The Most Wonderful Time of the Queer

Can you feel it? The most magical time of the year is upon us. The sweet aroma of grandma's Creme de Cacao and Peppermint Schnapps fills the air. The fluorescent glimmer of the penis-shaped Christmas bulbs line the tree. Even the traditional mistletoe serves as a seasonal excuse for the obligatory make-out session. It's like a scene out of Frank Capra's It's A Wonderful Life. Every time a bell rings, a fairy gets her wings..... That's right, it's Christmas in September!

This past weekend I was fortunate enough to participate in a good ole' fashioned Holiday tradition. Each year, a local gay bar hosts “Christmas in September”, an event supporting the Childrens Hospital Los Angeles. And I must say, this was like nothing I've ever seen before. The club was completely transformed with elaborate Christmas décor, fake snow, speciality cocktails, and even a very sexy Saint Nick ("here cums Santa Clause, here cums Santa Clause..."). Suddenly, the spirit of the Holidays flooded through me like rum-spiked egg nog. It was like a page from Irving Berlin's White Christmas...... except with trannies and gay men.

After cocktail 2, 3, and 7, we were all treated to some merry entertainment (Or should I say "Mary" entertainment?). One of the transgendered ho-ho-ho star's from Dirty, Sexy, Money graced the stage with a handful of uh-mazing performances. She's undeniably gorgeous with an ass that won't quit and breasts of a greek goddess. She even donned a festive, sexy Santa suit and sat on Santa's lap!! "I saw tranny kissing Santa Clause, underneath the camel toe last night...." (I like bursting out in perverted Christmas tunes.... so?)

After the liquor subsided, I was hit with a strong feeling of Christmas nostalgia. Aside from the go-go dancing elves and the 2 for 1 'Frostie the Blow Man' Martinis, this experience actually geared me up for December. Yes, I admit, I'm just as excited for door-to-door caroling, cookie-baking, and tree-trimming merriment as the next queen, but that's not what I'm truly anticipating. To me, Christmas is family. It's friends. It's love, happiness, and the reminiscence of childhood. It's the time of year when the stress from your job is irrelevant and petty disputes are moot. (I actually thought about all this while inebriated... I'm far too analytical).

Anyway, now the official countdown has truly commenced. Three more months till the most wonderful time of the year. Until then I'll just have to patiently wait.... While visions of sugar-fairies dance in my bed. ;)

Strike A Poser

Last weekend I chose -- no, no -- I deigned to do something I vowed I'd never do. In the heat of creating my very first website (launching on a computer near you), I decided it'd be a good idea to pose for pictures which would be posted on my bitchin' homepage (that's right, I said "bitchin'"). Fortunately, my friend Joslyn has experience with this process, and was immediately hired as my stylist and photographer. I use the word "hired" loosely, because I'm clearly not gonna pay her. Well, not with money at least....

To my narcissistic surprise, many outfits were chosen, hairstyles created, and locations scouted with hopes of not resembling any hint of the elephant man. Then, out of nowhere, Sunday slowly crept up on me and I was unfortunately exposed to my own brand of torture. "Camera shy" doesn't even begin to describe how uncomfortable I was. The minutes ticked by painfully slow, the sun beamed down on my powder-coated skin, and I was blatantly aware of the neighborhood passers by. Needless to say, I pushed forward. I attempted to discover my inner-Tyra (smiling with my eyes). I imagined Janice Dickinson shouting foul insults in my face. Hell, even Heidi Klum evoked some inspiration - but no matter how much I trekked forth, I was completely out of my element. There's a reason why I want to be behind the camera!!!

I had a thought.... The level of confidence people attain is quite thought provoking, don't you think? I would love to be the type of person who shines in a picture, hogs the spotlight, and devours celluloid attention. You know, the person who is so excruciatingly comfortable in their own skin, they feel no need to apologize for standing right in front of you during a candid group photograph (you know who you are). As I sat on the cement stoop in my $20 wool coat (in 80 degree weather, might I add!) and Joslyn snapped away, I had a choice. I could either sit on the pavement quietly seething and undeniably miserable because of this self-inflicted situation. Or, I could throw caution to the wind, accept the fact that I'm not a model, and simply have fun.... and so I did.

With a couple shots of vodka, of course....

The World Around Me

Every so often the stars align, the oceans rise, and it's bound to happen. It's as inevitable as a Naomi Campbell meltdown. Through no fault of my own, I wake up on the bitch side of the bed and my entire morning is unfortunately foul. Not even the site of the Today Show's Matt Lauer could snap me out of my sour mood.

Without any fair warning, yesterday was one of those days...

As my eyes flicked open Monday morning, I was instantly opposed to the start of the day. The teeniest agitations became magnified and I was filled with this seething irritation. The slightest occurrence would set me off like a ticking time bomb of frustration. I literally became Shannen Doherty circa 1993. Shoot, girl... I became Oprah Winfrey with wet hair (I would CUT you!).

However, as I stepped outside onto my Los Angeles suburban street, I noticed something I rarely pay attention to (yet get so much gratification out of) -- my neighbor's trimmed rose bushes lining the yard. I noticed the piercing red color. The glossy emerald leaves. The warm, fall sun bouncing off the velvet-like pedals. It was like a scene from American Beauty. Suddenly, I was reinforced with an air of positivity. Instead of beginning my day with such hostility, I forced myself to observe my surroundings and actually look at the world around me.

At that very moment, I grabbed a nearby pad and pen, scribbled a succinct message, and placed the piece of paper in my neighbor's mailbox.

I felt this 'thank you' note was well overdo. Anything that can keep Shannen Doherty (circa 1993) from emerging deserves all the appreciation they can get...

"But it helps me remember... and I need to remember... Sometimes there's so much beauty in the world I feel like I can't take it, like my heart's going to cave in." - Ricky Fitts (American Beauty)

Versace on Sundays

I've come to learn that Los Angeles isn't your typical chaotic city. The people here are their own breed of human. I kid you not! Folks here don't have the harsh cynicism of New Yorkers, the political savviness of our Nation's capital, and definitely don't have the pizazz of the people of Chicago. Instead, Los Angeles is a microcosm of something completely unreal. It's not exactly a "city", as it is Ken and Barbie's expanded dream house. Everywhere I turn, I'm bombarded by walking mannequins carrying their well-groomed Chihuahuas and traveling cappuccinos. Which, if you think about it, comes to no surprise seeing how a Bally's Fitness, tanning salon, and dental reconstruction office comes standard in every neighborhood.

Last Sunday, this epiphany became magnetized when I peered around the room of my Santa Monica church. Ordinarily, you'd expect God's house to be filled with yuppity, suited geriatrics and their middle-aged wives. Instead, the church was seated with undeniably gorgeous divorcees and their well-coiffed, 3rd fiances. It wasn't so much a Mass as it was a casting call for America's Next Top Model. Even the children obtained an air of youthful beauty. I glanced down at my brandless hoodie sweatshirt and my discounted Target jeans and became flooded with insecurities. I looked as though I stumbled out of Auschwitz. With sincere trepidation, I decided to stare straight ahead and focus solely on the Priest -- who, incidentally, was equally as stylish.

Once Church let out, I was left wondering if this realization was, in fact, fueled by my own uneasiness. Or was everyone in this city struggling with their own tailored insecurities? As I scanned the parking lot, I noticed these fashionistas/churchgoers cramming themselves into their Mercedes and BMW sedans. Why was this so intriguing to me? Was it jealousy that irked me? Perhaps. (Which is ironically a deadly sin...) Or was it something else? In the end, I decided to label this epiphany as an awakening. A much-needed slap in the face from my overly-analytical daze. As cheesy as it sounds, instead of focusing way too much on Los Angeles' designer exterior, I decided to concentrate on my own interior and perhaps dial down the judgements (especially in Church, right?).

In the end, as this California dissection faded, I came to one conclusion... Maybe this type of crowd isn't restricted only to Los Angeles. Maybe it's not even geographical. Maybe... just maybe, in a city so perfectly translated to "The City of Angels", I should just let go, let God, and as I walk through the streets filled with these perfectly walking mannequins.... simply enjoy the view.