Gay as Paint!!

Julie Christie's chagrin

2012-02-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

This is a missive I hammered out to my old college friend Timothy Brodt upon the release of his pal Michael Sucsy's production of Grey Gardens for HBO.

Dear Tim,

You can tell Michael (Sucsy) he ought to be canonized as far as I'm concerned. See, like Edie, it can be said that I "only care about three thigns, the Catholic church, swimming and dancing.". Michael Sucsy has done an absolutely superb job, heaven on earth, no less of brining the sacred Edies to the narrative screen.

I have been waiting for this film to come alive since I first heard of Edie sometime in 2001 after I moved back to San Francisco. With my life up in arms again, I depended on everything Edie to right my world. I had never related to someone as much as I felt infinitely drawn as she described the revolutionary costume. Dressed for battle, she wore her full length glove to hide the fist raised in protest against the establishment that espoused long established norms of what we as people were supposed to abide by.

When I stumbled upon a niche market crowd of Edie followers, we traded observations on a Yahoo chat group. There were people from the East coast that included someone who had met the Edies personally. His name is Walter Newkirk and he has since published a number of Edie related treasures from his own dealings with the mavens. He was the first person to tell me about the narrative film that was rumored to be brewing in pre-production. Starring Drew Barrymore and Jessica Lange, I was thankful that it wasn't going to feature Julie Christie, because like Edie, although I'm not disputing that she is a splendid actress, if anyone's going to play Edith Beale, it ought to be Edith Beale, (or the closest living portrayal available)

For Christmas that year, I received a copy of Little Edie, Live, -- Newkirk's original college interview that he completed at Grey Gardens while he was a student at Rutgers University.

And as I've related before, there is evidence that my path was destined to cross with the Edies in the scene from the documentary where Big Edie writes the check to Brooks Hyer for $25 for three cuttings. It is dated September 13, 1973, two days before I was born.I knew the film Walter spoke of and the one I would be reading about in the trades would simply have to come to fruition for the universe to be right. And when you told me that the director was an old friend of yours, I knew that it was a Divine message that it was all meant to be. Because you are such an old and very special friend in my life and someone who has known me since I was barely 20, the fact that Michael Sucsy was someone close to your life seemed entirely apropos. I am only a degree away from direct affiliation with the film.And how exciting is it that you had lunch with Michael and Christine Ebersole after the Broadway debut. Because I can't afford trips to Great White Way to attend Broadway shows, I am relegated to watching clips of the musical on Youtube but when I saw Christine sing Around the World as Little Edie, I cried real tears when she sang of Edie's plans to hang the birdcage for a bird that flew away. Like her, I have put many plans on the shelf that I mean to complete someday. When Edie feuded with her mother and acted out by singing "incorrectly" I knew it was a last ditch effort to stage rebellion.

I lamented her lost suitors one by one all the way down the Getty because I understand that she was a staunch character who didn't simply want to marry a stockbroker she had played tennis with at the Maidstone Club since she was `12 years old. I have scoured the Internet for scenes from the musicals first act when Big Edie sang melodies for the Junior League with George Gould Strong. Not in 20 years did he and Edie ever get along. And although it may be a hard pill to swallow, no more than the pate was really giblets for the cat, I understand how easy it is to become accustomed to one's environment even when it turns into squalor. I have adjusted to the bottom when my environment has turned to squalor more times than I care to remember and I can truly see how the mess just gradually overtook the Edies existence while they lived in blissful ignorance around it.
In the words of Big Edie, "Everything is good that you didn't do. But at the time, you didn't want it. You can't go around saying, 'sure I feel gorgeous right now.', because everyone thinks and feels differently, don't they."
And because of that, I shall have no regrets. I finally feel like the missing piece of my relationship with the Edies is bringing closure. The documentary is the historical corrective account and the first record but Michael Sucy's adaptation will dance the Edies in mainstream culture and live into eternity. They'll go together like birds of feather, two peas in a pod, tea for two, two for two. And I loathe Marlene Dietrich, says Edie.

"You look absolutely wonderful, honestly."

2012-02-07T23:01:00.000-08:00

Because the Edie's never go out of style, I decided to repost some old correspondence I had upon the advent of Grey Garden's rebirth.

H urray. Hurrah. Finally, at last the feature film version of the best thing in the whole world, Grey Gardens is premiering on HBO, Saturday, April 18. I rushed and ordered the network on my cable service as soon as I heard the news. I have long been obsessed with everything Edie. I was intrigued about the story the first time I read about the film in an unnamed festival program. The famous photo of Edie in the ratty fur coat standing in front of the mansion haunted me. Was it taken during "another winter in a summer town"? Edie's iconography astounds me. Anyone who dares ask me the question, "what is Grey Gardens?" deserves my venom as I have little patience for those who are not as culturally evolved as I am. How do I begin to explain the Edies and my inherent devotion? Oftentimes, when coming across her (during a forced viewing of the DVD) people will ask "what is wrong with her? Was she schizophrenic?" Just as there are some people born with the gift of clairvoyance, I believe there are those of us who understand the gifts that Edie had. My own biological mother, herself schizophrenic once said, "I'm not crazy, just extra eccentric". I truly believed she was. Edie was just as kooky and unconventional. Her words and phrases have transcended time immemorial. Because of my ultra devotion to GG, I was even more thrilled when my old friend Timothy (from USC) explained that the director, Michael Sucsy was a long time friend of his. Wouldn't the members of my online fan groups be thrilled for me? Being the starfucker that I am, such a degree of separation is unbelievable. This is a transcript of the communiques passed between me and Tim with a brief bon mot from Michael, the director.

From Timothy BrodtApril 8 at 11:28am
I cried the first time Michael showed it (the feature film) to me. I'm so proud of my good friend having made something so beautiful. I'm going to the premiere on the 16th. He's even in awe that his first film is premiering at Manns Chinese and the Zigfield (sic) in NY

This is what I wrote to Michael Sucsy
.Hello Michael,
Timothy Brodt is a friend of mine from college. When I saw your name on his friend list, I asked him if it was the same person who directed Grey Gardens as I had been following the scuttlebutt of the film since its inception. Needless to say, I am decidedly in awe of being so closely connected to Grey Gardens via the degrees of separation inherent in our lives.Tim told me he sent you an email I wrote after seeing promotional snippets of the film. You are to be commended. Based on what I've seen, you've done the Edies tremendous justice. I presume Julie Christie's name didn't come up in discussions of casting? I'm being facetious in reference to Edie's insistence that only she, herself be allowed to play Edith Beale. An interesting parallel, I noticed in the Beales of Grey Gardens, Al or David threw out a name and asked Edie if she would consider Ethel Barrymore to play herself. She responded positively although she had no idea who would play her mother. The casting of Drew was homage to that conversation.I am waiting with bated breath until the film debuts on television. I am happy Tim is going to the premiere. Thank you for deciding to pursue this project. I can't believe I'll finally be able to see what life was originally like at Grey Gardens. Grey Gardens, the brand resonates with me on so many levels.With adoration,Michael Thomas Angelo

Michael Sucsy's reply:"You are so sweet. I hope you enjoy the film."

Marooned on the Blue Lagoon

2012-02-06T03:24:00.000-08:00

My formative years were grounded in a negative perception of self image and a depressive loathing that laid the path for years to come. In 1980, my divorced father and his child-bride belted me into the back of their station wagon and took me to the drive-in showing of Herbie Goes Bananas.
I had no interest in the trite telling of a VW bug's life. Bored and bitter, I peered through the rear view window to discover an angel of an image. When I saw Christopher Atkins frolicking on the beach of the Blue Lagoon, I felt a dreamy warm chill flash through my gut. Doing a 180, I read his gorgeous, full lips word for word through the back window since I couldn't hear the spoken dialogue. From the front seat, my dad growled at me to turn around and focus on the film we had bought tickets for. I was only able to catch brief glimpses of the tan, toned physique of what appeared to be a blond sun god before I was relegated to Disney doldrums.
Forbidden and banished from my evening in the twilight of the Blue Lagoon, I wept in angry tears.
"You're not old enough for Brooke Shields." my father scolded. I neglected to tell him that it wasn't her I was interested in although I had loved her work in Pretty Baby.
Later that night at home in the dark, I fantasized about the flash of Christopher's bare flesh that I had glimpsed through the back of the station wagon, if only for a beautiful albeit brief moment. Hollywood's image was forever in my head. The bleached, athletic prowess of a California beach boy stayed in my subconscious and served as the ultimate prototype of perfection.
As I shed the poundage of a barely tolerable childhood, puberty led to adulthood and a modicum of self-acceptance. Still, no matter what I looked like in the mirror, an uncomely nerd stared back. This dreadful image followed me through high school into college and a young adulthood spent in a microcosm of looksism: aka Hollywood.
Slim and suddenly able to compete in a model's market, I maintained the destructive behavioral pattern fueled by an inaccurate self perception. Christopher Atkins moved on to yesterday's news but his masculine ideal remained the golden-haired standard. I became bewitched by the beefcake icon imagery set by American Model Guild. The tantalizing unattainable bulge in the photos haunted me.
Upon a recent evening set in my current habitat of ennui, I met my childhood wet dream incarnate. A friend showed up at my door with what I perceived to be was some random street trade he had dragged in until he revealed a sense of familiarity with the sexy stranger.
I was introduced to a blond beauhunk named Bjorn who laid it on pretty thick with complimenting me the first moment we met. "Why didn't you tell me he was so fine?" he asked my friend in reference to me.
I dried the dish soap on my ragged jeans and considered it a welcome substitute for the laundry I was too broke to do. Luckily, the faded frumpy cornflower blue sweatshirt I wore was baggy enough to hide evidence of my neglected abdominals.
Since I had been wearing the same drab dress for over a depressive week, I cursed myself and hurried to the loo to implement damage control. I remembered reading that Bette Davis was dubbed the "little brown wren" upon her Hollywood arrival and I flashed to that image. A split second later, I heard Piper Laurie's cacophonous curse in taunting tones lecturing in my ears. Just like she did as Carrie's mother in the Stephen King film about the telekinetic teen, she screeched "They're all gonna laugh at you," which I translated to mean "He's never going to f**k you." Over and over, the sirens taunted me. The blond Venus in my living room must have mistaken me for someone else.
When I finally rejoined my company I flashed on the scene from Terms of Endearment when Shirley Maclaine does a fast-switch with her hairpiece in the ladies room before she lunched with Jack Nicholson. If she could dance the entire Nutcracker ballet suite with a broken ankle like she did for the Washington ballet in the 1950s, then I could fake my through social niceties with my childhood lover fantasy.
But then Bjorn took off his shirt and off before I could say Paris Hilton I had already uttered the obvious with a quip that I must have channeled from the heiress with an airhead image. You're hot, so hot," I salivated.
My friend guffawed in glee as I shot a grim glare his direction.
I accepted Bjorn's lavished attention much less gracefully than Shirley did in her dance of the lost cupcake.
Since I had seemingly silenced my friend in one stone like stare, he busied himself perusing the craigslist m4m postings as I sat beholden by Bjorn. He layered the saccharine on tri-fold and lambasted me with butterfly kisses.
"I dreamed of you last week." he said. As we had just barely met, I questioned the validity of this statement.
He seemed very eager to seek my approval as he implored me to read his journal. As he thrust a tattered, careworn steno pad into my lap, I was transfixed and read his enthursiasm as endearing. Scrawled in a handwriting script that was psycho Palmer method, the words "treatment journal" were scribbled in magic marker. After flipping the cover, I was still able to eke out a semblance of translation from his prose. I guessed it was something to the effect of song lyrics or a dream sequence but I could not be sure. I don't know which of his boyish attributes appealed to me most, but I sat back to interview him with the professional journalistic focus I had learned in college. I was anxious for a chance to practice my Anderson Cooper impression and jumped right into what appeared to be a brewing story.
Bjorn seemed a bit off balance. Yet, it was a quality I could relate to as evidenced by the number 5150 tattooed on my arm. Branding myself with such a cuckoo's scarlet letter of sorts instantly identified me as someone who was no stranger to the inside of a psych ward which seemed to score me some points with Bjorn. He lapsed into a deep, throaty rendition of a Kurt Cobain tune as he revealed a revelation that he had once attempted to overdose. I brought up the obvious parallel between the wispy singer's suicide and Bjorn's own tragic trajectory.
As I probed him for sketches of a biographical narrative, it began to take shape. He made references to a broken home, a neglectful mother and tyrant father. I pictured the young, blond, curly-haired innocent Dickensian character. It was Hawthorne's tragedy of the marble faun.
Then he told me I looked like a rock star. Leaning into within an inch of my ear he confessed that he only watched straight porn as if the prospect of homo porn was entirely inappropriate to view during gay sex.
By the end of the interview, I had discovered even more parallels that seemed monumental no matter how trivial.
As I stared into eyes that reminded me of the deep blue sea, my private longings had unintentionally surfaced. I imagined being sucked affectionately and repeatedly followed by a bath in warm bubbly tap water
By this time, I was living an out-of-body experience or did I only want to because he said he did? No stranger to attempted suicide, he parroted other accounts I had heard about near-death as he described tales of ominous light coupled with a feeling of peace that led to the spirit levitating above the body ad infinitum.
My mind was overrun with themes of suicide, pills, teen-age delinquency, sex, psych-meds and pornography packaged in the bulging briefs of a blue eyed, blond haired walking hard on. I was beside myself in complete disbelief. I pictured a paperback novel with Fabio on the dog-eared cover. It would be a hallowed story of this lusty squire.
Suddenly he was overcome with passion and we were two babes in the woods with a determined dynamism. My sexual half-life up to the present had been primarily dominated by the hurried hushes and carnal urgings uttered by straight-as-identified men. I was totally disconnected from the 'wow' factor for years. Having humored the homophobic hostility of MSM (men who have sex with men)along for so long, I could barely remember the sparkle kiss of contentedness shared with another man.
Bjorn's tranquil caress brought me to Xanadu. I flashed on Olivia Newton-John and a memory of Let's Get Physical reverberated through my physique. The Nirvana-like euphoria I experienced made me question the association Bjorn made between himself and the wispy shadow of an icon: aka Kurt Cobain.

"(aside, spoken to myself as if the fourth wall was revealed) "I enjoyed myself sexually but how could I not? He's completely unreal and I'm still not so sure that he is not one hundred percent cuckoo-loo. That explains why he claimed attraction for me. He has to be nuts. Or ulterior motives are in play. I'm out of the running. I can barely stomach myself. How can he?"

I wanted to bask in the promising pillow talk and dream of my future ex-husband. I tried to picture myself as the second half of two dads to his children. But then he lapsed into baby-talk and for a while looked and sounded like an eight year-old. He sat on the floor and surrounded himself with a Mr. Wizard-like set of drug paraphernalia. He seemed to be playing patty-cake with a witch doctor's unction. I knew Bjorn had a drug-induced past which was another trait he shared with me. The unguent combination he prepared in the spoon looked unlike any injectable substance I had ever seen. "It's synthetic cocaine," he offered. "Want a hit?"
Good Lord!! Being an advocate for junkie's rights had never exposed me to this sideshow. I soon learned that Bjorn's synthetic coke was actually a crushed-up and watered down smattering of Welbutrin mixed with another undetermined psych med, "dipped in Ecstasy" that was actually heated by flame and drawn up in clumps through a used syringe.
I knew better than to look this "hung like a (gift)-horse" in the mouth and my optimistic dreams of coupledom gave way to self chastisement.The familiar lashings of self-doubt and hatred caustically attacked me from the eaves of my id. Bjorn was gone. Way gone. As he left upon Aurora's awakening at the break of dawn he blew me (and then a kiss) vowing to return for the nascence of our relationship, it turned out to be the nadir since I have not seen him since. I bid farewell to him and adieu to the hateful imps wreaking havoc on my self image. I realized I could never imagine that I would somehow be worthy of the attention he lavished on me. And by the rate things are going, I'm not sure I ever will. God save me from myself.

"Supporting the decay of our once great nation."

2012-01-03T02:24:00.000-08:00

In honor of the topic discussed below, I have included a clip of the woman who started it all. Christine Jorgensen. The first woman to have a sex change which she successfully endured as the first MTF to undergo it, she blazed the trail for trannies to be able to match their outside with how they felt on the inside. Chaz Bono is today's public face of gender reassignment and based on the experience I described below, he's pissing a lot of people off.
Way to go Chaz.

Chaz Bono was a hot topic a few months back when he joined Dancing with the Stars. I came across a lot of brouhaha or I should say "bullshit" perusing Youtube. The comments responding to a clip of one of his appearances revealed the ignorance that is rife in our culture around transsexuals. There were a number of comments that rejected Chaz' decision to change his gender. I had to come to his defense and posted this under my screen name LastChanceLife.

As a man, he continues to make tremendous inroads towards the acceptance of LGBTs, especially trannies. I admire his strength considering the difficulties he endures through discrimination.
LastChanceLife 2 months ago

That started a back and forth between me and an asshole who calls himself "Some random feller". He felt the need to post the following.

@LastChanceLife its a she, or i suppose "it" would be more appropriate nowSomeRandomFeller 2 months ago
Which is when I responded with:@SomeRandomFeller You are revealing your ignorance and intolerance by insisting that the pronoun used to describe Chaz Bono should be it. He is a human being and deserves to be described by the gender signifier of which he identifies, in this case, he. You on the other hand are abhorrent and therefore are better classified as a "it" and an asshole.
That really set him off. I received a full fledged diatribe where he left no doubt as to the depths of his complete ignorance and intolerance.

@LastChanceLife Take your politically correct bullshit and blow it out your ass. Just because some freak decides to mutilate its genitals because they have the audacity to know better than nature does not mean I will support such crap. You liberals want to shove this shit in peoples faces and FORCE them to accept it. I will not. People like you support the decay of our once great nation. YOU are the problem. You want equality for everyone, unless they see things differently than you. FUCK YOU!!!
And then he chimed in independently with a blanket statement that really summed up his beliefs.
@SomeRandomFeller Liberals suck ass. It's not a wonder why they argue by using race baiting or false equality causes.

I don't feel the need to throw one back to some random feller because it would be like trying to debate abortion with the Christian cuckoos.

I used to be ambiguous in my own gender presentation and it used to make me feel like a celebrity while I pretended that the stares and murmurs emanating from the public were in response to them having just seen a celebrity because that''s what it felt like to affect so many people by virtue of being myself. I felt like I ,must have been pretty important if so many people felt the need to express an opinion about the way I should dress. If I was able to set the tongues wagging, I could imagine what a real celebrity must endure in the same situation. Chaz is such an example. But don't let me give him too much credit because another high profile FTM objected to Chaz being the only public spokesperson of the trans topic. Stephen Ira Beatty, the trans son of Warren Beatty and Annette Bening is in the process of switching genders from the one he was born with who was called Kathlyn. "I just don't want anyone thinking that he's qualified to offer Trans 101, you know?" he said

If Stephen resents Chaz getting all the credit, he should get booked on The View, at least to start. Chaz is in the spotlight because he out himself out there and put on a brave face at risk of being assassinated by some Christian fundamentalist like the type shown on Youtube.
Being the spawn of Cher gave Chaz a prime platform to talk Trans 101 but Shirley Maclaine's former niece who became a nephew would make an equal impression on the masses and attract his parent's fan base to boot. So speak up Stephen and take Trans 101 to the next level.

a mother's letter

2011-09-30T01:31:00.001-07:00

Dear Tom, How are you? The next time you come to San Jose, I wish you would come see me.My birthday is coming up June 17. I will be 39 years old. Huh, like Jack Benny. What I would like for you to do is mail me another picture of our 8 year old son, Thomas Charles. He will be 9 years old September 15 of this year. Because I don't have a picture of him and I'd like to use that to get four copies made in slightly larger sizes and in color. I would appreciate it if you would do this for me. I don't ask many favors from you or my brother and don't see you much either. I am up to 150 lbs again, eating to compensate for the loneliness and such. Well, I will send you a Father's Day card. Take care, Sincerely, Kay Domino Best wishes and many happy returns

I swiped this letter from a stack of photos belonging to my biological father on the second occasion we had seen each other. Most people who know me know I am adopted. It's a part of me as innate and identifiable as my name. In a nutshell, I grew up with virtually no information about my heritage until I unearthed it all after undergoing a search when I was 20. A reunion ensued as one by one, relatives began coming out of the woodwork. The first to be revealed was my biological mother Kathy who I discovered living in a run down halfway house in downtown San Jose. It was a Victorian mansion that must have been very stately in its day. By the time it was taken over as a board and care for the indigent, time and decay had weathered it just as it affected the residents who came to occupy it. Kathy had lived in a series of such places since being released from the fortress that was Agnew Insane Asylum when Ronald Reagan was elected governor in 1967. His LPS legislation was implemented as a cost cutting measure under the guise of a human rights campaign that would allow mentally ill patients to exercise the right to refuse treatment. Kathy was sent there after being diagnosed schizophrenic and her family moved away without giving her the new address. They were frightened of the person she became and allowed the state to take over her care. Without the strictures of medication that fogged her mind, she was free to wander the streets and forge her own relationships. In the early 1970s, while staying in one of the government subsidized halfway houses that was opened after the asylums closed, she met Tom who had checked into the place after coming off a drug binge. He didn't realize he had checked into a snake pit of off balance women and fostered a few quickie romances with more than one tenant until Kathy caught his attention. They became an item that resulted in her becoming pregnant with a girl. He remembers the time as idyllic as he was still under the delusion that they would run away together, get married and have a family. Then things started to go terribly wrong as the reality of her mental illness reared its head. Finally, he had to accept that it just couldn't be, despite the heaviness in his heart. He said he knew he had to leave after he came home to a room full of broken dishes that was the aftermath of her destructive delusions and temperament. He was a member of a construction union that took him away for long jags after which he would return to visit her at the halfway house and romance was rekindled at least for a night or two. That's how I came to be conceived but this time they made no pretense about playing a family. He didn't bother coming to the hospital when I was born like he did with my sister. He didn't bother because he knew they would turn him away again.
That's why the contents of this letter are so puzzling. Somehow in Kathy's mind, she fell under the impression that he had contact with me and an arsenal of pictures. She wrote that letter when she was 38 which is the same age I am now.At the time it was written, as I was about to turn 9 years old, I was between third and fourth grade living in Los Gatos with my mom and soon to be stepfather. They were working for Atari and I was about to be enrolled at the South Valley Carden private school for 4th grade. We had just put in a swimming pool and I would celebrate my 9th birthday with a Superfriends themed swimming party. The identity of my biological mother was as foreign to me as anything related to the story of my origins. Of course, I knew I was adopted and loved to pull out the giant box of photographs from underneath the guest bedroom where I would pore over the history for clues. My baby book was written for adopted kids and instead of a birth announcement,, my parents had sent out a card that said, "We've adopted someone special." My parents were very open with the fact that I was adopted and I accepted it as a proud part of me as relative as my haircolor. Being adopted was celebrated and I was constantly reminded of how lucky I was to have been so. There were vague references to my biological mother having possibly been "sick", but no one offered information beyond that. "Didn't you ask questions,?" I would implore to my mother. How could she not have asked questions? She explained that it didn't matter to her where I came from because she was concentrating on getting me. The person I was ceased to matter as much as the person I was going to be after they took me home from foster care. That was the end of it. Nothing was asked. Nothing more was offered. To appease me, I was given a book called Why was I Adopted?, which was lovingly inscribed with a message of love by my mom.
To think that Kathy, my bio mother was less than 5 miles away in another part of the same city is unthinkable today. I imagine her alone with a tub of half eaten ice cream which she is bingeing on in an effort to distract her mind from thinking about the son she gave away. The level of delusions in her schizophrenic mind is evident by her insistence that he send pictures of me as if to imply he was holding out on her. "I don't ask much of you or my brother,:" she said. Her brother was my Uncle Fred, an attorney who once presided as judge in San Jose. His trajectory through Bellarmine, a private Catholic boy's school and then on to the Univeristy of Santa Clara where he studied law and became an attorney was typical of boys from well to do families. He shouldered the brunt of her care after the death of their mother and took on the burden. He would bring her supplies in the halfway house now and then and tried not to worry when she disappeared from the radar for months. Released from the asylum, she was on her own free will to be as unpredictable as that may have been. I think, clearly, she must have been lucid enough to carry on a romantic relationship and bear children. I think the illness grew consecutively worse throughout the years. But in the 1970s, based on pictures I saw, she was still relatively young and attractive. No one would know from looking at her that anything was wrong.
Underneath the letter, there was a black and white photo of the two of them standing behind a facade made to look like they were a muscleman and mermaid.

It's a cute indicator of their courtship and evidence of what might have been.. Kathy didn't show signs of trouble until after the summer she returned from studying art in Europe. She was 15 and her family explained her behavior as a combination of teenage melodrama and the effects of European influence. "It was just weird," recalled her brother. I don't know exactly when she was institutionalized but it was the only viable solution after she attacked her brother's fiance and put her in the hospital. Her behavior was increasingly erratic and they were beside themselves with worry. While she disappeared behind the iron gates of the Moorish castle like fortress that was Agnew, her family moved to a new part of town and kept it a secret.

When I discovered this letter and read that my biological mother was asking her ex boyfriend, my father about me as if he had any information, I was puzzled. Hadn't I been given up to the system? He purportedly wasn't even around at the time having confessed that he refused to believe I was his child until he saw a picture. But during my delivery and subsequent shuffling until I was adopted, granted a real life and turned from a wooden puppet into a real little boy, he was away on a construction gig denying my existence. It broke my heart to read the last sentences, that she was eating to curb the loneliness. When she confesses her weight at 150 lbs, I could feel her pain and the self-hate she must have felt. By that time, from what I eventually discovered she had given up all of her three children and was living a vagabond life

Heroin Chic and Me

2011-08-05T01:45:00.001-07:00

A little over 15 years or so ago, I was an anorexic wanna-be part-time photographer's model living in Los Angeles. I was a client of the then burgeoning agency Dragon Talent. The "it" look of the moment gracing all of the fashion magazines was a controversial mode called heroin chic.According to Wikipedia: "Heroin chic was a look popularized in mid-1990s fashion and characterized by pale skin, dark circles underneath the eyes, and jutting bones."
At the height of the phenomenon, when I was released from the hospice off Melrose after nearly a month stint at Cedars-Sinai I was 95 lbs soaking wet. At the onset of my debacle, a paramedic responding to my 911 call had asked me why I was "so thin". Without hesitation, I responded something to the effect to indicate Hollywood was to blame.

The look, which promoted emaciated features and androgyny, was an alternative that stood in direct contradiction to the healthy and vibrant look of models such as Christy Brinkley, Cindy Crawford, Claudia Schiffer, and Heidi Klum. A 1996 article in The Los Angeles Times charged that the fashion industry had "a nihilistic vision of beauty" that was reflective of drug addiction, and U.S. News and World Report called the movement a "cynical trend".

Heroin infiltrated pop culture through such figures as Kurt Cobain, Courtney Love, and River Phoenix, whose fame brought attention to their addictions in the early 1990s. In film, the heroin chic trend in fashion coincided with a string of movies in the mid-1990s – such as The Basketball Diaries, Trainspotting, and Pulp Fiction – that examined heroin use and drug culture

Rise and fall of the aesthetic
This waifish, emaciated, and drug-addicted look was the basis of the 1993 advertising campaign of Calvin Klein featuring Kate Moss. Film director and actor Vincent Gallo contributed to the development of this image through his Calvin Klein fashion shoots. The trend eventually faded, perhaps in part due to the overdose death of a prominent fashion photographer of the genre, Davide Sorrenti. Sorrenti was known for his photographs of seemingly strung-out models in stupor-like poses that some felt emulated the blank look of the heroin addict and glamorized drug use. He fell in love with teenage model James King, herself a heroin addict, and began abusing substances himself. Vulnerable due to a lifelong blood disorder, Sorrenti died in 1997 after an injection of an amount that was "not normally considered unusual".

Heroin chic fashion drew much criticism, especially from anti-drug groups.Fashion designers, models such as Kate Moss and Jaime King, and movies such as Trainspotting were blamed for glamorizing heroin use. Then-U.S. president Bill Clinton condemned the look. Other commentators denied that fashion images made drug use itself more attractive. "There is no reason to expect that people attracted to the look promoted by Calvin Klein and other advertisers...will also be attracted to heroin, any more than suburban teen-agers who wear baggy pants and backward caps will end up shooting people from moving cars," wrote Jacob Sullum in Reason magazine."

At the time the ads surfaced, I had never tried heroin. I was a self-described speed junkie and attributed my lanky, emaciated frame to the drug as well my many anorexic habits.
Today, I am HWP (height-weight proportionate) for my size and have been in contact with a host of heroin users more so than in the chic past. it may be a twist of \rony that causes my personal trajectory to come full circle in the way of heroin use and its implications. None of the addicted people I have met through SFAF Needle Exchange or my other drug outreach are as glamorous as I tried to be that long ago season of heroin chic. I look back on my experience with a bittersweet envy and nod to nostalgia. Long Live Kate Moss and the era of the androgynous waif. To think for a brief moment in time, I was the It ticket.

If this offends you, don't read it.

2011-08-03T13:52:00.000-07:00

In the back of my mind, I somehow knew a day would eventually come that the writing I do about my life would come back to bite me in the ass. If any members of my family are offended, I would suggest that you don't read it. Those who shall not be named know who they are.

Tragedy Starts Here, -- Offing Craig Dorfman

2011-07-08T07:23:00.000-07:00

While perusing the friends of my friends on Facebook, I came upon a few familiar names from the Rolodex of my past. Recognizing Lisa Beach and Tammy Billick as two casting director's names I hadn't seen since slaving in Hollywood trenches at Don Buchwald & Assoc., a mediocre talent agency, I knew I had stumbled on to sacred territory when I came upon the JAP bitchtress Julia Buchwald's moniker on the list.
I was having serious deja-view flashbacks to a woebegone bygone era that I had all but written off as fiction. Suddenly the laundry list of A listers spat out a name stained on my consciousness. The stain was from the blood I shed slitting my wrists in self-destructive tendencies multiplied for years to come.
I recently drudged up Craig Dorfman
after coming across a letter with his name on it. In the scraps of collected paper I've filed as fodder for my pending book, I came upon a threatening letter I had messengered off to Mr. Dorfman. I was forced to retain an attorney I knew from Sports Connection across from the Starbucks that I worked at on Santa Monica Boulevard. After Dorfman stopped payment on the $250 check that would serve as my final pittance for my first post-collegiate job ever, I retained legal counsel.

A direct quote from the starlogue journal I kept circa the same era in 1997 reveals the ugly truth about my life with Mr. Dorfman.

"Now I live in Hollywood after graduating from an expensive, prestigious university. I'm ready to take on the town and begin my ultimate purpose. But I can't find a job. I can't believe I had to endure my first job at that Alliance Talent Agency. How was I supposed to cope when a maniac asshole freak berated me and called me stupid every day? I was always one of the smart kids and that tyrant made me feel like a peasant".

Months after exiting the Alliance, I won a contest on a morning radio show for my account of the worst assistant job ever. I had dodged paper weights from a devil that didn't wear Prada. The only reason I took the job was because he could count Mink Stole on his roster of talent. I worshipped the iconographic diva of John Waters film fame. When I saw her name on the list followed by Beth Howland who played Vera on the sitcom Alice, I blanched beaming. I couldn't wait to tell the world that I worked for Mink Stole's agent. How perfectly postmodern was that? It is not surprising that I would have friends who had friends working on the upper rungs of Hollywood's A list.
Once upon a time ago, I was living a starfucker's life too good to be true as it turned out. I once marveled at the glamour inherent on my gilded path. Then, to quote Helen Lawson from Valley of the Dolls, I woke up one day and wondered what the hell happened.

I graduated USC under the promising pallor of a future paved with cardinal and gold on the Trojan family network. My mother had footed the bill for a first class education that was to serve as the safety net in its far reaching networks of contacts.
Among the peers of my major in Print Journalism, I was one of the few who didn't sport a second major or admission to graduate school. I had filled up my transcript with fluffy electives from the Cinema-Television school.
I was only one or two classes shy of officially declaring a minor in CNTV. Queer Cinema and Soap Opera Writing weren't on the list of Minor requirements but had the same number of elective points and therefore counted as appropriate substitutes. The latter class hosted a field trip to the set of General Hospital.
I wanted an internship like the one my friend Michael Ausiello held at Entertainment Tonight. He went on to work for TV Guide by way of Soap Opera Weekly and the Daily Trojan.
In contrast, my professional field experience started as the layabout of Longbow Productions. I travelled over Laurel Canyon one day a week to toil in the office of a petite production company that produced women in peril films. At the time of my tutelage, Lindsay Wagner was the contract heroine du jour cast as a mother trying to save her kid from a life lived as street-hooker in a film called,Fighting For My Daughter.
I spent an entire semester of afternoons poring over a pile of scripts that my superiors would never see. After rebuffing the sexual advances of a Guido like producer, I still hadn't met Lindsay Wagner and moved on. Instead of pursuing a chance to apply for an internship at a movie magazine, I opted to work in a talent agency. I answered an ad in the Daily Trojan classifieds for an internship at a mediocre Beverly Hills industry spot. The client roster of Don Buchwald and Associates did not sport any stars but hosted a hearty hunk of working actors. The kind of actors that you'd never remember the name of after seeing one in last week's episode of Seinfeld. The careers of DBA actors bordered on anonymous obscurity. I see old clients to this day popping up in commercials for life insurance or a cameo in Little Miss Sunshine.
I endured what was to be the sum of my professional work experience as one would a habit of ritual hazing. By the time I graduated, I had a hemorrhaging case of post-traumatic stress disorder smarting in place of a streamlined skill set.
My position in the mail room made me privy to the industry breakdowns, a daily circulation of projects churning in the Hollywood pipeline at any given moment.
Nobody working at the agency I slaved for knew or I suspected cared that I too had agency representation. When
I came across projects that called for transsexual men pretending to be a man pretending to a woman or vice verse a Victor/ Victoria, I speed dialed my agent Robin. "Are you sending me out for such and such,?" I begged. I knew that my drag cohorts Tanya or the Chanel Twins would also be sent out for these roles. What would Julia Buchwald do if she knew I was being considered for the same roles she banked on for her clients?

When I saw Craig Dorfman's name on the Facebook friend's sheet, I clicked on the link to send a message.

Remember me?
You were my first post-college employer. I worked for you under the table as you requested in the front office of the talent agent you managed on Wilshire Blvd in the autumn of 1996
We did not end our professional entanglement on a chummy note but enough time has transpired to warrant a white flag, if you're obliged to accept my offer of facebook friendship
Alliance Talent was your kingdom--- Terry Kelly was your counterpart and a welcome balanced energy to your often fiery nature, as I recall.
I'm pleased to see you are still sporting professional prowess-- I languished in the advertorial offices at BillBoard Publishing's newly acquired Backstage West tabloid before trying my talent in the pool of gender variant actors by default at a burgeoning agency that would become Dragon Talent.
I managed a few gay indie cinema film fest credits under my acting belt before I crash landed at Cedars Sinai in my own suite of the Max Factor wing-- in May of 1997. I moved to San Francisco after enduring another month's stay in a halfway hospice on LaBrea and Fairfax hooked up to life support feeding tubes just as Phen-Fen was taken off the market. I was hospitalized for anorexia induced gangrenous intestines--- so the storms I endured under your Alliance was pittance compared to what would come to be.
But, how are you?
Nice to see your name in cyberspace, Mr.Dorfman-- I trust I didn't burn our bridge down in the fire that sacrificed my soul for a song?
Hope you're well. You're a bona fide blast from my weathered past.
michael thomas angelo. He hasn't responded. But it's nice to know he's still alive and working. I'll send him a poisoned copy of my pending published work. I may dedicate the book to him. After all, his was the chapter that started me down the fall...

A conversation between two old queers

2011-06-06T15:22:00.000-07:00

MichaelThomas Angelo

Jesse, I suddenly realized Irecognize the radio host that interviews you in this clip about your book. Hisname is Josh (Rozensweig- something or other) and he used to live in LA when wewere at USC. He taught aerobics at the Sports Connection and I once saw himplay Hortense Daigle in a West Hollywood stage production of The Bad Seed withMistress Formika as Rhoda. It was deja-vu watching this.. Did you know he hadlived in LA? love you, hope you're lovely. mta

JesseArcher

hi honey! No, I didn't know that!!:) He's a sweet guy, but really wrapped up in the awful gay monolith known asREgent/Here Media, etc, who have swindled tons of people including myself. I can'timagine him teaching aerobics - hahaha!! Hilarious, that really dates him (andus), eh?
I'm in Australia, it's winter here! But luckily I'm flying to Philly to shoot agay B movie thriller where I end up raped and killed by crossbow. How could Isay no to that??!
How are you?
XO

MichaelThomas Angelo

Oh that sounds fabulous, like a realscreamer. Are you the not-so-teen-screaming queen? I have been answering phonesat a gay youth hotline in the Castro and counseling on coming out issues. One15 year old kid called last week and wanted to know if it was normal that heliked to be tied up. I said, 'sure honey, it's called BDSM and here's where youcan go to explore that fetish." Actually, I was only allowed to refer himto the San Francisco Sex Information hotline. They get all the fun calls. I amtaking a queer playwriting workshop in a few months that I had to audition forwith a piece. Of course they loved it but playwriting is not a genre that I amexperienced with. We shall see. How did you get swindled by the big mediaconglomerate?
thinking of you down under. Love mta

JesseArcher

Swindled? Oh, they just refused topay my contracts...just stopped paying and "oh I'm sorry,it's coming"but never did. Blech.
Awesome about the help you're providing to the young generation Z (hopefullynot ZZZZ) of gay. I'm sure youre helping more than you even know.
The playwriting workshop sounds AWESOME. No worries, you'll excel, you're agreat writer - what can they teach you? Format and structure - and playwritingis just banter but you can write soliloquys and shit, unlike screenplays. Sobasically, more for you to play with. Let me know how it goes. I'm jealous,always wanted to write a play.
My crossbow killing adventure. Begins in a few weeks - and you are right aboutthe not-so-teen scream. I am like the granddad of gay indie film - and theykeep pairing me with gorgeous dudes half my age. This time it's with RonnieKroell who was in "Make me a Supermodel" - he's 27 and gorge. Maybe Ishould start doing botox, or stop drinking or a combo? Nah - too drastic!
:)
XOXO
jesse

Who is this bitch?

2011-03-11T21:31:00.000-08:00

My past is coming back to kick me in the ribs or at least give me a good smack down.
When I clicked on this commercial on Youtube, the first thing I said to myself was "that bitch."
It originally aired in the mid 1990s when I was an ingenue living in Hollywood attending the University of Southern California. I had wanted to be an actor since I was a kid but my mother never would have supported my decision to pursue a path to show business. In her eyes, to do so would have been akin to wasting my expensive education.

My desire to be seen on screen was as innate to me as my homosexuality. I had been singing showtunes since the first time I had dressed in drag. I used to wear a scarf dangled from my head to represent "little girl hair" and prance around the house streaming beads that my dad brought back from Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Boys could wear beads in New Orleans and no one batted an eyelash. I was trying to start the trend in California before I was 8.
Having "extremely feminine facial features" used to bother me before I learned how to capitalize on it. When a fledgling talent agency for drag queens opened in Hollywood, I strapped on my slingback stilettos and staunchly sashayed my way into a chance at stardom.
When the Crying Game was released the year I graduated high school, the buzz paved the way for what was to become a largely accepted trend that led to films such as Priscilla and To Wong Foo. Drag was no longer just a pastime for doyennes of despair to dish out in dimly lit dives but an international craze.
It soon became very apparent to me that there might be a way for me to pursue an actor's life in Hollywood without officially doing so. If I could secure representation at a talent agency while dressed as a girl, I was virtually in disguise. Suddenly, I wasn't so bothered about my extremely feminine features. All I had to do to complete the transformation into a girl was put on heels, clip a fall into my hair and apply a little lipstick. Soon, I was going out for auditions all over Hollywood and living a page out of Victor/Victoria cast in the Julie Andrews role. Except, this was life imitating art and I was willing to struggle for my art.
I struggled in the sense that every time a juicy gig came up for casting, my picture was sent out for consideration with scads of other actors sharing my "hidden" talent.
I remember when word started spreading that a national commercial was going to be cast for Clothestime. I was sure to be a shoo in. The part required a man who could flawlessly pass for a female. As someone who had been asked to leave a public men's room more than once, I knew I stood a solid chance at being considered. My agent actually took her own personal time out to accompany me to buy a brand new wig just for the occasion. The wig had cost me over $100 and that was a lot of money when I had to factor in paying for my facials on a Starbucks salary. In retrospect, the long blond tresses I ended up with were a poor choice for me being born as a brunette.
Because my drag friend Tonya had also been called to audition, we decided to "show" up together. I bounded up the steps of her apartment complex giddy with anticipation. "All right, Blondie," called Tonya from inside her studio.
Driving in drag was no big deal and I prided myself on the grace with which I entered and exited my S10 Chevy Blazer. While looking for where we were supposed to be, it suddenly became evident that Tonya and I were attracting a lot of attention. It never occurred to me that my starlet garb was hooker chic. As we meandered up and down Hollywood Blvd looking for the correct address, I sensed commotion behind me. "They think we're hookers, girl," said Tonya. With what I was wearing, I had to admit I did favor a fierce resemblance to Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. "No wonder," I said.
When I walked into the casting office for the Clothestime audition, I was met with a barrage of bitchiness so blatant I wanted to backpedal. Many of the "girls" in the room had been former friends before erupting into one conflict or another that ultimately cooled our relations into mere acquaintances. "Tabitha, (my drag name) couldn't be bothered." said my friend Tonya as she recounted the scene later. I tried not to be nervous as I took note of the row of fright wigs and pallets of plastered makeup before me. There was Claudia, the gal from Kuwait who I had introduced to my estetician after he confessed his asylum from Kuwait. I saw the Chanel Twins who were ubiquitous fixtures on any gig. "Damn, what are they doing here?" I thought to myself. I feared I might not stand such a good chance with them on the call.
I didn't have to stand in the reception room for very long before I was called to disappear behind closed doors. I entered a white room where a handful of cute guys cavorted behind a camera. They showed me my mark on a makeshift place on the floor that was to be my stage. "Do you know how to dance?" they said. I shook and shimmied myself into a lather to the tune of Suicide Blond by INXS. It reminded me of when I went clubbing in downtown Seattle while in high school. If they could see me now, I thought. But that was a song from Sweet Charity and an entirely different show altogether.
A couple months after the audition, I was in an aerobics class at the Sports Connection in West Hollywood when my agent paged me. I called her back from a phone at the gym's front desk and was devastated to learn there wouldn't even be a call back. The part went to someone from back East or maybe Colorado. It was another month or so before the commercial aired but my bitterness hadn't waned with time. "Who is this bitch?" murmured the drag queens in the clubs. At that month's Dragstrip 66 venue, the hot topic du jour was "have you seen the cunt in the Clothestime commercial?"
I would never have admitted it then but I was actually impressed with the performance of "the bitch" on the air. As queens criticized everything from her wig to her "clockable" factor, I readied myself for my next audition which scored me a second call back at a part on an HBO sitcom.
I wasn't so ready to capitulate when I came across the commercial through its inclusion on Youtube. I entered a comment. I felt like Baby Jane Hudson as I recounted my bitterness at having been passed over for the part. When Jane said to Blanche, "I made a picture that year too. Herbie Hancock said it was the best thing I ever did. But it wasn't even released int he United States because the studios were too busy giving a big buildup to that crap you were turning out," I parroted the concept in the comment I entered at Youtube. "I don't know who this bitch is," I stammered.
Lo and behold, a response was garnered. Thechinablue1 to LastChanceLife (me)
Since I am "this bitch" sweetie, you should know, I auditioned in Dallas, Texas and I was told by the casting directors that they chose me because I wasnt (sic) trying to hard to pass as a woman. The fact is, I am a complete male, with no plastic surgery, and a masculine voice. Apparently, I was just what they wanted. As far as being a bitch, I am genuine, a gentelman, (sic) and humble, but if you want "bitch", it seems as if the only bitch here is you.
And there you have it.

Hopelessly Devoted to Danny

2010-12-07T15:58:00.000-08:00

In February 1987, I was at what would be the lowest point of my teenage years. Not yet having come into the rewards of puberty, I was still sporting excess baby fat, eyeglasses that occupied over half my face, a haircut that epitomized my self esteem in the way it covered my eyes and a gentle demeanor that teachers described as sensitive. The detour I took in 7th grade as a result of my failure to speak up stemmed from a fear that I would offend either of my parents. By silencing my voice, I became a pawn of my parent's guessing games and ended up suffering a watershed year of my development. The mean spirited kids from my new class at St. Mel's of Sacramento took tremendous joy in making me an example of early hate crimes.
I was used to the kids from my familiar former school, St. Louise calling me fag. The effect they had on my self esteem had lessened over the two years I had attended school there. My feelings were long since callused against the wrath of hate.
But dropping into the culture of established snobbery among the urchins of Fair Oaks, all Christian values of "love thy neighbor" were seemingly forgotten. Walking into Mrs. Tompkins classroom on my first day of school, I took an empty seat in the last desk of the furthest row. It had a sticker with my given name on it. Michael Angelo, read the magic marker. I raised my hand and told the teacher in my most polite tone that "I preferred to be called Tommy". This set off a wave of laughter from the other rows. What had I said to spurn such a reaction? I thought. By recess, and for months afterward, the busiest bodies of the class took delight in explaining how I had dug my own grave upon uttering that first sentence. Apparently, I had outed myself as a fag simply by declaring the words, "I prefer Tommy". On another occassion, later in study hall, after running out of paper, I asked my seatmates for another piece. "I thought I had had plenty, I explained. Suddenly, a group of boy bruisers buzzed around my ear mocking me in lisping tones, "Do you have pleeennnntyyyy Tommy? Do you have P-L-E-N-T-Y?, they whispered hot breaths into my ear. As it was explained to me, the word "plenty" was another red flag that I was a fag. According to the 7th graders, my vocabulary was grounds for ridicule.
Circling among the fray, my cousin Erin had been my favorite summertime pal in the dog days of Sacramento heat. We spent whatever free time my dad allowed me by hanging out between his two turquoise swimming pools in the brick encrusted back yard. A waterfall cascaded from a gazebo covered hot tub to a shallow wading pool over a rock laden edge to the bigger, deeper pool. Erin wrecked more than one bathing suit from trying to slide down a cement chute, no matter how well we both knew the probable outcome. Erin was the one who recruited me to join the cast of the local community theater in suburban Sacramento. The production was largely a product of the public schools. My private schooling had kept me apart from other like activities. When I first heard about it, my closest confidante and only contact outside of school was Diana, the most exotic of the three nannies my Dad hired to mind me that year. Her roots harked from the sequins and stale liquor inherent in the lounges of Bobby McGees and other stripmall pickup joints. It may have been Vegas on the cheap, but it was the closest exposure to show business I would find in Sacramento's square mileage. Diana did wonders for my development as a future fag. I appreciated that she left her subscription to Playgirl discreetly covered in the brown paper wrap it was mailed in. Sometimes she would be reading it when she picked me up from school. Of course, I feigned disinterest. Diana was hired right around my 13th birthday and presented me with a gift of Shirley Maclaine's autobiography. Shirley was on the cover dressed up as Charity Hope Valentine complete with heart shaped tattoo.
Diana recognized my affinity for the genre of dramatic arts and nurtured its blossoming. By the time I went to bed the night I met her, I was armed with a list of films to "must see". This was why she was the best suited to share in my enthusiasm at joining the cast of Grease. Upon picking me up from the crowded warehouse after my first rehearsal, she said, "a star is born" on our way to the car.
Weekend rehearsals were coveted as much as they were loathed on my schedule. I painstakingly planned my outfits to alternate every other weekend, lest my limited collection of oversized Generra be recognized. Generra, the Uber-trendy 1980s label was a result of my mother's sympathetic savvy. I considered it a gift because if it wasn't for her cool factor, I would have been a leper.
When my dad began to shuttle me back and forth from rehearsals, I was horrified. I was hell bent on keeping a low profile among my new theater crowd. I knew no names and no one knew me. I didn't want to ruin my chances of social acceptance by being seen exiting from my father's white pickup truck. It wasn't bad enough that the truck was emblazoned with our last name so everyone would know he was an electrician. "Angelo Electric" was the bane of my childhood on many levels.
Once I made the mistake of letting my dad know that Meredith, the most popular of the Pink Ladies lived three doors down from our house on Big Canyon Lane. My dad pestered me to no end about approaching the teen queen about carpooling, a possibility that sent chills down my back. "Why can't you just go up and knock on their door>" my dad would say while driving by her house. "They're never home," I lied. I would say anything to avoid the awful inevitable. Meredith played Rizzo, queen of the Pink Ladies. Her name was worth total star billing on the marquee of our social scale. My anonymous post amid the cattle of the chorus wasn't enough to bear consequence. Plus, she had intimate relations with the director. I once watched as he crucified her for forgetting to wear her Pink Ladies jacket to one rehearsal. "Well maybe you don't want to be a Pink Lady," he seethed through spittle for the benefit of the entire company. He dangled her star status above her like a candy that could be taken away at any moment. I had once heard Meredith liked to get "fried on acid", a practice that I imagined had something to do with the way she teased her bangs to attain their crunchy texture. Meredith was a tormented teen and a source of great mystery. I could never have gathered the gumption to enter her realm, lest she turn my head to stone.
When I wasn't being scuttled to and fro in forced participation of rehearsing crowd scenes, I sat in silent observation of the company's teenage boys. Cast to make up the student body of Rydell High, the older boys stood out like rebels of their own cause. I listened with fascination to their stories of sexual hijinks and scores. They were cast to exude the sexuality spawned by Jimmy Dean, icon of his era. They were to make up the T-Birds teenage motorcycle gang bandits.
As the show's debut neared on the calendar, rehearsals became more familiar. Soon, I had begun to recognize regulars and put names to faces and musical numbers. These cast mates were the friends of my fantasies. It could almost be said that I was one of the group if no one had asked them. For instance, if I didn't speak outright to anyone, I could linger in the background and vicinity of my favorite wanna-be friends. Like the cutest find of my focus, a boy named Mitch. I imagined him to be about three years my senior. Always the center of attention amid scurrying sidekicks, I had heard him boast about being cast as "the gay guy" in another show. While regaling the new nanny, Olive with my stories of Grease. I quickly adopted the tale as my own by recounting the experience like it had happened to me instead of Mitch. Olive had been a bobby-soxer in her day but was now a born again Christian of a certain age. After Diana skipped town over my Christmas holiday back to Seattle, my dad had hired Olive to take her place. She claimed to have once worked for Ernesto and Julio Gallo, the wine kingpins. Olive clearly suspected my future fag tendencis and did everything she could to scare the fear of eternal damnation into my act. "If he wanted to cast you as gay, he must have seen something..." she warned. Taking Mitch's reality as my own thrilled me to no end and my heart soared to new heights.
Backstage on opening night, I snapped photos of the most attractive members of the cast. Because my efforts at recording my cousin Erin dressed in Beauty School Dropout garb were to no avail, I finished out the role like purloining paparazzi. I had watched the guy cast as Danny Zuko belt out Travolta's tunes like the son of Sinatra. The number Hopelessly Devoted to You was to serve as soundtrack and mantra to my most tangible of crushes. The Latin-like lover of my first Broadway show looked like Rudolpho Valentino and amassed as much fanfare I surreptitiously tried to snap his photo only to learn upon developing the role that he had been in on my crush the whole time. Smiling at me from the other side of the high gloss paper, I translated it as evidence of his devotion. Then, I tucked the photo into my album for posterity. Coming upon the long forgotten photos after two decades of neglect, I decided to dispose of all the forgotten faces holding fast to the dreambeau Danny. My most favorite T-Bird and first homosexual crush has been captured for eternity. Danny, my first male role model of the stage, Danny, my first real homo crush of the teenage years, Danny Zuko, my greased lightning rod. I've always been hopelessly devoted to you.

Why I Owe my Life to Ronald Reagan

2010-12-07T15:00:00.000-08:00

My story has evolved from the case of an anonymous adoptee to allow me to consider myself to be the direct product of a giant political turn of events that permanently changed the social landscape in California. I am reading a newly published book called The Insanity Offense by E. Fuller Torrey that adequately serves as a historical corrective account of the poli-social climate taking place in California during the early 1970s. From the first moment I was told that I was adopted up to the most recent time I was last in contact with my reunited biological family, I have yearned to understand the circumstances of how I came to be. Mine was not a common "girl gets pregnant too young from high school sweetheart" story.
My mother was diagnosed as schizophrenic in her early adulthood and subsequently shut up into Agnew Insane Asylum, a virtual cuckoo's nest to befit the stereotype. The book traces the story of deinstitutionalization, legislation that ultimately led to my conception, birth and adoption. Governor Ronald Reagan championed a cost-cutting effort to shut down the state's mental health facilities. "Ronald Reagan has frequently been called the father of deinstitutionalization in California..." (Torrey, 42) Under an act named for its authors, Lanterman-Petris-Short, the LPS act moved to close the asylums under the guise of protecting the civil rights of the mentally ill. The authors stipulated that no one should be committed to custody without their consent nor required to take the psych meds that quieted their sick minds. "The 1973 proposal... caused immediate controversy." (Torrey, 45)
The film "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest", with its portrayal of inhumane treatment to mental patients was used to influence opinion and pad the testimonial advocating for the closures.
As a result of the LPS act, the behemoth San Jose institution called Agnew Insane Asylum closed its doors and opened up the floodgates for patients to roam the streets unsupervised and under medicated.” Many discharged patients were placed in rundown boarding houses with little or no supervision." (Torrey, 50)
"As these individuals stopped taking their medications and wandered away from their shabby accommodations, observers noted an increase in the number of mentally ill homeless persons on the streets."(Torrey, 50)

The book sets the stage of my original tale as the drama of my birth is unveiled on the pages with my parents as the players. When I was reunited with my biological mother, I learned that she was an ex-patient of Agnew Insane Asylum where she had undergone years of inhumane treatments ranging from medications that all but lobotomized her to ECT shock therapy. When she was filtered with the trickled masses down to the slum-like boarding houses surrounding San Jose State College, she was free to exercise her civil right to refuse treatment which she did sevenfold. I was told she was known to wander from the house, opting not to take her medication leaving her family to wonder if she was still alive for extended periods of time. It was in those first years that the LPS legislation was in action that my sister and I were born in 1971 and 1973 respectively. Our mother had cultivated a regular fling with a drifter she first met in the boarding house who was seeking a respite from an extended drug run. During the years of our conception, the couple had tossed around a plan to marry but after frequent unpredicted episodes of destruction, the drifter i.e. my father, backed out of it. When my sister was born, the authorities wouldn’t let my father near her much less consider him for custody citing his frequent bouts of absenteeism and alcoholic behavior as reasons. My sister was placed into the system, thereby securing my fate before I was born two years later.
My mother was pronounced :”gravely disabled”, a condition evidenced by behavior in which a person, as a result of a mental disorder is likely to come to serious physical harm or serious illness because she is unable to care for her basic needs.”( cpsa-rbha.org/doc)
Based on the limited documentation from my case that I was able to glean from the Santa Clara County Department of Family and Children’s Services, I learned that my adoption occurred just over a year after the date of my birth. When I met my mother and inquired as to the reason, she recalled through tearful flashbacks, an account of the way she was forced to sign away parental rights. The caseworker I spoke to told me she was given the chance to volunteer before the mandate was set in place. “It would have been disastrous” (if she had been allowed to retain custody”, said her family members.

Having discovered the book, I am satisfied at having the next best thing to my own original birth certificate. In this book, I have found direct historical evidence of what had previously been spun to me in wafted anecdotes losing steam through time. The hazy history I harbored in the case of how I came to be has been duly documented as a direct result of deinstitutionalization by Governor Ronald Reagan. It breathes life to a sketchy past and lends credence to my sealed case. In putting the pieces together, my case ceases to be such a puzzle.

Dragon 2.0

2010-12-07T14:44:00.000-08:00

I know a girl from the seedy San Francisco Tenderloin neighborhood that I live in who tattooed something like tribal marks all over her face. From my observations, it appears that everyone she comes into contact with feels compelled to comment on what they perceive as a horrible mistake. "How will she ever get a job?", sing the concerned masses.
Hanna, (not her real name)a caramel complexioned 25 year old is a popular point of conversation among the shady, drug addicts and scam-peddlers we share a zip code with. The subject of how she will hope to earn a living is one Hanna is used to fielding as she does by
rote. "I make money from modeling," reports Hanna. Anyone within earshot of Hanna's careworn admission laughs it off as a delusion of grandeur before trailing off in notes of 'tsk-tsk-tsk" that eke of pity.
Hanna remains steadfast in her account of earning her way as a model, so much that I make an attempt to humor her. Hanna describes a recent photo shoot in Los Angeles that featured Grateful Dead motifs as central to its theme. I think to myself that
it doesn't sound entirely far fetched that Hanna and her self-induced permanent ink stained face would be in demand. Her look is definitely off beat and what some could consider cutting edge, certainly beyond the main-stream.
Once upon a time into my own personal past, I was part of a marginal talent demographic. Back when I was a student at USC in
the mid 1990s, I had the privilege of affiliating myself with a burgeoning phenomenon that would take the talent industry by storm. Dragon Talent was the brainchild of a former club promoter and good-time glamour gal named Robin Harrington. Possessing the foresight to capitalize on a trendy demand, she came up with the idea of a drag agency as a way to satisfy what was an increasingly popular demand for gender-benders in entertainment. The Crying Game had just achieved box office records that
followed suit with movies like Paris is Burning and To Wong Foo,Thanks for Everything Julie Newmar. Dragon Talent was, in effect the first Drag Race set to the beat of Rupaul's Supermodel soundtrack played to blasting decibels in car stereos as
queens raced to auditions. It was a heady era that I remember well.
Seemingly devoid of topics to write about for my Arts Reporting JOUR 440 class, I used my experience as an original client at
Dragon and self-described "Robin's girl" to inspire an assignment. Dated January 23, 1996, the assignment would be one of several I would focus on my experience as tran-ifed talent.

"I've never been partial to wearing Spandex to a formal occasion. I prefer to keep the poly-Lycra fabric in the aerobics studio and out of the cocktail lounge.

Despite this reality, there I found myself in front of the full length mirror one Saturday morning squeezing myself into a Thierry Mugler backless black number that hugged everything. Too much of everything.
"You've got to tuck, honey," the woman's voice directed from behind me. "And wear this," she said, as a flimsy black g-string was tossed into my space. A few adjustments later and it appeared my transformation was complete. A boy no more, I
could now satisfactorily pass for the gender-phuqued persona I called Tabitha that was my stage name. Satisfied that I was sexy enough in Spandex to fool or distract the most jaded of Hollywood casting directors, Robin marveled in astonishment to
my lady's likeness. "You look so much like a girl, it's unbelievable," she murmured to herself.
"Flawless," Robin screamed in more audible tones. The descriptor of flawless was ubiquitously applied to all things that appealed to Robin. It carried more weight than her declaration of fierce that was more than just an adjective. The more akin to female likeness one appeared to be, the more flawless and fierce it was.
It may sound fishy bt it's merely another day at the office for Robin and her girls. Being a professional female impersonating type is difficult enough without worrying about the details in marketing. The girls need someone else to do the legwork. Our legs are usually being waxed.
My job, as well as that of the 90+ other drag queens under Robin's tutelage is to look as beautiful and glamorous as possible whenever the occasion demands it. Robin's job is to make sure that the right people know it. If that involves sending our headshots out with the daily casting breakdowns or taxi-ing a stranded queen over Laurel Canyon in time for a coveted call back appointment, Robin is the girl. After all, she's the only real girl among us.
Robin's queens came to be a family once upon a summer day when a rumor began circulating through Hollywood's drag social
circles that a star-maker was upon them. Plucking the virgin clientele from Southland bars, cabarets, theaters and street corners of ill repute, she transformed a wayward group of drag queens into a professional family unit worthy to carry the Dragon Talent insignia brand on our headshot.
True to form as the mother mentor and big sister figure she represented, I had known Robin to personally accompany me to her preferred wig seller on Hollywood Boulevard in order to insure I would receive a flawless fit in faux follicles.
Because Robin and her sidekicks at Dragon represent the majority of the existing transsexual talent pool, the same queens are rotated around for the available auditions. Competition is pretty fierce in La La's lipstick land, especially when a
national commercial is the prize. A recent cattle call sent out by Clothestime attracted just about every genre of queen I knew to exist in LA. I couldn't believe the degree of difference displayed by the divas in that casting director's waiting room. As it turned out, the blond tresses Robin and me chose that Saturday I spent in Thierry Mugler were akin to suicide. I was instructed to dance spontaneously to the tune of INXS's Suicide Blond that clearly foreshadowed my fate. On an HBO call back I suspect it was no random happenstance that Robin failed to mention I would be up against the bitchtress I knew as Girl Craig.
I almost accidentally stepped on her putrid pedicure as we collided head on at the same audition. When I saw her again out at
a club the following weekend, I dished in saucy detail about her scandalous sex habits to all who would listen. This type of
bitchiness does not run deep when it's realized we are all part of a greater good as members of Dragon Talent. The queens are never very far away from one another under the umbrella of Robin's arc.

Lightning struck and worlds collided when I suddenly realized that Hanna's experience was the postmodern equivalent of my all but forgotten experience as an alternative, underground type of talent. From where the queens fazed off the radar to affect less of a shock appeal, arose a need for geeks and freaks to fill the void. Thus, a trend for tattoos as terrorism
came to be. And Hanna stepped into the role I grew out of.
"After they drummed me right out of Hollywood. Because of booze and dope." ... as the legend goes.

The Domino Effect-- A Story of Adoption

2010-12-07T14:34:00.000-08:00

I was born a bastard, the product of an on-again, off-again affair between a schizophrenic patient of a California insane asylum and a drifting, bisexual, drug-addicted part time nudist.
I like to joke that I owe my life, my very existence to Ronald Reagan. Then, I shudder at the irony that his failed legislation as governor of California ultimately led my beautiful Sicilian birthmother to transform from Sophia Loren's twin to an all encompassing unspeakable tragedy. I was adopted at the age of 14 months. My name was Thomas Charles, the surnames were secret. I was rechristened Michael Thomas Angelo and issued an amended birth certificate that would pass for my original. I was about to turn 11 the first time I held it in my hands standing in line at the Seattle border while crossing over to British Columbia for a family trip. The fact that my adoption seemed to have been obscured, actually obliterated and virtually wiped off the historical timeline infuriated me. I had been glossed over. When I brought the issue up to my mother, she told me not to worry about such matters. It was the first time I felt like a part of me was being denied the right to exist. In essence, I felt the government was saying that the person I was upon birth really didn't matter because the paperwork was too daunting and none of my business anyway. I was supposed to pretend that the mother who stood beside me in line had actually given birth to me on my original birthday. Was I being asked to overlook the mathematical implausibility of meeting a woman for the first time at age 14 months and calling it my birth date? How could two ages coexist on the same date? I pondered this as much as I imagined myself being two separate identities, the pre and post adoption Tommys. It was the first time I would learn to define the age old nature vs nurture debate that continues to haunt me.
The pre-adoption Tommy existed somewhere in the murky depths of my subconscious. Tommy Angelo as I called myself was raised an only child by parents who divorced almost immediately upon adopting.
My adoptive mother suffered 7 miscarriages and was ultimately unable to ever conceive. I was infused with a great deal of love from my mother. I never felt anything less than the most incredible special gift that she esteemed me to be. Needless to say, I grew up feeling every bit of the "chosen child" story. My mother told me she hadn't felt it necessary to ask questions during the adoption process because "she was just so happy to get me". I always wished that she had been more curious for the sake of my growing curiosity. Due to her lack of inquiry, I grew up with virtually no information about my background.
My parents were initially extremely supportive of my identification as an adoptee who longed to search for his roots. I was always obsessed with the notion, so much that my mother opted to implement a waiver of confidentiality in my file when I turned 10. It would grant permission to anyone who searched for me to achieve contact although no one ever did.
It wasn't until my sophomore year of college at the University of Southern California that I finally took action to search. I contacted the Santa Clara County Office of Vital Records and received a curt letter in response basically explaining that I was placed for adoption due to my biological mother's diagnosis of schizophrenia and due to the fact that the whereabouts of my father were unknown. A face sheet was attached that had been whited--out in key places and Xeroxed to make sure I wouldn't be able to learn any identifiable facts. When I called to complain, the social worker mistakenly let me know that my bio mother was born in Chicago. It was that kernel of information that ultimately led to the success of my search. I contacted an organization that I found in the back of Lost & Found called Search Finders based in San Jose, the same town of my birth.
The two ladies who ran this machine out of their living room became my guardian angels for the 6 months we spent searching. Within a couple short weeks after I hired them, I was contacted with the surname of my mother's family along with a few phone numbers. I'll never forget the rainy Saturday morning in March of 1994 when I made those initial phone calls from the pay phone in the lobby of my dormitory. For some unknown reason, the lines in my room had failed to operate. I was given the number of a halfway house located in seedy downtown San Jose. When I was actually placed on hold after asking for the name of my bio mother, I thought I would pass out from nervousness. When a woman finally picked up the line, I could tell immediately from the put-upon tone of her voice, that she had suffered many hardships. After I explained who I was, she said, "I've been thinking about you for a long time" and followed up the admission with a request for cigarettes and a little cash. I wasn't as thrown off guard by the request as much as I was by her reply when I declined. She said, "But I thought you went to a rich family."
The following Monday I called the law office workplace of her brother, who was a partner in the San Jose firm. He was very guarded and seemed reluctant to volunteer information, "What can I do for you?” he asked with trepidation.
One of the mystery pieces of information I wasn't supposed to know related to the existence of an older sister by two years. My bio mother referred to her as "Sally" in the same sentence that she revealed I had a half-brother from another father born in 1979. "Sally" had been adopted before I was born into a closed system while our brother David's affair was handled out in the open. Sadly, he languished in foster care until the age of 6. When I was finally able to meet him. he was a mixed up high school student who appeared to be suffering the same crisis I had at his age. The difference in our cases was the seal on our records. He grew up knowing our family name as our mother actually visited him in the foster home several times until he was 4 years old. On the polar opposite spectrum, my sister and I knew nothing.
I didn't bother asking my searcher to consider looking for Sally because I deemed it futile. She brazenly took on the project herself and dutifully stayed with me through the entire ordeal over the telephone. Sometime in July of 1994, the searcher called to let me know that Sally had been renamed Trista upon being adopted and we were about to close in on her whereabouts. The process between the day I learned her name up to the night I first spoke to her on the phone seemed like an eternity. Naive as I was at 20, I assumed that everyone had grown up with circumstances that mirrored my own. I received a major wake up call when I first spoke to my sister. Her adoptive father had been killed in a car accident right after her adoption. The tragedy threw her family off kilter and she endured a hard knock life. I filled her in on what I had learned about our mother and she reacted with bewilderment. Like me, she had grown up knowing nothing. I flew to San Jose over the Labor Day weekend the following September. Without having seen her picture, I was able to identify her in a room full of strangers as she waited to pick me up at the airport. We immediately drove to the address of our mother's purported "halfway house". Pulling up to the decaying Victorian mansion, we asked the attendant to alert "Katherine Domino". As we chattered about what to expect, all of a sudden, my sister gasped and said "Oh my God, it's her!" I turned to look at what I can only describe as a figure sent over from Central Casting to audition for the role of Baby Jane Hudson in a remake of the Bette Davis classic Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? She had an overly processed mop of bleach blond hair that I later learned had turned white from its brunette beginnings as the result of ECT shock therapy. "What do you want?" she asked in paranoia. My sister and I could only stare with mouths agape as I secretly stuttered for her to tell the woman we had made a mistake. "We're here to see our grandmother," my sister lied. Offended at best the caricature on the porch rebutted with "Grandmother? I'm too young to be your grandmother" and slammed the screen door in her wake as she stalked back into the house.
My sister and I pulled over about a block away and burst into tears as we tried to process the image we had just seen of our real life mother. She had been wearing tattered sweat pants and a white t-shirt with a fluorescent neon silkscreen that said "Local Motion." It was presumably the logo for some surfing outfit that had been fished out of a pile for the needy.
After regaining our composure, we made our way back to the halfway house to meet our mother in shifts. Trista entered the house first because I was too frightened. Ironically, after making all of the arrangements of which none of this would have been possible, I got cold feet at the last minute and opted to observe. Almost an hour later, Trista emerged with our now smiling mother in tow. I was still sporting a peroxide blond hairdo and remarked on the similarity it shared with hers. We snapped pictures and made history. The following day, I was treated to lunch by my new uncle, her older brother and one time guardian. He explained the family's origins as Sicilian immigrants who had traveled to the Bay Area from Chicago at the turn of the century to work in the tomato canneries. I learned our ancestors had formed the company that became Contadina Foods. I marveled at the irony that I had grown up consuming that line of products in recipes my adoptive Italian grandfather had made. My nouveau uncle seemed impressed that I had been adopted by an Italian family although he detested affiliation with the tribe and made sure to point out that we were Sicilian. When I peppered him with questions about what he knew of my father, I was stonewalled. He growled at me from across the table in a tone that I knew meant "shut up". "Just wait!” he demanded. Several times over the course of our lunch at Original Joe's, many people stopped by the table to express reverence for what I was learning seemed to be an esteemed community figure. He had once been a judge before presiding as a partner in his own firm. After returning home, I was able to meet his longtime wife and quiz her over the phone. She was a lot more forthcoming with anecdotes and filled me in as a story began to take shape. As she explained, my mother's identification as schizophrenic first appeared while she was still in high school. My aunt had been dating my mother's brother since their high school days and had produced one daughter in their epic marriage, a girl 10 years my senior born the day after my birthday. I longed to meet my older cousin the first time I heard about her. When we finally did meet face to face, I was accompanied by my sister and brother at a large Domino family gathering complete with extended loved ones. The effect of noticing my sister stand side by side next to our cousin was magical. They had the same build, the same hair, the same shared genes from the Domino pool. It was hard not to notice the effects that their extremely different lifestyles had contributed to their countenance. Whereas Dawn, our cousin was appropriately coiffed and manicured as suitable for someone who has lived in privilege, my sister appeared slightly weathered. Like I had on so many occasions, I took the opportunity to wonder what my sister's life would have been like if she was never adopted out.
Sometimes I feel like the bastard backwoods kin shirking around for something I have no right to consider my own, i.e. affiliation with this clan that shares my genes. Since I discovered my mother's family, there has been a nagging feeling in the back of my head that I oughtn't to snoop or press for details. Now that I'm a little older and able to place things in proper perspective, I've begun to gain the strength to forge ahead with my search of family facts. The right to realize my identity is innate. Accepting the truth as fact leaves no reason for me to feel like an intruding interloper.

My aunt described the first time she noticed something was awry with our mother. "Kathy just seemed a little weird," said my aunt in relation to my mother's mental condition. Upon returning home from a trip abroad where she studied painting, my young mother slowly lapsed into unmanageable behavior that led to her institutionalization. As it is outlined in The Insanity Offense by E. Fuller Torrey, major upheaval took place in California legislation that changed the face of mental health and ultimately sealed my destiny. In the early 1970s, during the era of my birth, Governor Ronald Reagan implemented legislation named for its authors Lanterman, Petris and Short. The LPS Act was a cost cutting measure in the guise of a human rights effort that sought to uphold the rights of the mentally ill by giving them authority over their own care. Touting the film One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest as evidence of the inhumane conditions existing in mental health facilities, the act's authors ultimately succeeded in shutting the doors of all California asylums. The result was a virtual opening of the floodgates as thousands of under-medicated mental patients now roamed the streets freely. Half-way houses were opened to handle the onslaught. Because my mother had been a patient at the Agnew Insane Asylum, a castle-like fortress that predated the 1906 Earthquake, she was one of the masses who emigrated to local half way houses. It was there that she met and fostered an on again, off-again affair with the man who would become Trista's and my father.
As he recounts it, he came upon the downtown San Jose board and care by accident in search for a place to crash off a drug run. He was an eccentric, nomadic drifter from the East Coast who hustled his way into a few nights stay at the house only to discover he was the only male inhabitant. When my sister was conceived, he and my mother had initially planned to marry but plans fell through after Kathy harangued one too many episodes. He described coming home to their apartment to discover all the dishes had been broken or some other catastrophe had taken place. He backed out of marriage and hit the road only to return the day my sister was born. Due to his high rate of absenteeism and alcoholic behavior, he was shunned at the hospital and denied custody. He would reappear in Kathy's life on holiday breaks, the last of which led to my conception. Because he had kept in touch with Kathy over the course of the two passing decades since my adoption, he was able to learn of my existence and contact me 1 1/2 years after I discovered everything. My sister and I had DNA tests analyzed to confirm his paternity.

Had I the chance to do it over again, I would have stood up to my misgivings and fear upon meeting my parents. I let 15 years pass with bare to minimal contact between the parents. I was too frightened about what it all meant as I tried to wrap my brain around the implications of having a schizophrenic mother and a screwy father. The one relationship I put great effort into maintaining has been inconsistent at best. My sister has a tendency to disappear from my life for extended periods of time. I do not take anything concerning her for granted as every moment we share is precious. As for the Domino's, my mother's brother's nuclear family, despite several well intentioned plans of future dinner dates, I have never been extended a formal invitation. I would love to get lost in their barn and pore over boxes of family ephemera to show tangible evidence that I come from a clan. To their benefit, they have sent checks over the holidays and on special occasions such as my college graduation, the way real family does. This has always made me feel like one of the fam.
In evidence that God is watching, I finally took it upon myself to rekindle contact with my bio mother in the Spring of 2007. Over the course of several months, every other Sunday, she took the bus from where she lived in San Jose to my apartment in downtown San Francisco. She always had a cart full of knickknacks in tow that she had painstakingly gift wrapped as if they were presents for a special occasion. I laughed at some of the inane choices she made as I unwrapped items such as a toy or swatch of embroidery that detailed flowers in a frame. Under normal circumstances I would have done away with the objects upon accepting them but for obvious reasons, I hold on to these.

Mother's Day of 2007 would be a watershed moment but I never guessed at the time how sacred it would become. My brother David accompanied our mother to the city and we spent the morning laughing and carrying on in my apartment. She was complaining about sore legs and would use a walker to meander around the Civic Center plaza. As my brother fumed with embarrassment, I couldn't stop laughing at the sight of our mother cozying up to any wino we passed, shouting, "Jesus loves you, have you got a cigarette?" Then she'd take a seat on the curb, coughing a cackle with the winos that cracked up. I would announce, "This is my mother," to anyone who would listen. I knew it seemed perfectly ridiculous as the thought of what was being passed off as a bag lady in garish makeup was actually my mother. I delighted as people reacted to the incongruous disparities in our facades. In my heart, I was an off balance eccentric with a flair for the dramatics. She was nothing short of a novelty in my life. Because her presence never dulled near ordinary, I always observed the nuances of her personality. For example, the tenacity she displayed in many fruitless attempts to light a cigarette in the wind was priceless.
The sun set on Mother's Day 2007 with a promising outlook for getting to know each other. I felt like we were beginning to really connect and gnaw the edges away from our awkward first starts. She called me the next day and we made tentative plans for the following weekend. She promised to bring a scrapbook she had made that would include a brochure from the defunct San Francisco drag club Finnochio's that she had obtained in the 1970s. When the phone rang before dawn the day after I spoke to her, I knew exactly what it would mean. My sister's voice on the other end simply said, "Tommy, she's gone". "No!" I wailed over and over. She had passed away the night before from congestive heart failure while sleeping on the couch. At least the edema swollen legs were explained.
A funeral was hastily planned and my sister drove from where she lived in Oregon with her two younger daughters to stay with me in my studio. It was the first time we had seen each other in years and I relished the sleepover we shared with her girls. A small memorial service at Chapel of the Flowers in San Jose took place with only her picture on the altar to take the place of a body. The picture was one I had never seen before as it resembled a young Annette Funicello. My uncle Fred cried loud enough for anyone to hear, "That's when she was normal". We all received a copy of this proof that once upon a time, our mother was a Sicilian beauty bereft of mental illness. I will never understand the grand scheme of universal order that dictated my fate as an adoptee. I love my adoptive mother more than life itself and am content that I ended up where I am supposed to be. But I still wonder what life would have been like if my sister and I were raised together by our bio parents. Would I still be me? That's the billion dollar question. It always goes back to nature vs nurture.

"You mean all this time, we could've been friends??"

2010-12-07T14:28:00.000-08:00

It has become evident to me that there are people who have actually read this site. I was flabbergasted and then motivated to write. Having given up on bothering to contribute to what I thought was my own persecuted yammering, I am reconsidering for the readers. Bless all of them.

Yet again, I have another reason to love Facebook. My friend list is rife with people I have only known in high school. At first it seemed peculiar that these individuals would want to add me, considering our shared history. It just goes to show you that teen angst and self loathing ought to be skipped. I swear it's like Peggy Sue Got Married all over. "If I had known then, what I know now, I would have done a lot of things differently."

Dateline 1989--1991. I am sitting in the wings of C track math classes which is what my high school called classes reserved for the academic level right above Special Ed. No offense is meant for the angels in Special Ed but there is a stigma associated with what my sophomore math teacher called "bonehead math".
The type of students who frequented C track could be seen in after-school detention or in an off campus hideaway for cigarette smokers. Delinquents are prone to mischief.
There was a boy sitting two rows away from me for at least two years of bonehead math who used to instigate his cronies bedecked in baseball caps to taunt and make fun of my sensitive nature and artistic aesthetic of dress. That's another way of saying they were laughing at my faggotry. I hadn't yet learned how to laugh with them.

After all, as I pondered, just because I ordered my favorite clothes through the mail of the International Male catalogue and absolutely adored Broadway didn't necessarily mean I was gay. I didn't acknowledge that reality until I choked on it, so to speak, the first time I went home with a guy from a bar. That hunky barback wasn't even a twink in my eye at the time. Actually, the barback was 27 which would have made me the twink, but I digress.

Flash Fag Forward -2010
The boy from math class astounds me because he has grown up to be a gender studies person and apparently a reader of this site. Who knew?
I broached the elephant in the room with, "Hey, didn't you used to call me (blank) before I had more than an itsy-bitsy inkling... (well, it was a big inkling but I dared not speak its name) ...that I was Blank?"
He had no idea what I was talking about and we chalked up the issue to reflect a statement about appreciating having moved beyond those tortured teen years. Apparently, as it's been pointed out to me more than once since re-emerging from the cobwebs of the past through Facebook, I was liked in high school!!
I began to consider that I probably internalized my own self loathing and insecurity about my sexuality to reflect in my interpersonal relationships. If I was playing the tortured teen, how could I expect to be cast in any other role? Once again, I believe, Bette Davis said it best in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

Turning to her sister Blanche, who lay dying on the beach after years of being tortured at her very own hand, Jane listens to her sister say something to the effect that the guy from math's statement had on me.
"What spitball? I was aiming for the trash can," and that sort of thing.
Jane realizes she has just wasted her entire life wallowing in a bitterness that she herself had swallowed. "You mean, all of this time, we could have been friends?" And the credits roll as the music plays over a scene of Jane dancing on the beach while the men in white coats try to approach her gingerly. Baby Jane went up the down staircase and lost it. . It's a sad implied ending that I couldn't get out of my head after my communique with the guy from math. Without giving the past too much power, I must acknowledge it in the context of how grateful I am to be beyond it. If I had only dared to give credence to the possibility that my affinity for Broadway ought to be explored, I could have helped others open a dialogue about the love that dared not speak it's name and torn down those walls. (I am resisting the urge to do the line from Mommie Dearest, y' know...about the wall. Oh don't get me started on my quotable quip track.)

The point is that since we can only learn from the past by evolving and growing as human beings, I have a chance to pass on my experience to the younger generation.

I know a 17 year old other brother of a former step cousin from my estranged adoptive father's elopement with a girl who was only 18 herself at the time. I won't tell you how old he was because that's irrelevant to this topic. But I digress.
The 17 year old is gay and doesn't care who knows it with a take no prisoners kind of enthusiasm that I didn't adopt until the summer following my first year of college. He is a testament to how far we as a society have evolved with issues of sexuality as much as I have matured as an individual. We do live in a post Will and Grace era, no thanks to Sean Hayes. But that's another story.
Before Facebook, reunions as depicted in Peggy Sue were common. Nerds went down in history as nerds and became mired in an archaic image that was thrust upon them until they came to embody it. Sadly, by the time they shed that early geek identity, they had already moved west and hitched up with a lesbian mime troupe that appreciated their technical savvy. Hypothetically speaking, of course. Now that FB has brought the past into the present, (I have to quote Edie Bouvier Beale who remarked, "It's very hard to keep the line between the past and the present, know what I mean?") In Edie's day, there was a demarcation framed in dust. We have the advantage to bring yesterday right up to the color of our present lives. That's the biggest present one could hope for by vanquishing the villains of the past.

Thanks for reading, Jack

Dreamgirl, my Life as a 7th Grader

2010-12-07T14:02:00.000-08:00

A housekeeper my dad hired when I was a kid once said to me, "You got your goddamn way". I was 13 and hell-bent on trying out a hair gel with silver glitter that was supposed to sparkle. When I saw no evidence of such sparkle, I complained to Diana, my black diva songstress nanny/housekeeper. She was one of a few that were hired to morph Martha Stewart and Mary Poppins after my father became newly divorced for the third time.
It was a tall order, but Diana seemed up to the challenge.I expected Diana to know about things pertaining to glitter because she picked me up from school one day wearing a Tina Turner wig. I hadn't known until then that the Louise Jefferson hot roller do she had been sporting when we met was faux. Because Diana liked to associate her first name with the talents of a certain Ms. Ross, she didn't believe a word of Mary Wilson's tell-all tale Dreamgirl, My Life as a Supreme when it was published that year, 1986. Diana liked to avail herself to show business and sparkly things. Even at that age, I could relate to this desire. I could spot a starfucker before I knew there was such a thing. Stars were supposed to sparkle and I was a star in the making. Diana herself had confirmed it when she picked me up from play rehearsals one day and smiled, bleating, "a star is born.". Based on the Judy Garland version of the film, I knew that chorines like Esther Blodgett didn't turn out their Vicki Lester potential without the help of sparkle. That's why I was severely disappointed when the glittery hair gel didn't jazz. Diana implored that I simply wasn't using the product correctly. "You haven't even seen it in the light," she chided. "Now here you are thinking the product doesn't work....when I know damn well it does," she said. She punctuated the last point by popping a miniature Hershey's Mr. Goodbar into her mouth from where she had fished it out of the bowl that had been her constant companion since the previous Halloween. I remembered the pseudo-holiday well because I had laboriously polluted my shag with so much product that particular All Hallows Eve that it weighed more than my glasses. Knowing that kids from the surrounding neighborhood would be coming to our door in trick-or-treat mode, I had readied myself. When the bell went ding-dong, Diana casually shuffled by in her Tina Turner wig and talons with total disregard for the door. "You don't see me breakin' my neck," she said. Unlike me, who had dressed up in my most fashionable oversize Genera sweatshirt to greet the goblins and urchins, Diana made it clear she couldn't be bothered if it saved her life.

Back to the hair and sparkle crisis, I had made up my mind, albeit prematurely that the gel was no good and pouted accordingly. I was constantly pitting myself against the products I saw advertised on TV and had set my eyes on the latest consumerist want. The Studio line of hair products from L'Oreal would give me the star sparkle I needed to realize my Vicki Lester potential, I plotted. The commercials used actors dressed up as rock stars that I longed to align myself with. Screw the sparkle stuff, I want the Studio line, I wailed. It only took one instance of bitching before Diana pulled my dad's Blazer over to the beauty supply for me to get my fix. Without a concerted effort, I had achieved my goal. "You got your goddamn way. Don't say I never gave you anything," she said. Handing me a small, brown paper sack, she seemed satisfied. I'm not sure what I was expecting but whatever thrill I thought I would get from the product didn't come to be and I appeared crestfallen. "I try so hard," Diana cried. For a minute I felt sorry for her but knew that nothing she did would make me feel better. I had a secret that I dared not confide in her lest she spill the beans to my dad.

It was true that Diana had bent over backwards to win my good tidings from the first minute she met me. Having been hired the week of my 13th birthday, the previous September, she had presented me with a biography of Shirley Maclaine after I had expressed reverence for Charity Hope Valentine in our first conversation. My dad had given me the opportunity to "interview" Diana for myself after he had given her the layout of the land and brief job description. We had suffered through a few loony tunes who must have translated our request for "mature" to mean that they were suitable for mature viewers or something like it. "I just want a kindly old grandmother," my dad had repeatedly exclaimed. The ideal of Mrs. Doubtfire would not be realized but Diana's executive sophistication matched a close second. My dad had seemed relieved as he stood over my desk from where I was completing a report on the patron saint of the week for my 7th grade religion class at St. Mel's. "I think she'll make this a happy home," he said.

I didn't need much convincing after I encountered Diana myself. I was enraptured and instantly at ease. She told me about having worked for her previous family for just under a decade. It was there that she was able to showcase her vocal talents as a weekend chanteuse. I assured her that she would have weekends off in our house too. As the world of the stage seeped into my dad's study through our conversation, I was starstruck and amazed.

Diana was there the morning I was to turn in my saint report. I had adorned the punches of my 3-holes binder paper with bright red yarn that matched the magic marker I used for the cover.
"It's too juvenile. Take that shit off," she said. Then she told me about the adage coined by Coco Chanel that said one should always remove one accessory before leaving the house.

But that day in the car with the gel that wasn't right, I hated myself for turning a callous cheek to her outreach. How could I tell her every inroad we had made together to make my dad's house a happy home was a sham? I wouldn't be staying past Spring. My mother and I had been plotting my transition back to her house in Seattle before I had reluctantly unpacked my last box from my dad's white Angelo Electric pickup. I hated the bastion of blue collar serfdom that I associated with riding in the truck. Even though my father was head of a large electrical contracting company, I was easily mortified and grew terrified that I become associated with such proletariat means.

I managed to chirp a contrived thanks and escaped inward as I settled back into the seat. Relations between Diana and me were strained from that point on. She began to neglect the housework and shuffle around the house in too much perfume that reeked of stale cigarettes. When my dad complained, she hired a cleaning service to detail the house with the grocery money he left in the sugar bowl. I could see the writing on the wall then. There would be no more discussions about silver screen stars of Hollywood's golden age. "Jane Fonda was never a raving beauty," Diana would say. "She hated being known for that," I would counter and away we would go. "You can keep Janet Leigh," she would say about the coed from Merced. "Lana Turner's real name was Julia Jean," I would interject. Tidbits and trivia flooded my teenage neurons and cemented my sensibility as gay.

Because Diana's weekends were hers alone, she would go under the radar after dinner on Friday to breakfast on Monday. One random Saturday morning, I was pleased to have an opportunity to see her under the most delicious of circumstances. My dad's younger son had caught a strange man booking down the back steps with Diana's prized Norwegian blue fox fur jacket on his arm. From where I listened in my bottom bunk, I could hear the rumblings of chaos erupting as Diana peeled out of the driveway in my father's parked Blazer. As usual, he was at work and would never know of this activity.
When Diana finally returned, she whispered for me to meet her upstairs in her suite and launched into a tale I mined for details.

"Without going into great detail,...' she explained. Then she cut right to the chase. "Can I borrow $50?," she said.
I had conscientiously saved my allowance in my top bureau drawer for months and had more than that sum in $1 bills. "Later, Diana exclaimed with gratitude, "That was a real damn decent thing you did." We shared a tearful moment as I cautioned her against falling asleep with a guest in the room.

Keeping Diana's confidence was a tool I used to empower myself against my father and it taught me the value of loyalty in friendships.

One morning, I caught Diana staring through binoculars from where she stood off the kitchen deck. When I asked what she was doing, she pointed out the distant but definite view of a hunky guy taking a shower. As she explained, he did so like clockwork at a certain time every morning that we could see 150 yards across the epic, forest ravine that divided the neighborhood mini mansions. Handing me the binoculars, Diana sang, "LAWD, let him see what I see,". That was the last time we bonded before our time together was guarded and performed in code for the unsuspecting benefit of whatever third party was present.

When I came back from Thanksgiving break in Seattle, the only evidence left of Diana were the cigarette burns she had ground into the carpet and what was left over from a spilled bottle of nail polish all over the nightstand's patina.
Her hasty departure by nightfall would mark the last time my dad hired a live in to take over that hackneyed position. As soon as I met Diana's replacement, I warned her against getting too comfortable. "I'm not planning on sticking around. Keep it to yourself," I would say. As limited as I was within my father's world, I gained a steel inner reserve as I learned how to just keep holding on. In the end, I knew I would have my way. Just like Diana said.

Mary Beilsmith Lassiter, Jon Paul and Jody Lynn Hern Wright like this.
- Brad Williams Enjoyed this essay, but you forgot to mention getting to meet Mary Wells in Dallas ten years ago. (I was there!)
  September 23 at 6:40am ·
- Michael Thomas Angelo It was obviously unremarkable. What event was that for again?
  September 23 at 6:44am ·
- Brad Williams I'm a little fuzzy on this, but it DID happen... ;p Tried to look up that event online, but no luck -- it was practically pre-Internet. I think it was some kind of breast cancer event at the Meyerson with the Turtle Creek Chorale...
  September 23 at 6:48am ·
- Michael Thomas Angelo The opening of the Women's Museum. It just hit me
  September 23 at 6:55am ·
- Brad Williams Mary WILSON -- no wonder I couldn't find it online... It was Susan G. Komen "Sing For The Cure" at the Meyerson; she was emcee and we met her at the reception afterwards.
  September 23 at 8:25am ·
- Michael Thomas Angelo You must have taken me to that--- I remember being unimpressed that she had reverted to a common church chorus
  September 23 at 8:27am · ·
- Jody Lynn Hern Wright great essay! Too hilarious! Funny that to this day Bill has no idea the goings on at his own house!
  September 23 at 8:37am ·
- Michael Thomas Angelo That doesn't surprise me. What do you know, girl? You got dirt? Dish!
  September 23 at 8:49am ·
- Jody Lynn Hern Wright no I don't have any dish. I never see him, heck he wouldn't even recognize my son Sheldon even though he is his Godfather. Seems the family fell apart after grandpa passed away.
  It 's just funny that he had no idea what was happening.
  September 23 at 9:00am ·
- Mary Beilsmith Lassiter Wow as always!
  September 23 at 9:55am ·
- Michael Thomas Angelo J, it's indicative of the way his 4 marriages have gone. And who says the family fell apart? Because Connie went apeshit, Amie moved to Big Sky Country and Bill is on halcyon? The Angelo girls are still tight-- and I'm included. We're as fallen apart as we let ourselves be. I say, we don't need their beauty products!
  September 23 at 10:20am ·
- Jody Lynn Hern Wright Well, the four siblings are not close as you so cleverly pointed out. I am not really in contact with anyone on any sort of regular basis except you. It's really sad. After Grandpa died, everyone just moved on with life and away from each other physically and emotionally. He must be rolling in his grave.
  September 23 at 10:24am ·
- Michael Thomas Angelo You know now that I think about it, "I am not really in contact with anyone on any sort of regular basis except you" too. Well, yay for us-- i guess it's up to you and me to be family. We're the oldest cousins anyway, right? xxoo
  September 23 at 10:38am · · 1 personJody Lynn Hern Wright likes this.
- Mary Beilsmith Lassiter I had to reread it. I just love your writing.
  September 23 at 4:53pm ·
- Courtney Angelo Things did change after grandpa died. I remember when he was alive we always would have a family Christmas party. I think that happened only once after he died.
  September 23 at 6:37pm ·
- Kim Dodd Koodos. That was a good read.
  September 23 at 8:18pm · · 1 personLoading...
- Michael Thomas Angelo It's a shame that nobody cared enough to take the initiative to continue family traditions throughout the years. Screw em. But I love you girls-- we have our own generation and we will prevail. I have such fond childhood memories of getting together with the cousins on the holidays. And I spent Xmas with Jod and Co. last year so you see, we will make our own Angelo family traditions without the violence and vitriol.
  September 24 at 1:21pm ·
- Carrie Forcucci You have the right to write...send me more xoxoxox
  September 27 at 7:15am
  
  Pam McDonald Kalian Make millions writing - you're really good!