"Untitled Photo" - Photo by Dolores Reyes 1987
Revering echelons of popular culture - for example the rankings of Prince and his harem of women, Madonna and her contagious trends celebrated in pop culture - I appeased my time between getting along with other people and escaping into my own reality - thoughtfully dwelling there and achieving fulfillment! Some things I remember were the array of "trashy" novels I never read but visualized myself portrayed in - hoping to reiterate my declaration of voluptuous appeal and amorous presence. In California many of the romance novel authors spent many hours at home dreaming up their storylines and my presence through the air waves was always with high hopes that I was suitable for one of thier main characters male or female. During the process of this virtual escape to fullfillment in this implied world I lived in, I encountered varied manifestations of liability and soon found these enhancing but much like vices - I felt grounded and enabled to disassociate my unique role as myself from society - resulting sometimes as a ghastly person, and less but seldom mercenary to actualize the "creative type" or artistic person I always dreamed of being. It was too often that I relayed lessons with my head voice and understanding points of view under rationalized style and civility that cultivated a conscience casting a punk rock indication into a subculture well known to me as a "drag queen" lifestyle or transvestitism. Eluded by a bent perception of reality I found myself somewhat breaching my way through exclusive societies like
Brentwood, located at the western part of Los Angeles, California bounded by the San Diego Freeway and even membership and organization-clans like my contempt to crack the code of the "Blitz Kids" - though I recognize this conduct cut-shaped design from my adaption of a "trashy novel" always concluded with an executing ending, "badgirl"- in my life only in my imagination. "Never judge a book by its' cover" - in my mind - was too often persuaded by my insecurities, and encouraged by my peers but yet my advocacy to be law abiding and studious precedes even now, my grim tale that
encompassed only a fraction enough to feel cool. I was certainly interpretive or theatrical and my musical tastes reconciled my nervous system during these times alone through this grimmly part of my life with Vanity 6's liberal movement and Sheila E.'s nostalgic Glamorous Life - their political edge agreeable to the terms of my Catholic upbringing and civic pride, but also resounding a similar nostalgia with Nina Hagens' angelic suprano and her anti-degeneration personas. There was always so much to gain with female influences when it came to rationalizing malehood and peculiarities. An unfaltering interest in fashion magazines was always something that fascinated me enough to cover my walls with the pages of pictorials and featured articles and columns. I sometimes felt somewhat narcissistic but maybe more so a flamboyant and an outcast; but somehow I managed to focus my energies with the important things to keep my life productive, not to mention the undying support from everyone. I do remember my drawing habbits and sketches inspired by many of the musical artists and fashion magazine pictorials and hanging these caricatures on the wall like centerpieces guarding my formulated "originality". Some of these fashion magazines include: The Face, Details, I-D, LA Style, Mademoiselle, Cosmopolitan, Harper's Bazar, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Readers Digest, LA Weekly, Los Angeles Times Calendar, and an assortment of "raunchy" classifieds. I still find looking through the classified section in the local newspaper enjoyable - and who could forget the pubescent thrill of running into "David the Matchmakers" ad and his explicit potency to pair up men and women and men and men. I began practicing social skills at age 13 with strangers by calling or responding to mail exchange personals and met some valuable people in my life that sustained as animately existent throughout the years of growing up as this awkard boy. At age fifteen, I met an older gentleman named Con - an author and struggling screen writer - invited me to a steak lunch nearby where I lived in a small, and very conditioned suburban town. There were ponderous words exchanged during our meal and when I told him my age of fifteen, our meeting abruptly ended and he hurriedly took me home. Sometime the following week I received a letter from him that was richly proper. The letter made the notion that he was much too old for me and basically listed the reasons why it is not kosher to meet or be seen together anymore; although he seemed very attached to the idea of playing a mentor - I somehow eluded to portraying a monsterous child very fluent in scenarios of scandal. He soon wanted nothing to do with me and I made a very painful exit. There was also a classified ad in the LA Times from an Incarcerated man interested in a pen pal relationship. I remember being so eager to send in a response and I envisioned that I could reap a genuine friendship with him and with not even a glance at myself and comprised with this lactated interest in crossdressing - moreover, how I may be imposing my disillusioned outlook of life to this man. I responded to his ad, my photo enclosed, and complete with my return mailing address. He never responded but It is fair to say that somewhere in the mechanics of reality his aura remained active. I remember the idle heights my former derogatory imagination took me with this unamed person whose name evades my mind but renders eminent images of salacious fantasy and reclusive privilege. Times like these added a consistent breeze of zest and spirit to my life and relationship to my social circumstances.
Revering echelons of popular culture - for example the rankings of Prince and his harem of women, Madonna and her contagious trends celebrated in pop culture - I appeased my time between getting along with other people and escaping into my own reality - thoughtfully dwelling there and achieving fulfillment! Some things I remember were the array of "trashy" novels I never read but visualized myself portrayed in - hoping to reiterate my declaration of voluptuous appeal and amorous presence. In California many of the romance novel authors spent many hours at home dreaming up their storylines and my presence through the air waves was always with high hopes that I was suitable for one of thier main characters male or female. During the process of this virtual escape to fullfillment in this implied world I lived in, I encountered varied manifestations of liability and soon found these enhancing but much like vices - I felt grounded and enabled to disassociate my unique role as myself from society - resulting sometimes as a ghastly person, and less but seldom mercenary to actualize the "creative type" or artistic person I always dreamed of being. It was too often that I relayed lessons with my head voice and understanding points of view under rationalized style and civility that cultivated a conscience casting a punk rock indication into a subculture well known to me as a "drag queen" lifestyle or transvestitism. Eluded by a bent perception of reality I found myself somewhat breaching my way through exclusive societies like
Brentwood, located at the western part of Los Angeles, California bounded by the San Diego Freeway and even membership and organization-clans like my contempt to crack the code of the "Blitz Kids" - though I recognize this conduct cut-shaped design from my adaption of a "trashy novel" always concluded with an executing ending, "badgirl"- in my life only in my imagination. "Never judge a book by its' cover" - in my mind - was too often persuaded by my insecurities, and encouraged by my peers but yet my advocacy to be law abiding and studious precedes even now, my grim tale that encompassed only a fraction enough to feel cool. I was certainly interpretive or theatrical and my musical tastes reconciled my nervous system during these times alone through this grimmly part of my life with Vanity 6's liberal movement and Sheila E.'s nostalgic Glamorous Life - their political edge agreeable to the terms of my Catholic upbringing and civic pride, but also resounding a similar nostalgia with Nina Hagens' angelic suprano and her anti-degeneration personas. There was always so much to gain with female influences when it came to rationalizing malehood and peculiarities. An unfaltering interest in fashion magazines was always something that fascinated me enough to cover my walls with the pages of pictorials and featured articles and columns. I sometimes felt somewhat narcissistic but maybe more so a flamboyant and an outcast; but somehow I managed to focus my energies with the important things to keep my life productive, not to mention the undying support from everyone. I do remember my drawing habbits and sketches inspired by many of the musical artists and fashion magazine pictorials and hanging these caricatures on the wall like centerpieces guarding my formulated "originality". Some of these fashion magazines include: The Face, Details, I-D, LA Style, Mademoiselle, Cosmopolitan, Harper's Bazar, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Readers Digest, LA Weekly, Los Angeles Times Calendar, and an assortment of "raunchy" classifieds. I still find looking through the classified section in the local newspaper enjoyable - and who could forget the pubescent thrill of running into "David the Matchmakers" ad and his explicit potency to pair up men and women and men and men. I began practicing social skills at age 13 with strangers by calling or responding to mail exchange personals and met some valuable people in my life that sustained as animately existent throughout the years of growing up as this awkard boy. At age fifteen, I met an older gentleman named Con - an author and struggling screen writer - invited me to a steak lunch nearby where I lived in a small, and very conditioned suburban town. There were ponderous words exchanged during our meal and when I told him my age of fifteen, our meeting abruptly ended and he hurriedly took me home. Sometime the following week I received a letter from him that was richly proper. The letter made the notion that he was much too old for me and basically listed the reasons why it is not kosher to meet or be seen together anymore; although he seemed very attached to the idea of playing a mentor - I somehow eluded to portraying a monsterous child very fluent in scenarios of scandal. He soon wanted nothing to do with me and I made a very painful exit. There was also a classified ad in the LA Times from an Incarcerated man interested in a pen pal relationship. I remember being so eager to send in a response and I envisioned that I could reap a genuine friendship with him and with not even a glance at myself and comprised with this lactated interest in crossdressing - moreover, how I may be imposing my disillusioned outlook of life to this man. I responded to his ad, my photo enclosed, and complete with my return mailing address. He never responded but It is fair to say that somewhere in the mechanics of reality his aura remained active. I remember the idle heights my former derogatory imagination took me with this unamed person whose name evades my mind but renders eminent images of salacious fantasy and reclusive privilege. Times like these added a consistent breeze of zest and spirit to my life and relationship to my social circumstances.
I began soul searching and found out many things about my past that reconciled a lot of my behavioral patterns that included fractions of my memories about my "Family Tree" including renowned names to celebrity such as his Majesty King Juan Carlos, Vic Vargas, Marilyn Monroe. Elvis Presley, James Dean, Charles Atlas and more currently to fame - Madonna, Nina Hagen, Vanity (or Denise Matthews), Sheila E., Jill Jones, Prince, and Angelyne. Although these fractions of memories fail to bring down the curtain to settlement to actuality and mortality - after all, domestic in the informal oblvion of memories. With much benefaction of this I recall many occassions of defaming the people that were closest to me including my immediate friends and family. I believe the inharmonious commotions were due to puzzling mysticism and sciences beyond celebrityhood's absence in domesticated routines. Moral conditions substituted the truth whereas avoiding the commotions was healing in its own way and restorative to my humbled - and many times, scorned pride. I governed my behaviors so that I would not excede my capacity in terms of reason and convention and some of the places this motivation, whether "good" or "bad" - has taken me to demonstrate life in another light. I cannot fail to mention that for a certain portion of my lifetime I admired from afar a female impersonator who went by the name Viva. He reclaimed many obtrusive "flashiness" from female celebrity icons and manifested it like a live musical performance with lip-syncing and elaborate dance routines for a nightclub; and sometimes also - I relaized his presence in my life understanding that he too practices conformity to customs and the conventions of society. He had a special way about him that mediated into my life and outlined his likeness such as if there were an image of me standing in front of a mirror or vanity table with my reflection reflecting in all my garb amidst a friend or among aquaintances that stirred an affinity of me in motion. Away back I was frequently misconstrued as a "pre-op" transgender and I accompanied many different friends under clergy to make connections with other friends with friends of friends and family. On one occassion I played a patron for a friend and upon visiting some real estate in the Glendora Hills of the Los Angeles County I seem to remember most what people noticed about me that was irreconcilably androgynous. We stopped in for an afternoon drink and smoked a couple of cigarettes with the daughter-in-law of the tenant of this magnificent mansion that encompassed more than one hundred acres. I remember most the hallways with bedroom doors situated through the entire corridor which seemed at the least a quarter of a mile long. and the peculiar feeling that someone was watching me. This to me was a great opportunity and experience to be a hopeful indvidual affiliated to the angled images in my mind of wealth. I had a strange experience at a UCLA "frat party": It seemed like a dream - the way the "ride" I was in drove up through the driveway in a desolate area into what seemed like a circular driveway but actually a dusty urban area with several standing "Byzantine" coulmns from a distance holding up a veranda that seemed to be the front entry but alongside the path of the urban road was a darkly bricked home-front with tinted windows. Upon entering the veranda I recognized that the area was a very large space decorated like an upscale environment where the dining tables were usually arranged - cleared out as a dance floor - and very formal. There were many people there and to my recollection I lost track of the people I came with but felt at home with the other guests. So there I was - swaying back and forth to the music along side the wall and a guy approached me for my phone number - I felt like he had his eye on me previously and encouraged that we were compatible. He asked me for my phone number and I told him scrupulously that I can not give my phone 
number out. He gave me his phone number and told me that he is "bisexual", I grinned and told him the same. Under all the pretenses I was actually a scared little boy with all the symptoms of virginal "nervousness" and then I moved along like nothing had happened. This was strange: that everything seemed like a dream and I can not remember even being coherent - and now so confirmed in the awareness of an underage sensibility blind in motion, and spontaneous in emotion. I rediscovered my innocence soon after my return safely home at my parents house when I refrained from telling them any details about my night out. It's peculiar how a lie sometimes butters up the truth and evidently regarding this jaded path to this ironic persona vaguely familiar. So this story ends with a vaguely familiar condition mobilized for a trip down a koshered forethought-readiness with thoughtless apprehension into sociability!
- To Be Continued -
