myself actually craving to find out what the rest of "you" were doing, so I slowly started adding IQMH to my questions.

"Who the fuck does Phoebe Price think she is" IQMH
"I know Hillary's got a vagina, but does she have any balls" IQMH
"Is Eva Longoria the student or the teacher" IQMH

And by interested in "you" I mean interested in famous people.

Eventually IQMH (insert question mark here) became tiring, confusing and pointless, so I did what needed to be done...I sent my baby off to the MacDoctors.

I kissed my MacBook goodbye and sent her off to get a new part. I totally have sympathy for the parents who drop their daughters to get their high school graduation boob job present.

That was a tough week. Without my online blogging friends, I was actually forced to read a book. "Invisible Monster by Chuck Palahniuk" (thanks Matt for the recommendation.) A real life book, a tangible property, with pages and everything. My bookmark was not just an online shortcut, it was a 2 for 1 taco coupon from Jack In the Box.

Just when I started getting used to the whole "book" thing, I got the call everyman waits to here. "You're computer's ready to be picked up!" I threw the book in the trash and drove to Apple like a madman.

So, I'm back! And most importantly, my good friend the question mark is back.

To quote my friend Janet Jackson, you don't know what you've got til it's gone...

Now, let's give it up for my friends, they missed you: ??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

Damn that felt good. Anyone got a cigarette?!!?!??!?!?

Peace, Love and ?,
Brian

If You Can't Pick Your Candidate

2008-01-24T13:50:00.000-08:00

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?!

Sadly Obligatory Obit

2008-01-22T14:13:00.000-08:00

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

In The Closet

2008-01-21T13:11:00.000-08:00

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

Project Runway Commandment #11

2008-01-16T21:53:00.001-08:00

Thou Shall Never Throw Thy Sweet Pea Under The Bus.

Go drape yourself Rami...

Craving Indian?

2008-01-16T14:35:00.000-08:00

Compliments of yours truly

Get Your Fix

2008-01-15T19:00:00.000-08:00

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

My Special Girl

2008-01-11T16:17:00.002-08:00

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...

2008-01-11T16:17:00.001-08:00

I'm A (Workout) Slave for U

2008-01-10T00:17:00.000-08:00

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 Man Who Would Be (Burger) King

2008-01-04T17:23:00.000-08:00

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

Nu Yeerz Yo

2008-01-02T11:19:00.000-08:00

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

Breakfast Snax

2007-12-19T21:43:00.002-08:00

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?!

(Sorry Tom!)

Pageboy to Poshboy

2007-12-10T08:46:00.000-08:00

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!!!!

Peace, Love & Snax,
Brian

Happy Hanukkah

2007-12-06T18:47:00.000-08:00

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!

Peace, Love & Snax,
Brian

Welcome

2007-12-05T16:38:00.000-08:00

5 a.m. West Village.

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.

Peace, Love & Snax,
Brian

i'm blogging

2007-12-04T14:41:00.001-08:00

hold on to your butts...