Alisa: A Story of Race, Sex, Class, and Shame

JUNE 1996:             Anais’ burgundy lips pulled from the Marlboro Red (a manly cigarette for such a delicate girl.)             Anais – a decadent name. Decadent even before I knew it was the name of Henry Miller’s most famous lover. Henry Miller was hot yet gaudy stuff as a writer, but he was also a proto-decadent. He should have rejected a bohemian lifestyle and stayed home with his wife and child (he could have written in his spare time.) Few sins are more egregious than the conscious embrace of la boheme (who doesn’t like hot showers and private shits?)             She pulled again.             I wanted, needed, and deserved a cigarette (after all, I had just worked hard and hard work always deserves a reward.) But what would dad do if he smelled cigare...

APRIL 1996: And I miss you... Like the deserts miss the rain...            Dad knew I wanted to be a big celebrity, bigger than Adolf Hitler and Michael Jackson combined. I don't know if he thought the attainment of my megalomaniacal dreams was possible ("there are millions of people in New York and L.A. waiting tables for a living and they all want it more than you do"), but he knew it would be good for me to try. I was a sissy half-fag who hated sports (especially football), but even sensitive, solitary queers need constructive activity in the frame of a structured environment. Modeling was my extracurricular activity, just as my sister played soccer and fiddled with the violin. And I miss you… Like the deserts miss the rain…             I wanted to be a famous model, actor, comedian, performance artist, screenwriter, director, and producer for three reasons: 1.)     I enjoye...