photos by Mario Diaz

Dear Little Miss Know-It-All,

I am an aspiring performer/writer. Since you are accomplished in both vocations, I would appreciate your opinion on something. A teacher of mine recently announced to our class, "Honesty is the key to true artistry. Nothing fake can ever be considered art." What are your thoughts on this?

Signed,
Is Honesty Really The Best Policy? in Upland

Dear Honesty,

Your teacher is a complete idiot. Throughout history the very best art has been based on beautiful lies, also referred to as "mythology." If you don't believe me just look at DaVinci's Last Supper for chrissakes (pun very much intended)! To prove my point, let us painstakingly separate reality from art, even in regards to my humble little column in this delightful gay rag.

As you read this, you are probably picturing me in flawless showgirl face -- complete with lower lashes and glitter, silky hair piled on top of my head in big luscious curls, dripping in jewels, wearing a kicky, skintight, cleavage-accentuating outfit while typing this (very slowly thanks to my glamour-length airbrushed nails!) in my sophisticated-yet-charming house in the Hollywood Hills. To my right is a handsome young tattooed Latino gentleman, adjusting his huge uncut cock in a pair of two-sizes-too-small low rise jeans, and to the left of me is a chilled bottle of Cristal and a pile of checks in the amount of $1,500 each from IN Los Angeles magazine, forgotten and uncashed because I simply don't need the money.

(Insert sound of record being scratched here)

Yeah, right. You want the truth? Are you sure? Because it's not pretty. Okay, you asked for it... As I begrudgingly write this annoying burden of a column I am wearing an XXL Phantom of the Opera T-shirt that smells like El Pollo Loco and a pair of running shorts that have never been worn for their intended purpose. I am sporting a "two-day beard" because A) I haven't worked in five days and B) I am so unmanly that my five-day beard looks like it's been a mere two days since I've shaved. I am barefoot, which is just about the ugliest thing you will ever see in your life thanks to A) growing up, not to mention running around barefoot, in hotter-than-hell Scottsdale, Ariz. and B) close to 2 decades of shoving my big ol' man feets into tight 'n' tiny shoes designed for masochistic fashion-obsessed women. There is no one here with me in my crappy miniscule apartment located in the most tragic and dangerous part of "Little Armenia" -- except for my two yippy, yappy, ill-behaved lap dogs, Baby and Lil Sister. Instead of Cristal, I am trying desperately to keep from shooting Diet Shasta Cola out of my nose in laughter as I watch Alexis Arquette do his/her best to appear sane on an episode of The Surreal Life. That aforementioned pile of uncashed checks is, in reality, a teetering Jenga-like skyscraper of unpaid bills emblazoned with words like "overdue" and "final notice" in various shades of crimson resembling the proverbial blood that will never come from a stone. An air of sadness and desperation hangs in the air, along with the smell of dog urine, Jovan White Musk and cheap lead-based candles purchased from the 99 Cent Store. Good times.

Now be honest... Wouldn't you rather have that original, albeit phony-as-fuck, 8 x 10 glossy of me as a modern-day Jacqueline Susann in your head instead of this current out-of-focus Polaroid of me looking like Jim Belushi's bitter and underpaid stand-in? Of course! I hope you've learned a valuable lesson: Never demand the boring and unattractive truth when someone is trying to sell you a creatively woven, glitter-dusted lie. We should, as a people, lie as often and as outrageously as possible. And on that note, I am now going to cancel my lunch date with Steven Spielberg and have a hot three-way with my gorgeous rich Italian underwear model boyfriend and well-endowed Irish actor Colin Farrell.