The Island of Fire

Darlings, I just got back from an almost three week hiatus! How did you possibly stand my absence for so long? I've been spending my time away keeping my namesake: eating next to nothing and drinking next to everything. And what better place to do that than Fire Island?

I spent the most glorious time in Cherry Grove with my dear friend Jack Aaronson. I did head over to the Pines for a bit, but it was full with a bunch of Ken dolls and the older men who buy Ken dolls. Being neither of the two, the Grove better suits my preferences.

I started each day with a screwdriver (you simply must have your Vitamin C!). I then hauled my beach chair and cooler down to the shore and sat under my rainbow umbrella. I have delicate skin, you see, so I can't exactly be in direct sunlight... ever. As I sipped on gin martinis (I have a special beach shaker), I yelled inappropriate things of a sexual nature to the boys walking around in their tight swimwear. It was truly glorious.

After doing this for 2-9 hours, I somehow stumbled down the boardwalk to the closest bar. At this point, I was out of gin, so I had to get my libations the old-fashioned way--showing my ass for cocktails. Around 2am or so, when I could barely see straight, I somehow always found myself in the infamous Meat Rack. What a magical place.

After 1-4 hours of sitting there under my rainbow umbrella and yelling now appropriate things of a sexual nature, I coerced one of the boys to carry me back to my house by promising them I would sit on their face. However, I never followed through. I'm a lady, after all.

Bren, I'm so upset that you missed it!

A True Story

Amsterdam and Octavian never blinked, as a rule.

Fifteen months of dual modeling jobs, gig after gig, exotic locale after exotic locale – all of that had knocked the blink right out of them. 

They were the best of their kind, naturally. Taut, well-moisturized skin stretched out over razor-sharp cheekbones. Lips pursed, never open. Both used left-hand parts, their shimmering hair tucked behind those shapely right ears. Serene and stunning. And besties. 

Rarely seen talking at a shoot, the only sounds they made were the occasional (and slight) grunts and sighs that meant, “Good morning,” “Let’s pose,” or, “This skim no-whip latte is filling.”

That day, however, was different. They had arrived at the shoot in total silence. 
J.Crew Fall ’07. Silence wasn’t unusual – these kids were quiet and removed (you could even go flat out and say “cold”) – but they wouldn’t even share a bottle of liquid concealer. 
Then, positioned in front of the cameras, Octavian’s hand lightly resting on Amsterdam’s knee, the tension was palpable.  Their eyes were watering.

“Amsterdam…” the art director tried, “Do you need a break? You’re sweating through the houndstooth.”

Octavian gave a low whistle. “Just tell them.”

Amsterdam shook his wee mane.
“I just…” he started, then delicately coughed. “I just need some Visine.”

Three hours passed. 
Vests gave way to sweaters, to trousers, to cravats. 

Finally, something cracked.

Octavian’s eyes slammed shut with a crash: “I’M BLIND!” he screeched, tearing at his face.  Amsterdam writhed in agony, then, “THE VISINE! DEAR GOD, THE VISINE!”
Both shocks of hair deflated with a disgusting puff to the left and their lips contorted grotesquely into stupid, common-people smiles.

They had passed it – their Prime – and promptly faded into obscurity.

Summer Viewin', Happens So Fast...

As you all know, between social engagements, Brendan and I don't really do much but laze around the house to maintain our boyish figures and ride the edge of our personal alcohol tolerances. During these times, I like to turn to my DVR to provide hours of reality disengagement. However, as we now have entered June, we subsequently have entered the black hole known as Summer Programming.

I don't know what it is about summer that produces the tripe I am forced to endure. It's as if the networks figure that everyone is doing outdoorsy type adventures in these dreary months. I doubt that is the case. If it is, it's because television has left them with no alternatives.

However, through my experienced and tested television viewing, I have sorted through the floating garbage of I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here, Denise Richards: It's Complicated, Kendra, America's Got Talent, Dance Your Ass Off, and I Survived a Japanese Game Show (among others, trust me) to find some of the shining gems of programming that will grace your home screens. Well, hopefully...

So You Think You Can Dance
Despite it's annoyingly long name (try texting THAT nine times far), this show features some of the most talented people in reality television. These kids have had some training and work harder than anyone I know. It's unfortunate that the payoff seems to be recurring roles on future seasons.

Kings
Although this show has already began, it picks back up with regular episodes this month. If you haven't watched this modern re-telling of David (you know, the Bible one), go to NBC.com and catch up. Ah-mah-zing.

Weeds
Although I am guilty of not following this show as closely as I should, I know that it's quality TV with Mary Louise Parker at the helm. This happens to be one of Bren's favorite shows, as it also features his stalkee Hunter Parish.

Nurse Jackie
This is one of the series that I'm looking forward to either loving or hating. Edie Falco is a force to be reckoned with, so of course it'll be worth attention. Also, she's sporting a rather lesbian hair cut (see Jackie Warner from Work Out).

True Blood
The second season kicks off soon (but not soon enough). It's hard to go wrong with vampires, and since it's set in Deep South, it's close to this Mississippi Sissy's heart. Of course, it looks like Jason Stackhouse (played by the gorgeous Ryan Kwanten) is taking a religious turn this season. I hope this doesn't mean less nude scenes for him...

Merlin
Set to premiere on NBC, this is a show I'm watching with a wary eye. I have always been a fan of the King Arthur legends, so of course I will be trying this one on for size. It takes place while Merlin and Arthur and young men while Urthur is still king. We'll see...

So I hope that this helps out those of you who will doing the socially responsible thing and staying in this summer. There's no need to show your face in the daylight. Night time does wonders for other's perceived notion of one's skin. Plus, it saves money on face lotions and treatments that is better spent elsewhere... booze.

Dear Future Husband...

Dear Hunter Parrish,
You will be mine.

Kisses,

Bren

Just What Are They Promoting...

As I scoured the Internet for something to entertain my delicate, yet refined senses, I came across this little gem. Apparently, the Jonas Brothers have a new album coming out, but their promotional tactics are a little... off. This "long-awaited" and "long-requested" video was released:



So just who is awaiting and requesting this? The hordes of screaming tweens that seem to follow these boys around? Or more likely, the more discreet hordes of gay men following these boys and just waiting till the youngest is of legal age.

I guess it's not all bad, though. I mean, even though he can't dance (it took my friend Parker MONTHS in the shower to master this dance), the kid does have nice thighs, at least. Also, the image of putting a ring on it before you can have it is consistent with their purity ring facades.

Adam Lambert tells Rolling Stone he's gay, and Joe Jonas dances to Beyonce. Related? I think so...

Your Hosts

Meet your bloggers, lovelies!

To the left, we have the always-svelte, half-a-bottle-down Austin.

To the right, we have the positively-tiny, constantly-tipsy Bren.

...you can touch yourself now.

Tony Who?

So as a good gay does, I am planning a fabulous party for the Tony Awards on Sunday (Bren, I really wish you would reconsider joining society again here in New York, if only for this one evening). As I was sending out invitations and chatting with potential RSVPers, I was shocked and awed at the discovery that one of my "friends" (and believe me, I now use the term loosely) has never once watched a Tony Award ceremony. After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I told this gay delinquent that watching the Tonys is like a homo right of passage. Am I wrong here? Don't I have every right to be appalled?


And to make matters worse, more than one friend said that they were seeing shows that evening. Excuse me? You make plans on theater's most important night? I don't get upset at a refused invitation; life's full of them. However, I do expect that if you're not watching the Tony Awards at my party, you are watching them somewhere. I simply cannot accept a denial in any other case. What is wrong with you people?

*shakes off rage*

Whew. There. It's been said. I hope this doesn't happen again next year, gentlemen. Be expecting your 2010 invites shortly. That is all.

Rant: That Child Looks Like A Young Sally Struthers...No, Not Like A Young "Young Sally Struthers"; A Young "Fat Sally Struthers"

Hello again, dear hearts!

As Austin knows, I am a recent (and disappointingly so) cast-off of Manhattan, set adrift in the endless sea of wheat fields and fruited plains that comprise our American soil. What you, our dear readers, don't know is that I work in a school for training the wee ones in the ways of music and theatre. And, as I'm sure you've discovered in our first post, I particularly dislike the miniscule brand of humans we so disgustingly refer to our as our "offspring". Children are whining, sobbing, sniffling, snotty pieces of crap.
You know, besides my nieces and nephew...and me, when I was a kid...and you, presumably.
But, all told, kids suck.

Imagine my horror, then, relegated to working in a place not only rife with an endless supply of gag-inducing mini-minions, but a trap where children are encouraged to pick up beautifully crafted tools of rhythm and transform them into sonar death machines.

..........................................

Sorry, I just had to give a drum student (a.k.a. Soldier of Satan) the death glare. 

How on EARTH am I supposed to endure my hangover with the constant thumpa-thump-thump of wooden stick fucking metal lid?

But, I digress a bit, my creampuffs. Today's RANT is not about musical torture. No, my sweet, precious doves.

Today is about fat children.

Look, I respect the devastating immortality of fat. It is a sickeningly pervasive evil; even GaGa's got some jiggle in her wiggle. Even (choke) Austin and I.  

It's a hard lesson to learn: 0% Body Fat=Death.

But, nothing makes me sadder than a fat child relegated to what is practically a prison sentence as their prepubescent bodies take the long, slow road to Life's Big Change. Worse still is the child of fat parents; already, one can see the quiet defeat gathering behind their eyes.

I read a story in my doctor's office today (annual check-up, I'm healthy as the Jonas Brothers) about a nurse who had to push some man's belly fat in with both hands until she could literally scoop within and pull out his penis to insert a catheter. In the same magazine was a stat about the percentage of overweight children rising 17% in the past decade. A grim fate for fat America, who just seems to get fatter with the passing years, despite the best efforts of Whole Foods, Trader Joe's, and my finger down your throat.

Now it hits children. Sure, some part of me loves to see the younger generation flailing around in misery. 1) Because they're horrid 2) They'll be competition in ten years, and 3) They're horrid
However, a fat child now means a fat adult later. And this can only mean one thing for Austin and I: less choices (and, subsequently, partners) for buttsex.

Parents, if you're reading this, start educating your children now. I'm not saying we should all run out and introduce the ankle-biters to anorexia and bulimia, but just some of the healthier eating disorders. Like my personal hero, Celia Hodes, does on the fabulous Showtime series, WEEDS: give your kids some laxatives. Or, at least make sure their Flinstones vitamins come with dietary suppresants.

"You don't want to be the fattest girl at fat camp, do you?"

Keep Your Diet to Yourself

Oh Bren, you're such a grig. You delight my senses with each word you utter. However, I didn't realize there was a "socially acceptable" time to start drinking. If there is, I've been completely ignoring it these long years that we've been friends.

So I was honored today to partake in a buffet of baked goods presented by a group of young, fetching culinary students. Now I know we don't like to publicly acknowledge that we masticate any sort of repast, but I simply must say that I was in dessert heaven as I perused the selections. In fact, I am still working on a macaroon dish as we speak.

However, as I daintily placed foods on my plate, I couldn't help but overhear the sundry of declarations of people "on a diet" and who "shouldn't be having this". As everyone knows, Brendan and I don't have to diet to maintain our waifish, yet stylish figures, but I know that some people indeed embark on these journeys of self-sacrifice. The thing I cannot abide, though, is the constant proclamations to let everyone ELSE know that they are dieting. We get it. You have self-control. You want to be skinny. Who doesn't? But just shut up about it already. My mother always said one must suffer in silence to keep their dignity in tact.

Anywho, I will not return to my treats. One has to be good to oneself every now and then...

xoxo

Introductions...

Bon soir, my dearest hearts!
And, my very dearest chum, Austin:

Welcome to my official blogosphere debutante ball! I've never had the pleasure of having my very own blog experience, and to share it with one I hold in such high esteem is truly a deep, deep honor. Like, six whiskeys deep.

As I expect this blog to become the raison d'être for what is likely to be scads of readers, I'm simply leaping with excitement to introduce myself to the masses.

Things I like: Men; whiskey (Jameson); American Apparel underwear; Shiraz/Syrah; rippling chests; purging; vodka: (Grey Goose); groups of unfriendly black gay guys; becoming intoxicated from alcohol but throwing it up before the calories hit; Lady GaGa; my Mother; Austin; myself

Things I dislike: Cheap tequila; cheap vodka; cheap gin; expensive drinks; boring white people; children; fat

Things I secretly like but don't like to admit that I do: White wine; food

Things I secretly dislike but don't like to admit that I do: Ice skating; Oprah

What you can buy for me as a present: The largest size of Jameson possible and some recreational liposuction/Botox.

Ooh! Can you hear it, my pets? That's the sound of bottles across the world getting dusted off for happy hour. I must be off - it's a mere hour and 58 minutes until it's socially acceptable to drink again!

Until next time, sweet darlings!

Love from,
Your Brendan

Welcome, bitches...

Thank you for drunkenly stumbling on our new blog. Brendan and I are still nursing hangovers from the night before, so it's a pretty normal day so far. Stick around on the blog to get our snarky gay commentary on entertainment, politics, nightlife, and just homo culture in general.

Ugh, is this post over yet? I need a cocktail.