Monday, November 1, 2010

The Pink Eraser Manifesto.

I remember a time when I was the go-to item in your pencil case. A time when loose-leaf paper and 5-Star Trapper Keeper’s ruled your world. A time when ice cream money guaranteed the success of a day, and milk money was even more pertinent. A time when the answer was usually something along the lines of “a person, place, or thing”.

Now, you’ve grown up, found Bic, learned to type, but above all else made me so proud. Sincerely. I’m Soccer Mom happy with your progress.

I’m just concerned that you moved on from me, lumping me in with the frivolous supplies you don’t need, like cheetah print pencils and protractors.

Listen, I’m no Walkman, no Pet Rock, or Pog. I have feelings, well, rubber eraser remnants. Their trail tells my story, excuse me, our story. Maybe I am too reserved to make things permanent like Sharpie or bleed through the page like a Uni-ball, but I don’t think your words are any less valid.

I just want to give you the option of a quick fix:
A moment to write your word and then check the synonyms.
A quick update to the eyebrow curvature of your doodle.
Maybe even a little ‘before the Boss sees this’ action.

My point in all this? I’m here to help and I’m not going anywhere. You can still use me, you can still problem-solve with me, and you can still toss me in the air while trying to pass time in-between assignments.

I’m putting my rubber down on this one, anything this good is worth fighting for, and we’ve been together for too long.

Let’s make love to 8 x 10’s again.

Monday, January 25, 2010

words to live by.

"Be orderly in your normal life so you can be violent and original in your work."

-Gustave Flaubert

Sunday, January 24, 2010

Ladies, let's be ladies.

Dear Commuting Women in Skirts and Sneakers –

Up until today I have always hated you.

Hate is a strong word, yes, but I only reserve it for the utmost of dire situations, like fashion bashing moments and Celine Dion (dirty bitch). Yes, up until today I found you all fashion whores. Rudely, lighting bags of shit to be stomped out by models on Milan runways.

And then, well, genius socked me quite good. I thought a remedy for you, for all of us.

I understand why putting on running sneakers would appear a great idea during the rush of AM pre-coffee moments.

Here’s the rub, you look like a jackass.

Of course, I can appreciate the feeble attempt to preserve your ankles from city coble stone trouble. I get it, for sure, you and I are one. And yet, however in understanding we might be with your plight, I still want to kick you in the face with my adorable ballet slipper work shoes. Who am I kidding? I’m wearing wingtips right now, but you get the idea. Fools, all of you.

Whether it’s just having left the gym, speeding up your walk from train to office, saving valuable tote bag space, the lot; I really don’t care. Tim Gunn would lose his fashionista lunch if he ever saw you like that. Gross.

Ladies, let’s be ladies.

Moral of the story? Stop wearing those bat shit crazy high heels and get some comfortable shits.

Your fellow subway riders will thank you.

BoatShoes Brooks

PS - Great legs though. Wink.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

It begins with irony.

Hipster Chic.

Everything made to hit a certain element of dishevelment; clothes stained, messy, out of place in the most perfect way. Jeans costing in the triple digits; looking like acid wash, skinny, and torn just had a threesome.
Zippo for the flame, sleeve for the coffee. Marlboro Lites and caffeine make the perfect breakfast sandwich.
A seemingly conscious effort to look like effort called in sick today. Vintage everything. It’s nothing to do with your parent’s fashion. Born like this; out of the womb, blanketed in a flannel shirt, wrapped tight and protected with Ray-Ban’s. True story, ask Alice.
Contents of the satchel: Moleskine, something to do with a Mac computer, bottle cap (Miller High Life), matches, iPhone, empty pack of Lites, Swiss Army knife, a book (something Vonnegut or Thoreau maybe even Palahniuk), paperclip bent to unclip.
Success can’t be measured in achievements; only by stories worth repeating. This coffee bar is the perfect place to brew some.
Puns gross you out, reading that just made you nauseous. Or is that the PBR hangover seeping in? Dirty little bitch. Something organic will fix it, or Mexican. Fish tacos for sure.
It’s almost dark; time to talk with friends and discuss who discovered “Friendly Fire” first. Doesn’t matter, you’re into mash ups now anyway.
Kick rocks about it.

Friday, October 30, 2009

Circa 2006

Stand Up Babson College (circa 2006)

Taking it way back with this video. Goofy material & jump around attitude.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Start at the top.

Hair stays in untamed curls; freshly clean or overdue and dirty.
Same look, brushes can't tear through.
Daily goals backburned for search of a cupcake.
Eyelashes in permanent curl. Persian princess; dark & full.
Crush em'.
Pitch or boardroom, bed or bar.
Lucky winner with the right type of conditioning gets the prize.
Are you from Queens?

Digress. Slower now, but at pace.

Sensitive again; hidden for a moment.
Manic expressions and shocking deep sentiments.
Same person; two contenders.
Both vying, lucky to brim for facetime.
More intelligent spoken sentence fragments then in the outcasts of a Hemingway moleskin.
And still no sense to be made.

Daisy smashing, gallery attending; bottle in the left hand blackberry to the right.
Heated by an exchange, shoulder shrug for another.
Eyes go crossed in the passion of a moment, roll deep in the other.

Thoughts in Spanish cloud the English. A reason for tangled sentences unfinished?
Maybe dude. Que Sera.

Pour the beer, devil the eggs, sauce on the side; an Italian chef's worst nightmare.

Simple and patient. Riddled among the party antics, insane stories, and brash attitude is a heap of reluctant intelligence.
Consider yourself lucky if she bares it for you.

Fuck it.

Hike the sensible out the window.
The backpack is filled for the week.
Essentials only please.
Underpants, hot dogs, gun powder, todos.

This, my dear, is a Brooklyn Bridge kind of night.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

comic sans

Comic Sans.

The perfect font when trying to say this Church Social we’re planning is going to be dynamite; check out this yard sale on Saturday; Jenny’s turning 2!

Comic Sans, you are not serious – says so in your name. You are the humorist of all the fonts. You make Times New Roman giggle, even Helvetica stops being so popular to smile at your silly curved design. A design that says “I’m casual, I’m breezy” without actually having to type it. A
book you can judge by the cover.

Delightfully vapid.

The thirteen year old girl I used to babysit just called – said she needs you for this Girl’s of America sleep over retreat invite she’s making – you free? Of course you are.

Always prepared; the fanny pack of fonts.

You are the best. Completely casual and supremely fun; so clear a message even Wingdings is like “Whoa, you are really saying something man.”

A writer’s dream; an art director’s perfect evening.
You mask the thickest sarcasm.

How romantic.