Thursday, August 30, 2007


Not sure if I'll be blogging for a couple weeks. I'm leaving today with Cooldan and Bam Bam to attend my very first gay wedding (they can do that there) in Denmark. I'm way too excited for this. The grooms are my great friends Magnus and Jacob. They're absolutely adorable, and give me an excellent opportunity to visit one of my favorite parts of the world. In their country, they are provided equal rights. Imagine that.

But what happens with the last names, do they hyphenate? Jacob and Magnus thought for some time about what to do...and decided simply to switch last names. As for formality, it's really refreshing to attend a wedding without the stifling protocol. In the invite, after "Dress Code" it reads, "This is a gay decide!"

I told them we may quite possibly show up in wigs and hooker heels. "Jesse," said Magnus. "Please...don't hold back." We won't be in drag, exactly, but we are not planning on holding back. Are we ever? Stay tuned.

Back on September 13th.

xx Jesse

Wednesday, August 29, 2007


I spent last weekend in Memphis, Tennessee, where my film A Four Letter Word screened at their film festival. While there, I was indulged in Southern Hospitality (thank you Mister Jimmy Rout!), fried green tomatoes, and the mighty Mississippi. One thing I noticed, is that folks introduce themselves using both first and last names--how genteel! As for things to do--one Memphian told me there were exactly three things to do in Memphis:

#1. The Peabody Ducks.

Local: "You haven't heard of the Peabody ducks?"

Jesse: "No."
Local: "They were on Jay Leno."
Jesse: "I still haven't heard of them."

These ducks live in a penthouse on the rooftop of Memphis' famed Peabody Hotel. Twice a day they parade down to the lobby where they walk a red carpet and hop into the central fountain.

flip, flap, waddle! The Peabody Ducks work the runway.

#2. Beale Street

Here's a shot of Beale Street by day. By night, it's cordoned off for drunks to wander freely through live jazz, and beautiful dead facades. Beale Street is Memphis' answer to N'awlins Bourbon Street...although with more straights, and less beads.

It looks tame by day.

#3. Graceland.

I never thought I'd make it to Graceland. I mean, Elvis?! Who cares? I was wrong. Everyone cares. The 30th anniversary of his death brought more thousands than ever. Martin Luther King also died in Memphis (and not on the pot, I might add), but who comes to mourn his death, er, assassination? Which goes to show you that people value a swivel of the hips over a swivel of the mind. "Elvis makes you feel good about being alive," one local answered me. And maybe that's it. We'd just rather just feel good than think about anything.

Wait, stop. Don't think about it! Back to Graceland.

I never thought I'd get there, but I'm so glad I did. Is there anything gayer than Graceland? No. Below is just one of Elvis' decorating schemes: the jungle room. Complete with a leaking waterfall wall, an orange and green color scream, er, scheme, and a 3 inch shag carpet that was not content to live just on the floor. It grows from the ceiling as well.

What happens to bad little Panda bears? They get put in the corner to ponder being swallowed whole by the furnishings.

Friday, August 24, 2007

This Just in!

12:30 pm. I just heard a huge crash just below 9th street. I run up to the roof to see if I can get a bird's eye view. I look down to First Avenue and what? The back half of a taxi sticking out the building.

I race outside with my camera.

I have no idea how this happened. The taxi rammed in perpendicular to the Avenue. Unbelievably, nobody was killed. Nobody was even hurt.

Crowds gathered before the police arrived, and then the double decker tourist bus pulls up and stalls so the tourists can all begin taking photos. Some guy next to me shouts up to them.

"What are you all looking at? This is New York!" The tourists just kept snapping away, and the guy yells. "Seriously, haven't you people ever seen a drive-thru cleaners?!"

Avenue D for Down Low

I cleaned the final things out of my old apartment on Avenue D-- the last authentic avenue in Alphabet City (and when I say authentic, I use it as a euphemism). It's pretty tatty, and if you'll recall it's where the local Mister Softee called me a faggot.

There's a strong Puerto Rican population resisting the gentrification going on all around them.
For the clothes or things I don't want, I've always taken them downstairs and left them on the sidewalk outside my building. It's always about two minutes before they're picked up by needy neighbors. This is my favorite form of recycling.

Last time I was there, I had to put some of my drag box down there with clothes, a radio, and some kitchen supplies. Then I went up to my fourth floor window and looked out. On the street below, an old Puerto Rican, not unlike the local Mister Softee who called me a faggot just days before, got off his bicycle and sifted through my piles. With great curiousity, he pulled out a pair of white pumps.

He dismissed them and found a few t-shirts, a radio, and then a box of cards. He opened the box, and pulled out a promotional card from my first film Slutty Summer. The only thing on the business sized card are the words "Slutty Summer", and shirtless pics of the boys---myself, Casper Andreas, and Jamie Hatchett. It's clearly a gay thing and I watched as the old Boricua gazed at the card. This ought to be good. What would he do? Would he drop it afraid? Toss it in the garbage? Rip it up?

He looked around first one way, then another. Then he took out his wallet... and quickly slipped the card inside. Caught you. Got you. Faggot!

For those wanting a sluttier summer, director/star Casper Andreas is selling Slutty Summer DVDs, t-shirts, and even my book (at a discount!)--at the store on his website

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Quiet Desperation of 70 Asians

Marc Jacobs fragrance just launched fragrance "Daisy" is based on what a daisy would smell like if it smelled. He's really on to something because daisies don't smell, and neither does Marc Jacobs perfume after about fifteen seconds. Still, it's selling like crazy.

I've been contracted to sell the one that isn't selling. Sarah Jessica Parker's fragrance, "Covet" is not selling. Maybe because its first note is "wet grasses." I firmly believe that those grasses have been wetted with urine. The bottle, I read in the promo materials was "modeled on a precious gem." Which precious gem? Was that precious gem found in Grandma Flossie's kitsch cabinet?

All day long (or is it a century?), I stand in front of an installation that plays the promo video for the perfume on a loop. In it, Sarah Jessica Parker rolls up to Place Vendome in Paris where she spies a closed shop with a bottle of "covet" in the window. She walks up to the window, and after a moment's hesitation and plenty of pounding symphonic music, she jump kicks the window with the red sole of her christian louboutin pumps. 3 times.

The window breaks and her jittery hands go to collect the perfume, whereupon she is seized and handcuffed by the Parisian police. At the end of the clip she's in jail with zany eyes saying, "I had to have it!" The clip is on a loop and I'm in front of it all day, so with each "I had to have it!" I'm thinking,"I have to kill her!"

View my Sarah Jessica Chinese water torture right here:

"I have to kill her!" I am Carrie Bradshaw's bitch. The minutes, the seconds go by so slowly. My fingers are smelling of her wet grasses and I can't stop looking at my watch. Inevitably only one minute has passed and I'm wishing away my life. I admit this to an older lady who works at the makeup counter. She says she used to be like me. She used to be similarly bored out of her mind at the department store. "I used to count the Asians that walked by me," she said.

"Count the Aians? Why the Asians?" "I don't know," she says. Anyway, she used to count until a certain number of Asians passed her. "How many? A nice round number?" "No," she says, "I think it was 70." She counted until 70 Asians passed her before she permitted herself to look at her watch. This was her own private trick for making the time pass. She doesn't do it anymore though. That was in the old days. She says she's used to the boredom now, and that's the fear isn't it? That we actually get used to this agonizing monotony of the minutes?

I hope I will never get used to it. In the department store I hand out scraps of paper scented with wet grass. I can’t help but glance once again at my watch. Behind me, once again, Sarah Jessica Parker says "I had to have it!" and again I think "I have to kill her!" I promise myself I will never get used to it.

Sadly, predictably, I begin counting Asians.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Bam Bam's Elixir

Bam Bam roams the beautiful Catskill mountains in search of the mysterious elixir dihydrogen monoxide.

Spent an amazing Saturday up in the Catskill Mountains. My friends have bought an old farmhouse and spent years fixing it up into an amazing retreat. This past weekend, there were a lot of guys up from the city and I got so drunk, I had to take a break from the alcohol and start drinking water. The tap water is from a well. It tastes amazing, and has a little clay for color.

So I ran around the party extoling the virtues of well water. "Have you tried the well-water?" I asked everyone. Then I ran around shoving cups of the well water into peoples hands saying things like: "I used to think I was allergic to water, but that was before I tried well water."


"Did you know 98% of those polled say that well-water goes down smoother than Smirnoff?" Shit like that. Everyone basically thought I was out of my mind. Except for Bam Bam, who was clearly out of his mind.

"Well water," he says to me, "Is that some kind of elixir?"

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Doctor, Doctor

Crazy Dan was driving into Manhattan on the Williamsburg Bridge when he thought he spotted a billboard with me as a doctor. I did some stock footage a while ago, and like sex tapes and Judy Garland, you never know if or when they're going to turn up.

Here I am greeting your commute into Manhattan...with a stethoscope?! Crazy Dan immediately turned around to make sure it was me. He's still trying to get over it. "I know you're sick," he said. "But a doctor? Never!"

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Mi Chico Latino

Feliz Cumple, Walter! Ojala pudiera estar mas cerca, pero un dia volvere. No te olvido nunca.
!Te quiero!

Tomorrow is Walter's birthday. I mercilessly dragged him and his precious Gucci through the underbelly of South America and it's all in my book "You Can Run." Walter is one of the most creatively talented persons I have ever met. Hair, Makeup, Drawing, Sculpting, Cooking--you name it, Walter excels to epic proportions. If Walter had one ounce of ambition, I have no doubt he would be an art world icon.

Instead, Walter is content living in Buenos Aires with his parents, doing whatever the hell he feels like. In many ways, I want to kick him in the pants. In many ways, I say BRAVO! He uses his talent for himself. And he shares it with me.

For his birthday, I share it with you! Below, check out his latest creation. Walter (beside Sarah Jessica Parker) and me (cheers, Madonna!) are surrounded by celebrities in his rendition (I wish) of the book release for "You Can Run." Walter drew everyone here, scanned it and then gussied it up with photoshop.

(Click to enlarge--you can see this is hand drawn!--I recognized everyone except the guy in the lower right. I thought it was Carlos Gardel. Silly me. Walter tells me it's John Galliano.)

Walter does his best to read this blog (with the help of an english/spanish dictionary), so if you want to wish him happy birthday--leave a comment. For our adventures together, get the book. A portion of the proceeds will be set aside to buy Walter a pair of Louis Vuitton sandals.

In the pages of "You Can Run," you will discover:
  • How to buy cocaine inside a Bolivian prison.
  • Transsexuals named El Agua.
  • How I got a hickey from a 450 year old jungle Shaman.
  • Walter's drag outfit along the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu.
  • The easiest way to kill your translator.
  • What Patricia does to stay perky in Patagonia.
  • Life inside a Brazilian whorehouse.
  • Agatha Christie in the slums of Cartagena.
All these adventures, and so so sooo much more! Buy it here, now. Thank you.

The more times you buy the book, the less time I have to spend at Bloomingdales hawking a perfume that smells like Febreze.

For you, George Michael...

It takes a raunchy rosetta stone to crack the code of sex ads. Slowly, I've learned the limited lexicon of the libido. "CBT" = Cock & Ball Torture. "No fems or fats" = Asshole. "Cottaging"= what the hell?

Cottaging has always been a big blank in my head. A little too sly. What's the reference? A cottage is a cozy gingerbread home somewhere out in the sticks. I think of nymphs and rainbows and happy squirrels. I don't think of anonymous sex in public places. However, cottaging is (apparently) just that.

To think, I've done it and didn't even know it (he?) had a name. How appropriately...anonymous. I fully understand and appreciate the beauty of a quick one-off, even without body contact. So I've compiled a list of the top 5 spots for cottaging (hands on and -look ma- no hands!) in New York City.

1) The Rambles. For sheer action, and the actual ability to touch--the rambles will forever hold the top spot. Check out the wedding bands on all the Down-Low boyz from Harlem. They're cruising all hours through rain, shine, or blizzard (believe me) in the vast trail grid north of Central Park Lake. Homie does play that!

2) Bergdorf Goodman, 57th street at 5th avenue. The west side building (women's store) top-floor bathroom (just beside the home furnishings section, is it the 9th floor?) There's never an empty toilet seat or urinal here. Totally indiscreet. If you want to get caught, you'll get caught here.

3) Lord & Taylor, 39th and 5th avenue. Legendary cottaging here, in their men's department (top floor) bathroom. There's a video showing you as you enter the bathroom, but it's only a scare tactic. Lord & Taylor is barely in business, they can't afford to care. True cottaging enthusiasts are not intimidated. Not a pretty crowd. Is it ever?

4) Daffy's discount shopping, southwest corner of 34th street Herald Square. Across from Macy's. It's in the same building as the DMV (is Daffy's on the 7th floor?) and their dressing rooms don't have private stalls. It's one big room for group changing, so you know they were ASKING for it. It's practically a bathhouse.

5) Crunch Gym, SoHo location: Broadway just north of Houston. The steam room is at the top of a 5th floor walk up. You think security is gonna hike up there and stop the orgy? Think again. That would require breaking a sweat.

Smell an omission? The cottaging community hopes you'll add them in a comment.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Back to Blowjobs

And now, back to blow jobs. You may recall I was hired as a blow-job teacher. If you haven't read these informative posts, just follow the blow job label below to read-all-about-it. So, I was told by the boss of the whole racket that my schedule was too full. She said to call her back when virtually all my "evenings and weekends" were on-call for teaching blow job classes. All evenings and weekends?! And just where do I fit in my field research?

So that job prospect is not looking so promising. For many reasons. During my "training," she told me I had to mention to the ladies how to use lube, before we came to the blow jobs. Lube before blow job? Horse before cart? Um, yuck.

"We've got flavored lube," she tells me, "It's edible." Um, double yuck. Sensing my reaction, Blaire says I could tell the class that I personally preferred not to eat lube, but I must mention the delicious option of the edible lube...and why? Because they sell it on her website. So I see.

You may recall that Blaire claimed to be a "love expert" ---and I scanned her fingers and found no sign of a ring? Well, I've extracted here a few of the "techniques" she employs to give good head. I believe they provide telling clues as to why this "love expert" remains single:

1) The Ice Cream Cone: Lick the head, shaft, and balls like an ice cream cone. Taste, and enjoy!

2) The Bob & Weave: Put the penis in your mouth and wiggle your head back and forth while bobbing up and down.

3) Operation: Just like the childhood game, don't touch the sides! Open your mouth as wide as it will go, travel the length of the shaft. At the bottom, suck upwards letting out a nice POP when you've reached the top.

She's added....sound effects? There are others: the swirl, the hoover, the plunger. But you get the idea, right? It's like romper room down there. I understand she wants her clients to have "fun," but fun is not erotic--it's apples and oranges, people. If you want oranges, go down and be serious about it. Want apples? Get someone desperate, preferably a virgin. Any self-respecting man will lose his erection with a woman down there wiggling back and forth and bobbing and popping and...licking (!?) It's not a gobstopper.

Are these tips for how to give a man pleasure? Or how to make your man go gay? The last homework I had was to go to sit in the sex section of a Barnes & Noble and soak up new, innovative ideas. "You know," she says perky, "Like giving head with marshmallows in your mouth!"

Marshmallows?! That actually is published somewhere? A naughty game of fluffy bunny?

Trix are for kids.

Monday, August 13, 2007

Book Event

Spent the better part of last week out in Philly. It's one of those cities that is both small and big, and from what I've seen it takes the better part of both.

I went back for my friend's Laura's birthday bash and to do a reading from my book "You Can Run" (buy it here!) at Giovanni's Room bookstore. Laura quickly became my public relations agent. You'd think I had the girl on payroll.

Now I can't stand listening to people read, so I raced through the shortest chapter I could find -- "The Ugly American Part 2"--the bit where I do a striptease for the Colombian bathroom bitch. Following that, Thom Cardwell mediated a question and answer session.

Even Dolly Parton came to stand behind me.


James, David, Thom, me, Laura, Dennis and Steve! (Thanks Hughe for the pics)

Between her and other friends in Philly, we got the reading/signing listed on blogs (thank you BuckMonkey, Philly Chit Chat, and Philly Gay Calendar!), in the HX, Philly Gay News, and even the mainstream Philadelphia City Paper (see the Arts Agenda review here).

We were far from done. Steve and Dennis of "Tavern on Camac" hosted an exclusive afterparty with unlimited bar snacks, a surprise photo of "Jacob's Ladder" and a dessert tray provided by David from his Capriccio Cafe. These are all people I met just last month. I'm telling you, I felt the brotherly love in Philadelphia!

In related book-news, Bam Bam was in Australia last week visiting his family where he ended up giving a copy of "You Can Run" to his 80 year old mother. What was he thinking? Do you think he might've censored the chapter entitled Banana Fuck?

I hope she'll still cook me breakfast next time I visit.

Friday, August 10, 2007


So...about the panty holiday I was talking about--call time was 2am, so I didn't sleep. I don't think many of the models slept. We got ready in the basement of the Hard Rock Cafe near things like Van Halen's guitar and the Ramones concert contracts. If that wasn't straight enough--the male models were. They were all young, hairless, hot, and hopelessly hetero. I felt out of place as I listened to language like "Bro" "Dude" and "That's dope!" It was an anthropological insight. This is how the other 90% lives.

We were on the Times Square runway at something like 4:30am. Check out the video below. I appear about halfway through (they mention our names/underwear). I look confused. Is it the glare of the spotlights? Or do i just wish my underwear the right size?

Despite the lack of sleep, everyone was friendly, professional and in good spirits. Later in the morning they plucked 8 of us off the runway (me among them) and took us to appear on the morning news channel WB11. Or was it CW11? Anyway, once there, the producer saw us in our underwear and had a fit and a fan dance. I mean it. A fit and a fan dance. She stared at my crotch, and at the crotches of the 3 other men as threw that fit and fan dance because she saw ...bulges.

Inside our underwear, it was clear (and would be clear to television viewers) that men actually have PENISES! Can you imagine? She said we needed larger underwear, or tighter underwear, or hopefully pants so you wouldn't be able to see any outline, any mound that suggested penis, I'm telling you this woman wanted us neutered like a Ken Doll. She kept repeating "I am NOT getting fired today!"

She had no problem with the women's underwear, even though the bras clearly and distinctly proved that the female models had breasts. They were allowed to do the runway on television. Her solution for me, for the men, was to have us stand in the back and not move. There would be no close-ups on our underwear, and we were not to turn at all, because in profile you could see the proof--that the demon rod exists--!

Strangely enough, though the women were allowed to be in their underwear on television, when we were being shuttled to and fro, From Times Square to the station, they insisted on covering up the women with long t-shirts, while me and the other men were not. We just ran around in our underwear. It's all so very bizarre. This feigned prude, special-interest fearing, christian coalition society is the reason we have so much behind-closed-doors twisted sickness and perversion. I live in such an....adolescent country.

Thursday, August 09, 2007


Yesterday, a homeless person made me smile.

He was just a bum pushing his cart through Union Square. He's scraggly, smelly, and just going about his business. Most people just see that, but I notice the details. It's what makes me a writer. The slogan on the bum's soiled, ragged t-shirt reads: "I'm out of bed and dressed. What more do you want?"

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

That's "B"!

My latest form of menial labor has me standing on the black and white checkered floor of Bloomingdales hawking a perfume called "CLEAN." When I tell people it's inspired by soap, they say, "Then why don't I just take a shower?"

What they should be asking is, "Then why does it cost $76?"

Mostly, though, they just avoid me. I feel like those annoying non-profit fundraisers on the sidewalks. "Do you have a minute for the environment?" they ask, and everyone swerves away, gets on their cell phones, or ignores them much like they do to me at Bloomingdales (or Lord & Taylor). I don't really understand it, it's only a slip of scented paper. All you have to do is take it and smell it. I try to be charming, "Shop and sniff!" but they screw up their faces and march on by. My latest is, "Do you want to smell 'Clean'?" They shake their heads no and pass as I mutter "Thought not."

Yesterday, one of the other fragrance vendors was wearing a shirt with dark grey stripes. The manager Sharon came up and said, "I'm sorry, but your shirt is not 'B'." Not B? My ears prick up and I quickly discover that "B" is for Bloomingdales. How ridiculous.

"If this was "Sharondales," she went on, "I'd say wear a tank-top, but it's not. This is Bloomingdales, and that's not the "B" way." The B-way? This only gets better.

I ask another employee about the "B-way", like what exactly is it? And how can I be the best that I can B? He tells me that Bloomingdales training is all bursting with B. There is a B style, and there is a B-way, and did I knokw that the black and white checkered floor is actually referred to as the "B" way? No I did not! Yes, it is the B-way, a not so subtle reference to "Broadway."

Now I understand it. When I think of a great big broadway show, I think of shopping on a checkered-tile floor. I think of all black uniforms and New York City because New York City is Bloomingdales. Get it? Got your Big-Brown Bag? You do fully understand that this is not Sharondales? Good.

The marketing team appreciates your business.

Sunday, August 05, 2007


It's safe to say that the USA invented mammoth, money-making "occasions" like Fathers' Day, Valentines' Day, Gay Pride Month, Black History month, etc. How does all this began? I mean, who invented Mothers' Day? Who is responsible for getting it on the calendar? Capitalism. That's who.

Nobody is surprised anymore to learn that such and such a day signifies such and such an event, promotion, or plug for Mother, Father, Earth, or green Irish Leprechauns. However, they're generally tied to something endearing, something worthwhile. Who wouldn't want to celebrate Mom?

We're way beyond those days. Shameless promotions are now just that. I'm talking about "National Underwear Day." No good intention here, just old-fashioned dolla-signs-in-the-eyes. If you are a citizen who pays too much attention, you will want to know that National Underwear Day takes place each and every August 7th. It's not on the calendar yet, but give it time.

The underwear companies are combining forces, gathering together under one big umbrella to market the hell out of this flashy, fleshy "day" by stripping fifty models (men and women) down to their panties, tossing them on early morning talk shows, and later strutting them down a runway right in the middle of Times Square. In their underwear.

I will be one of them.

I may not be on a billboard, but hey, I'll be in Times Square. In my skivvies. Just like the Naked Cowboy. What an honor--and for the profitable cause of a fictional holiday like a National Underwear Day! What could be more American? And I am the All-American boy!

The Times Square runway show is set for 11 - 2 on Tuesday. I'll be modeling for Ginch Gonch, so at least my underwear will be colorful. Patterned, perhaps. At least I'm not in the Hanes group. This should be fun. I've never done runway. The one time I almost did runway, here's what happened:

I was to model a new designer's collection, so I went in for the fitting and she had me "walk." This is the point where she discovered I can't walk. Not like they want me to walk, not their walk. As I was practicing, I tried to lose the perky swish. I tried to clomp heavy footed and moody, but when I reached the end of the mock runway, I turned to walk back and twirled on my heel. "No, no, no. Not like that," the designer cried out. I tried again, but kept doing a half-pirouette as I spun around. She kept saying no, and I just thought...what? Does she want me to add the hands? Because I can give her the full rond de jambe.

The disappointed designer quickly mulled over her huge collection and said, "Sorry, nothing I have here will fit you" which was a complete lie because everything fits me. I'm sample size. She didn't want me! The shame. The humiliation. Too fruity for fashion.

So I'm nervous for the runway tomorrow, but I will just cock my head back and do it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. How many people can say they did runway in their underwear in the middle of Times Square, huh?

Oh, right. About 50.

But how many people can say they did runway in their underwear in the middle of Times Square....and did a sparkling half-pirouette twirl-turn at the end? Just me. That's who.

Putting on the RITZ

I hate being chosen. I want to do the choosing. That's why I write myself roles, so that I don't have to always submit to this demeaning feeling of being part of some inconsequential lineup.

And yet I keep repeating the role of please-pick-me! pawn.

My agency recently called me to say that I was one of several models hand picked to (maybe!) be in the promotional ad for the Broadway revival of Terrence McNally's "The Ritz" (which also hopes to revive the career of bubbly-fun Rosie Perez). I was instructed to appear in the morning, where the people in charge would pick the models they wanted from a select few. This is much better than a cattle call. It was already narrowed down.

When I got to Industria Superstudios, I was told to wait. Later, Rosie Perez showed up. She was introduced to a bunch of people, and after each introduction she asked the person she just met, "What was your name again?" This is a great quality to have. Recalling people's names shows that you really care. Rosie must be reading the "7 habits of highly effective people." I went up and introduced myself. Rosie was cordial and sweet, and guess what? "Your name, again?" she asks. "Jesse," I repeat.

OK- when you have to ask each person you just met to repeat their name, it feels phony. An essential footnote for highly effective people? Actually remember those names. But bless Rosie Perez. She's trying. She is conscious that you count, that you matter, that you aren't invisible. She's part of the solution to what's wrong with our ego-is-all culture. Namely, that one person's time is more valuable than another person's time.

The hours went by, my call time was 10am. By noon, when they still hadn't told me if I was in or out, I figured that I was in. Who would keep someone sitting idle for hours without good purpose? I was scheduled to work a sales job at noon, so I called in sick. Then, after nearly 3 hours, the people in charge told me that they wouldn't be needing me. "Your hair is too short," they said. "Sorry."

It's not personal, I get that. This is modeling. Tell me my hair is too short, tell me I'm too ugly. But after 3 hours? That is personal. And I missed work. Why weren't they on time to tell me straight away yes or no?

I respect other people's time. Everyone's time, even the dishwasher. Why? Because recalling someone's name is only a surface scratch to acknowledging that others exist. Life is more than being a highly-effective person, and when we fail so fundamentally in being a highly-human person, it can't help but result in an angry little loop of ill-will.

May "The Ritz" flop (kerplop!) on Broadway.

Friday, August 03, 2007

You Could Poke an Eye Out

I'm really happy to see Flotilla Debarge is making lemonade out of lemons. The brassy black drag queen was recently spotted wearing prison stripes in an HX ad for one-woman show at XES bar entitled "The Notorious F.L.O." She isn't kidding. Flotilla has been around a while (read: forever), having done anti-fur ads for PETA, and appearing last year (as a man) in the Broadway show "Three Penny Opera" (which is some really bungled theatre, minus one haunting Cyndi Lauper torch song).

Flotilla's biggest spectacle, however, is the lead role in clubland's #1 sadistic mystery since Michael Alig and Party Monster. Last September, she was at the West Village late-night Sunday club APT when she got into a scuffle with a straight couple. Apparently they took her seat at the bar without asking. Big mistake.

I've always known Flo as a kindhearted queen, but I guess when she needs a drink- move aside. A few frantic 911 calls later, a 23 year old girl is in an ambulance, and Flotilla Debarge is being handcuffed into a police cruiser to spend a week in the clink at Riker's Island.

What happened? Allegedly, Flotilla took off her pump, and swung. Some reports say the girl's eye got hit. Others say that her eyeball and accompanying gunk were gouged out, and pierced onto the stiletto heel like a shish-ka-bob.

From Broadway to the Slammer: the Notorious FLO.

People are still talking. Last week, I hit the 1 year anniversary party for club promoter/impresario Daniel Nardicio's DLIST (have you been? He gave me a great, free banner!) and ran into a bunch of club kids. The conversation turned to Flo, and what the hell did happen that kooky last September night. Which brand of pump did she wield? Was it designer? Did the girl really lose an eyeball?

Nobody knows, not them, not even Lady Bunny. Most likely, the key players are all keeping uncharacteristically mum until the "assault with a weapon" charges have been settled in court. Right now, the closest any of us can come to the truth is via Zander, the club's doorman.

Zander was the last to see the straight-girl eye-gouging victim, just before the paramedics arrived. "All I know is," he told the club kids, "She was looking at me with one eye, and at the ground with the other!"