A Wife Beater and Yellow Shoes

On a muggy day on July 13th, 2005 a wave of depression and sadness massaged over what once was the decadence of advertising…it was if someone’s soul had died. When Pope John Paul II died there was still little Anthony Bagglia with his half cracked smile fastened tight with hopes of a future with laughter…but now his dreams resemble dark back alley reality porn…they were nightmares. He had gotten the memo.

Not since Larry Bird retired or Winston Churchill resigned had such a career run affected so many, with such permanence. I could hear heaven crying and it wasn’t the sound of angels. My Agencies soul had died and all the church bells were broken. A legacy? Perhaps. A leader? Unquestionable. A hack? Unanswerable. A catalyst? That my friends, was Brian Snyder…a hero to most, a mentor to more, and a sexual icon to all.


And while my 87’ Camry (LX edition for those who like guys with nice cars) is not the jet plane that most people imagine, the storied career of Brian Snyder; Rock Star by night and Fucking Rock Star by day will be transplanted like the hair I so desperately need to a place where yellow shoes roam.

So now the next chapter of the book that will never be read or published begins. I look forward to the intricacies of a new environment. An environment which will barely be mentioned because of the absolute FEAR that runs through my veins as they are buttoned up tighter then a teen for cash. Wait that didn’t make sense.

There is only one thing that could make me happier, and that is when the world agrees that shirts ‘sans’ sleeves which are form fitting are fashionably sound and culturally acceptable. When a man can walk the streets of Wall Street slurring and spitting and going mad with PDA with nothing but jeans and a beater. When the masses rise up, bring down the man, and Wife Beaters are not only smiled upon, but are required. I’m a dreamer. Time to move on.

Last call YPBR…bar’s closed.