Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Britney's Big Boy

All the hounding of Britney Spears has reached a critical stage, like I fear for her life. I really do. So it is with misgivings that I share the following story...

I recently spoke with my friend Michael whose brother bought the Malibu home of Britney Spears. Michael's actually now staying in the guest house on the property. He tells me that after Britney's home was sold and closed...she refused to move out.

Essentially they had to take her to court...to evict her from her own house. I have no idea how it didn't make the papers.

When Britney was finally forced out, she took basically nothing with her. Apparently she packed a suitcase, a couple lamps, and fled like a Kurdish refugee.

So Michael is left sifting through all sorts of Britney paraphernalia: hoodies, furniture, and his big find: Britney's dildo!

"You found Britney Spear's dildo?"

"Yes!" he says. No word on whether it'll end up on ebay.

"Where'd you find it? In her nightstand?"

"No..it was in her walk-in closet," he laughs. "On the top shelf."

Strange place to keep a sex toy, I think. Not too handy.

"So....What'd it look like, is it big?" I ask.

"Oh man," says Michael. "The thing's like a missile."

Guess it couldn't fit it in the nightstand.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Love in the Desert

Meet my romantic idols, Paul and Stephen from Phoenix.

It's not often I find gay couples to look up to. Here are two. The key to their success? "Not taking each other for granted," they say. Paul flew me out to Arizona this past weekend to surprise Stephen on his birthday. Stephen's a budding writer, and I went to help him get a jump start on those memoirs. These boys have a lot of stories to tell.

Paul and Stephen were two hotties at the forefront of the male stripper phenomenon in 1980, predating Chippendales. They stripped for raving crowds of women and got lots of press. Paul was the first person to don a t-back (g-string) on daytime TV when he performed a spectacular number live on the Phil Donahue show, lighting his g-string on fire for the women to blow out.

Stephen joined in on the fun, and through the years they have opened nightclubs together, headlined reviews, and performed strip-o-grams with oddball characters like Gigolo Joe.

28 years later, the g-string and phil donahue tape are in the Smithsonian. Over fifty of their friends and co-workers are lost to AIDS, and Paul and Stephen remain...hopelessly in love.

Monday, January 28, 2008

Bad Habits Die Hard

I've been biting my fingernails as long as I can remember. Biting is the term, even though its not very appropriate because I do much more than bite: I rip, tear, cut and chew my fingernails. So it's something vicious, a lion on the antelope jugular.

I worked a modeling gig back in November. When I arrived on set, a woman called me over to a chair. She was doing manicures for all the models. "They're only shooting my face and hair," I protested, on her behalf. "Sit down," she said.

I clasped my hands behind my back. "I have teenage runaway nails." I told her.

"Give me your hands," she demanded. Reluctantly, I did.

Giving her my hands, I made a personal promise to myself. I was so grossly ashamed of my teenage runaway nails that I decided to stop. Just like that. Cold turkey on the nails.

That was November 30, 2007. Ever since, I've had the novel occasion to use a pair of nail clippers. That's not to say I don't still get my fix. My fingernails haven't grown out much because I've taken to trimming them too often, just to eat the clippings.

My habit is now less like a predatory lion, and more like a vulture scavenging the corpse.

Not quite as violent, but still disgusting. Yuck. I know.

Sunday, January 27, 2008

IS CLARICE POIGNANT FOR PEANUT GALLERY?



I never appreciate how much I value my adult choices to live in urban strife and splendor until I travel to remote cloistered suburbs of American states.

Readers who are privy to my neurotic West Coast blogs from the brink will know that the feeble attempts I made last Wednesday to process my personal mind fuck may have missed the mark.

I am speaking of the immense distinction I brought up between the paupers and pill poppers of my reality and the spoiled prince-in-the-pea bitch I become in my mother's self-made not so nouveau riche maison. When I visit her, I channel Veruca Salt and demand that my world be the center of the universe for all to bear.

To illustrate, I made some stuttering awkward descriptions of fancy detail that adorned to my mother's guest towels.
It may have sounded like faggy braggadocio. The catty nature of two resulting comments made in response appeared to represent a couple of queens who were pissed off.

I was made to appear shallow and vacuous and reading the ire irked my neuralgia.

So-- I am throwing back the perfect bon mot as explained by Jayzen with a Z and a Y like Liza when he was a cheerleader and head campus queer at USC when Jesse the Blogmaster and I were still navigating our fledgling faggotry.

I am experiencing a major Clarice cum in the hair moment on your behalf.!



I hope Jodie Foster's star turn as Clarice Starling is "poignant" enough to satisfy the intellectual super%$#% who shared his sarcasitc comments.

Love your hair-- hope you win!



I'll be

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Designated Drunk

Made it to Arizona this weekend where the sun shines hot.

When the sun goes down, I meet a sober person...at the bar. He is a (they exist?) designated driver! Turns out Phoenix, Arizona has a new law on the books where drunken drivers are given a minimum mandatory sentence of 10 days in jail. For a first offense!

How can anyone live here?

"America's Toughest Sheriff," Maracopa County's own "Sheriff Joe," makes sure that those ten days are memorable. Potential drunk drivers all fear "Tent City"--a makeshift prison where the publicity-stunt lovin' Sheriff has put up a "Vacancy" sign.

He's also implemented programs such as the nostalgic chain gang (roadside workers wearing classic black/white striped jumpsuit). He also dresses his inmates in pink boxers. If inmates don't like to wear the hideously emasculating color of pink, Sheriff Joe simply says, "Then don't come back."

For meals, Sheriff Joe serves only green-dyed bologna sandwiches. For the "fruit/vegetable" allotment, he sadistically offers each inmate a....lemon. My friend James says inmates actually appreciate the lemons because they've mastered a hand-me-down recipe (including sugar, water, and a burped bottle of 7-up) for prison hooch (insert lemons to lemonade proverb here).

Since moving to NYC (and consequently taking the keys away from myself), I will proudly wear the emasculating pink, while also guzzling hooch...at the bar.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Dead and the City

I walked by Heath Ledger's apartment yesterday---there were no less than 5 television news vans with antennaes reaching to the sky--the media has taken over Broome Street, with lights and cameras on tripods--and a full television staff a-buzzing.

Pretty women with fluffed up hair and make-up pucker before the cameras, squinting newscaster serious. I hear one say with dramatic flair: "First we'll tell you how the body was found, and then...the 911 call!"

A producer nearby says, "Ok, now try it a little more natural."

The newscaster woman shakes it out, then breathes deep, and repeats fake-natural, with a little smirk: "First we'll tell you how the body was found, and then...the 911 call." Her career is on the rise. Heath Ledger's death could be her big break.

Pedestrians walk past, some drop flowers at the doorstep. Another puts a sign that reads "Andy Warhol would have loved you, Heath!" (Is that a compliment? A eulogy? Spare us all.)

Nanette Lepore is probably thrillled, because the sign above her store is getting some major press coverage. It's a hive of activity around the SoHo apartment, and that's what gets me about this city. We're constantly buffered by people everywhere.

You're buffered and protected and immune from having to make any real sort of actual human connection.

You can be lonely and depressed and afraid, and nobody will ever know. Nobody has to know. You can walk outside and the masses will absorb it. If Heath Ledger killed himself, I hope he can't see the buzzards now swarming.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

(still) Part of Their World

A little-disguised musical about penis envy, The Little Mermaid, has splashed onto Broadway. At the theatre, I’m drowning in children.

The hordes of young parents all seem to know one another. Looking around, I spot small clusters of gay men within the sea of children. We look at one another, lost and afraid.

Later, at intermission, I overhear an older queen talk about a child that keeps kicking the back of his seat. “If you hear an 8 year old scream in the second act,” he tells his friend, “You know I’m going out in handcuffs.”

As the curtain goes up, a young father beside me hollers to an usher: “Can we get a booster seat over here?” It’s the last thing I expect to hear on Broadway.

But then the show begins. “We are the daughters of Triton, great father who loved us and named us well…” I realize that I still know every Howard Ashman (a dead genius!) lyric. And I do mean every lyric. Oddly, this excites me greatly.

There are new songs written in to the show—um, why? Hearing new songs in a show you love is like tasting a new ingredient in your favorite dish: It takes getting used to. Take the Seagull: did he really need a musical number to explain about the dinglehopper? I mean, really.

But who cares? No big deal. I want more!

The costumes are a designer’s wet dream (sorry, I had to). There is a chorus dancer (Bahiyah Sayyed Gaines) who is so spectacular I can’t take my eyes off her; Ursula's tentacles are a work of art, although I am overly concerned her wig will get caught up in her suction cups. Under the sea, everyone is swishing around on those kiddie roller shoes which makes me really envious. They make those in my size?

Ariel swims away from home carrying a sparkling shell suitcase (which I would kill for) and promptly begins her Part of Your World number.

A kid beside me squeals excited. Me, too. Maybe because they say gay men are stuck in a state of arrested development. Quietly, I begin singing along with Ariel, but her voice (that voice!) is so pitch-perfect ("I don't know where, I don't know how, but I know something's starting right now!") that I stop my lip-synching to have a little cry.

For my part, I'd have to agree about the arrested development. Now get me a booster seat!

Sunday, January 20, 2008

Jack and a Pack of *COYOTES

San Francisco is the sexiest place on earth. Bawdy tales abound on the Barbary bay. I have grown increasingly sentimental over the historical Bay hooker's tales, especially as of late.



Kirk Read (How I Learned to Snap) and a flock of lusty icons are vamping like vaudeville at the Victoria Theatre tonight. It's one splendid SWOP. i.e. Sex Worker's Outreach Project.

These hot hussies are calling for a "new whore order" as they brazenly dispel the myths and misconceptions inherent in the sex industry.

If for no other reason, you must follow the show to the next stop to see Kirk Read's tits. I mean, Kirk Read's titillating performance.
His account of the last night at Circle J, (circa 2005) gripped me for days. I felt like I was there!

By the way, Circle J, per se may be closed but the men of San Francisco Jacks are celebrating twenty years of service this year. Check out the fun on SFJacks.com as they proudly put the cum in cumulative.

*COYOTES

Gallery Opening at Leslie Lohman

I hit up the opening of the “The Great Gay Photo Show” at Leslie/Lohman gallery in Soho last week. It’s a fantastic collection of some of the best new york city based photographers. I’ve shot with several of them: Wilson Models, Walter Kurtz, Regis Cebrian, and Frank LaRoca.

The place was packed (free wine, hello!) for the opening, and I found the photos evocative, sensuous, and captivating. In one, a man stood against some steel beams in what may be the meat-packing district. He's pulling his penis out of his shorts, a very large penis, and oozing with sexual energy. On the tag, I read the photo date: 1980.

The era of sexual freedom. It’s in the man's eyes; it’s in his pose, cock, and demeanor. Everything screams sex. The photo was taken in 1980, and all I can think; all anyone can probably think here is how little did this man knew. AIDS was busy incubating.

“1980,” I wonder aloud. “Do you think he’s still alive?”

A stranger answers beside me. “I’ll bet he’s alive,” the stranger pauses. “He looks like a top.”

I nearly spit out my wine.

footnote: HIV is transmitted through the mutual exchange of bodily fluids. The author of this post does not in any way endorse the dangerous notion that total tops are immune.

Saturday, January 19, 2008

You Go, Girl

Carmella Cann, NYC drag darling, appeared at a bar scene in my film A Four Letter Word as a wisecracking harpy who screamed such ad-libbed nuggets as:

“I’ve got two-dollar titties, and a five-dollar ghetto booty!”

or the inexplicable: “Who needs botox, when you’ve got cupcakes?”

I’m thrilled to hear Carmella managed to put together a short film that will hit the film festival circuit this year. "It's me, Matthew" stars our favorite Village Voice columnist Michael Musto as a psychiatrist. This casting gives great back-story on our heroine. When your therapist is a famous gossip columnist, of course you turn into a creature like Carmella Cann.

I'm thrown, however, when I discover that Carmella's alter-ego, Michael Ferreira is replacing Carmella in this production. Shock of my life. Man-drag? The plot thickens.

Are the two-dollar titties headed for early retirement?

Friday, January 18, 2008

Hot dogs, red beans and pickles!

At dinner with my friend Audrey, I'm talking about my new script where a fag-hag realizes she's got to leave her gay boys in order to find a straight man. "That's me," she says, tearing up. And she wonders why I named the character Audrey. It's about a girl that is so bodacious, so outrageous, that no straight men can handle her.

But this Audrey's not about to leave her boys...

Quickly, the subject turns into the steamiest video on the web. Two girls, one cup is difficult to track down (it took me about twenty minutes) as it's so disgusting it's been removed from all decent sites. Most of my friends can't handle it after the first twelve seconds, but not Audrey.

She likes a good shock as much as she likes to give one. Take the following, for instance:

Once she got really drunk with her friends, whereupon they went around the dinner table (in public) and admitted to their ultimate bedroom fantasy---if they could do one thing in the bedroom for the rest of their lives (and one thing only)...what would it be?

Most of her gay boys just said.."I want to be loved" or "To be cuddled all night" and then they turned to her, "What about you Audrey?" At this point Audrey "allegedly" (she uses this word a lot). Audrey "allegedly" blurted out in public: "I want someone to... shit on my face!"

Lastnight I confronted her with this accusation, and Audrey says what she really meant was that she wanted a "hot lunch"-- which is where you put a plastic sandwich baggie into your mouth, lay down, and someone shits a steamy dump into it.

"To achieve a really steamy dump," Audrey carries on, "You've got to eat red beans, hot dogs and pickles."

"Why do you know this?" I ask her and Audrey just shrugs. Her insider tips have been cobbled together from so many gay fountains over so many years that by now it's all just one jumbled, indistinguishable source.

She is, of course kidding, but doesn't neglect to add.

"If you are giving me a hot lunch, don't forget the sandwich baggie....otherwise you're just shitting on my face."

Thursday, January 17, 2008

A Brief Candle

In 1997 I was living in Los Angeles in a house with, among others, director Bryan Singer. At the time, he was working on his second film Apt Pupil. The film starred Ian McKellan, and a young upstart named Brad Renfro. I saw him on set, and one morning I found him in our kitchen and we had a long chat.

Brad was bright, engaging, and totally transparent. I remember he told me he was discovered while serving time in juvenile hall. He was only 15.

I hadn't heard his name in years, until yesterday when I overheard a stranger say "Brad Renfro is dead." Apparently heroin related. He was only 25.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Affection for the load

My friend Audrey snapped this pic at a work-site in Herald Square today. She and I both come from a long line of load huggers.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Xanadu on Broadway (seriously)

So much good press has come around about Xanadu on Broadway that I had to check it out. I wasn't too happy either, because when it opened there were all sorts of promotions ("dress in 80's costume and get in for $10!") which I viewed as a desperate attempt to see what was sure to be a disaster (anyone seen the movie? Hello!)

Then the reviews came in, and (poof!) the promotions disappeared. It's a hit. In essence, Xanadu is just a pastiche of pop culture reference, street smart one-liners, and urban legend in a story nearly as flimsy as Mamma Mia (Mamma Mia, however, I wouldn't wish on anyone). The difference is, Xanadu spoofs itself.

So--it's fun. Mainly because it's short. Or was that Cheyenne Jackson's short shorts? He's not only a sexy figure on stage, he seems a great out gay role model. If I read about him on a blog, it's always positive--and blog readers don't bite, stab and skewer him either. Gays love to eat their own, but Mr. Jackson seems to be above it all. May he stay there.

Talking about the show at a bar the other night, I met a friend of his. I had to ask: is he single? Nope. She said he has a boyfriend. So why isn't that little factoid in his publicity materials?

Is it because you're supposed to think that maybe, just maybe, with 8 shows a week and a lab/rottweiler named Zora, all that's missing in his life is...you?

Boyfriends kinda crush the fantasy.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Bolshevik Beefcake Boys




Soviet smut is all the rage in Russia, according to Reuters hot topics of the day. Actually, the term should be smut from the former Soviet Union but I didn't think it rolled off the tongue.


I'll do just about anything for alliteration.

Anyway, back to beefcake, i.e. Bolshevik beefcake (gasp, she didn't!) It looks like boys of the former Soviet Union have taken to flashing cock for their coins and copecks.

Relaxing Russian standards of appropriateness regarding sexuality is a positive development. It can be seen as a good thing down the pipeline, so to speak.

Seriously, I am interested in progress as it plays out in Russian social context.

It's nice to see the men of Moscow getting an economic boost.
(The Russians I know in San Francisco usually boost from major department stores.)

The Moscow Moscow Men, (sung to tune of Macho Men by the Village People ) are in a prime position to come up without putting out.

"It's not a sexual thing, it's a social thing," said Gagarin, (a Russian patron). Girls come here to speak to each other, the bouncers, the waiters and the dancers heart to heart. They have a shoulder to lean on."

Yeah, I'm with you, honey. Sounds like a regular sorority. Sisterhood for sure! It's all about sisterhood. Right, boys? :)

Ships Passing in the NIght

New York City is still the star--despite the once-in-a-lifetime event happening just off Battery Park. Bam Bam and I went downtown lastnight to glimpse the 3 most famous luxury liners in the world line up on a rainy night in New York harbor.

The Queen Mary 2, Queen Victoria, and the Queen Elizabeth 2 were gathered together for the very first time, and the very last time ever. The QE 2 set sail on her last voyage--she is fated to become a floating hotel off the United Arab Emirates (as a queen, I'd prefer being sunk or scrapped!)

As the ships gathered beside the statue of liberty, fireworks exploded in the dark skies above. They glittered and twinkled in ways I've never seen--then again, the fireworks were sponsored by Gucci (seriously). Sadly, not many saw the sparkle. There were only about three of us at the bow of the Staten Island Ferry.

Through sheets of rain, one old man kept saying, "It's a historic event!" "This will never happen again!" And he was about the only one that cared.
There they go: led by the QM 2, three queens head out of new york harbor. (Statue of LIberty far right) A lonely departure compared to the frenzied fanfare two of these ships received when I was with them in Sydney Harbour last year (below)

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Hysterical DUI

I woke up in a dulled-out hangover stupor today, thankful to live in nyc. If I didn't, I'd have been out on the road drunk driving (who is going to leave their car at the los angeles bar and call a cab? I mean, really) with this guy.

I mean, we have to assume he'd been driving. How did he find the ignition? Check out this genius:

Friday, January 11, 2008

It's 2008..upstate!

I spent New Years upstate with Bam and Cooldan and a huge clan of city boys at my generous friends' farmhouse up in the Catskill Mountains. It was so much fun we almost forgot the countdown to midnight.
On the dance floor above: party like it's 2008! How many gaylebrities can you count?

One group of new york city boys arrived just in time--clearly after raiding a very eclectic, very extensive drag box. "You look like a cross between Sally Bowles and a Viking," I told the one above. "Close," he said. "They call me...Lady Thor."

Ready the oxygen tanks. At the stroke of midnight, Justin Bond kissed his boyfriend for a good (this is a cautious estimate) ten minutes straight. Tastes great in '08!

Towards 4am, there weren't many stragglers still awake, and for some reason I figure going to bed is sort of accepting death. I wouldn't die, and yet everyone wanted me to. Take this good sport, for instance. I insisted on tossing a white sheet over his head and declaring him the reincarnation of dead Pakistani politician Benazir Bhutto.

"Wave to your fans, Benazir!" He complies, in character.
"Benazir, now that you've been assassinated, what are your plans?" Benazir doesn't miss a beat. "I'm going to Disneyland!"

Below, Bam Bam takes a photo of a beautiful brand new day. A brand new year!

Yes, this is the same location where Bam Bam discovered his elixir this past summer. Frozen over, it tastes even better!

Thursday, January 10, 2008

From the Brink of Lunacy; a West Coast Perspective








OMG! Isn't that the most scintillating introduction? I am truly honored and incredibly grateful to Jesse for letting me co-post on the brink.



This high concept art film, "nudies, that's what they were" gets a second reading as my personification of San Francisco. Live and Undressed, A Gold Rush Fairy

I met Jesse in a cinema class while we were freshman fags at USC. I spent those undergraduate years as a Journalism major with as much drama. Jesse majored in theatre.

I viewed the entire Trojan trip with a heady naivete that rivaled Sandra Dee. My post graduation path left me disillusioned and grappling with the alienation of disenfranchisement. I shifted myself to the margins where I evolved as a staunch advocate of its populations.

In short, the advent of my qualifying experience to classify me as truly on the brink began during the better part of the summer after my graduation from USC, circa May 1997.

As part of a personal tragedy that foreshadowed Britney's, I was keenly unaware of any future implications as I held court in my own suite of the Max Factor wing at Cedars-Sinai.

Vexed with an elaborate wobegoneness, I angrily turned the pages of my Outfest catalogue as a dismal reality bled through the weakening drip of my morphine pump.

Defying Gravity, a film I had acted in was debuting in the LA film festival on its way to indie fame and I was hooked up to tubes.

My intestines were on the mend having been reduced to black adder by self-inflicted gangrene. With a Nazi-inspired discipline, I tweaked and whittled my weight down to a Superstar 95 lbs. Any professional efforts to make good on the lofty career expectations upheld by the stamp of the Trojan mascot had gone unrealized. I sought to make a splash another way.

When the paramedics picked me up in my Hollywood apartment a year after graduation, they asked me why I had become so thin.

"That's Hollywood, I implored.

Later in intensive care, the doctors had forbidden me to eat. I therefore saw it as a sick joke that I should be exposed to a view overlooking the rooftop of Jerry's Famous Deli. A conspiracy must be underway to mock me with what seemed to be a mirage of wellness wishes spelled out in rocks... to Liz??

"GET WELL SOON, LIZ" read the missive. I buzzed for my nurse, "Press a button, ring a bell, you think the whole damn world..." (sorry, wrong movie.)

After confirming that Liz Taylor was indeed ensconsed directly above me in respite, I experienced a sudden jolt of peace as I remembered she had once described herself as a living example of survival.

This is the best image I could find to show the elapse of time from mid 1990s to Present Day.
In my present state as I am today, I live in San Francisco within geographical confines of the Tenderloin, "one of San Francisco's most undesirable neighborhoods".

Since seroconverting to AIDS 5 years ago, my activist spirit has emerged and ebbed to a state of ennui. A series of acronyms describes my appropriate behavioral risk pattern as defined by the San Francisco HIV Prevention Planning Council for purposes of funding and eligibility to receive services. I am MSM, IDU, PLWHA.

I take my HAART cocktail under a modified directly observed therapy (MDOT) regimen at Action Point, a neighborhood clinic. Two doors down from my apartment's front gate, the location doubles as a needle exchange site at least twice during the week. Once upon a time, I was volunteer of the month.

Before the San Francisco AIDS Foundation adopted the UCSF Department of Psychiatry's social marketing campaign, tweaker.org, I conducted outreach on harm reduction and safer injecting.

I once utilized 5150 as a coping option to the point of tattooing it on my arm. I am no longer defined by the DSM-IV.

Curtain fades with a spot on Liz. She said it best.

Blogging on the brink.














TJ Maxx courts gay dollar

What the hell are they advertising at TJ Maxx?

My friend PETA Dan felt right at home once he found this advertisement mixed in with the designer bargains at his local TJ Maxx in Virginia.

About that moody model in the middle--what's he longing to prove? Versatility?


Since the dire shortage of active tops has become a worrisome pandemic in big cities like New York, I'm thrilled to see the racks are full (size large!) down in Virginia.

Tuesday, January 08, 2008

To Tehran, with Hope

I have a little gizmo to tell me how people are coming to my site, and where they come from. The most popular way people find jesseonthebrink is by googling:

"homemade dildos"
"frozen dildos"
"dick dock provincetown"
"how to give blow jobs"
"blow job technique"
"transsexual Jesse"
"Naked Jesse"

or my particular favorite:

"Why is Anna Nicole Smith's anus unremarkable?"

Are we noticing a trend here? Why try and have a decent conversation when all you get googled for is indecent? It's a bit disconcerting.

Moreso, of late.

A new trend has come up. Photos from one of my most popular posts (Iranian Girls Gone Wild) somehow got onto google images. The post is about how I got dressed up in as a drag queen with heels, a bloody knife, and a birka that Dan bought at the islamic cultural center.

Suddenly Jesseonthebrink is getting hundreds of hits from Iran. Should I be concerned about this? Like, is this tantamount to a teddy bear named Mohammed? Are they mounting some kind of intifada against me in Tehran?

Or is it others? Iranian gays who wish they could dress up in a birka and heels? That's assuming there are gays in Iran.

"We don't have homosexuals, like in your country." That's what the Iranian president said when he spoke this year at Columbia University.

What I like best about America is: we let people like Ahmadinejad speak. Of course his preposterous reasoning may have something to do with the fact that in Iran they execute homosexuals. Most recently, two teenage boys were hanged. See their last moments here.

I'm not suggesting that we go in there and impose our sexual freedoms on Iran. Judging from the success we've had with imposing democracy in Iraq, that may not go over so well.

Much as we'd all like to force everyone else to think or act as we do, or in many cases just force them to act with the most minimal shred of humanity, we can really only show a glimpse of another way. And hope they might be able to seek it out for themselves. Iranian girls, good luck.

And now, back to your regular scheduled programming: Yes, Anna Nicole Smith's anus is unremarkably rotting away. And for blow jobs, I recommend breathing from the diaphragm.

Out February

I've been getting lots of emails wanting to know why my column isn't appearing in Out Magazine this month. So let me just set the record straight, it has nothing to do with me-- it's an editorial decision.

If that upsets you, if it makes you happy, if you want to ask for the phone numbers of the sexy swimsuit models--go ahead and write to the editors. I'm sure they love to hear from readers:

OUT-Letters@planetoutinc.com

Monday, January 07, 2008

A West Coast Correspondent

This blog doesn't have to be just Jesse. The blogosphere is part of a web, after all. So lately I've been toying with the idea of finding others on the brink to share their own observations, links, stories, opinions and twisted insight right here.

I've found the perfect person...so we're gonna do a trial period of dual-posting and see how things work out.

Without further adieu, I proudly introduce my friend in San Francisco, Michael Thomas Angelo.

What to say about this pierre et gilles inspired fairy gold-dusted foto, circa mid-90's? Sparkle on, Pixie!

MTA attended USC together with me, and since then he has lived so much he really should be dead. He's got a wicked wit, a keen eye, and with double digit t-cells, he's more than qualified to be on the brink.

He'll soon begin posting here from San Francisco under his own name, so you'll know who is who. So that's that.

More posts, more offensive inspiration. What do you think?

We're going bi-coastal on the brink.

Friday, January 04, 2008

Pampering at Gurneys Inn

In Montauk, Bam Bam and I checked out "Gurney's Inn" which everyone talked about as being so fantastic. Outside, I read on a plaque that their overpriced "sea-water spa" was built by the "Father of the American Sea Spa" Nick Monte in 1979.

It says he drinks a glass of sea water daily, which I highly doubt because he's dead. Also on the plaque is Nick's manifesto which will really make you want to head on in for a day of beauty:

"I felt the magic of the sea, and built the spa to set it free"

Did Nick pen his witty little ditty in Iambic Pentameter? I enter the spa building and am faced with fifteen attendants behind a desk, and roaming herds of overweight women. Who set them free? Was it the sea?

They wander about, blubber contained beneath clean, minty-green bathrobes. On their feet are matching minty-fresh flip-flops. Their feet have recently been pampered with a sybaritic saltwater pedicure and a fresh coating of ruby red polish.

They talk quietly while parading their shiny red toes and all I can think is: lipstick on a pig.

At the counter, a mother checks in for a treatment. She's got her daughter there, about 3 years old, about to be trained on how to be the consummate consumer. The girls is running around and making a racket until the mother has had enough and turns around to scold her.

"Stop it, calm down. You're acting like a baby." The mother grabs the girl by the arm. "Babies don't get days of beauty!"

No they don't. Babies don't get days of beauty! Take a look around, girl, at your future.

Thursday, January 03, 2008

Veggie Burgers Better Be Tasty

I called my parents to wish them a happy new year, and it turns out my brother Ryan and his family made a surprise visit from Montana to see them for the holiday. My mom was thrilled because Ryan brought her lots of meat--from the elk he killed out hunting.

A majestic elk?
My brother made it dead?
What century is this?

My brother and I hardly talk. We are pretty much the exact polar opposite. I mean, just look: I have a blue plastic elk in a boa on my christmas tree, and he's got a dead one in the deep freeze. I really shouldn't be surprised about this, but I am.

I'm told Ryan's been hunting for years --with his Montana in-laws. Growing up as kids, we both had a bow and arrows (the Archers!) and shot at targets in the woods, but never at real animals. We never killed anything.

What's he now? A hunter? A real man's man? I expect this type of gory entertainment from my less-educated good ole boy cousins, but not him. When my mother gloats about the fresh meat she obtained from Ryan's kill, I stop her.

Jesse: "He killed an elk? Don't you find that disturbing?"
Mom: "No."
Jesse: "I do. I find that very disturbing."
Mom: "I'm sure your brother finds some of the things you do very disturbing."

Oh no she didn't.

Jesse: "Well I don't kill things!"
Mom: (snidely) "So what are you having for dinner ...vegetarian?"

Touche.

She speaks to me like I'm a "city boy" snob, but I have no leg to stand on. I eat meat all the time, I've even eaten elk before. I rarely consider where it comes from. It's packaged up into pretty pink grounds, rounds and patties that conspire to widen the disconnect between eating flesh and comprehending it came from an actual living creature.

If we're going to eat meat we really should be able to face pulling the trigger. To kill it, gut it, slice it up and cook it. I never thought I'd say this, but as long as I shudder at the thought of a wild elk in the crosshairs of my brother's rifle, I'm giving up red meat.