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.

Dear Future Husband...

Dear Hunter Parrish,
You will be mine.

Kisses,

Bren

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?"

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