Impossibly Glamorous: Impossibly Glamorous Memoirs, #1

By Charles St. Anthony

Charles St. Anthony heard plenty of 'Wizard of Oz' jokes growing up in Kansas. After finding himself on some seedy dance floors in Kansas City, his quest for love and glamor — and his penchant for all things Japanese — carried Charles from Dorothy's homeland to New York to Tokyo. Impossibly Glamorous follows his exploits with Goth raver lesbians, hot men, and not-so-hot men, culminating in a long-term love affair with Japan. His journey from ugly baby to Asian media personality touches on tough issues such as coming out gay in Kansas, domestic violence, substance abuse, and how to to bounce back from any kind of adversity with only a faux fur coat and a cavalier skip.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charles St. Anthony
• Release date: Mar 16, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386788737

Charles St. Anthony

Charles St. Anthony hosts the hilarious podcast "T with Charles" where he discuss the scalding hot topics in current events and entertainment. He has published several humorous memoirs and short reads. He graduated from Columbia University with a degree in East Asian Studies. After spending 12 years in Japan where he acquired his master's degree, he returned to the US where he released "Impossibly Glamorous" - his book about gay life in Japan and the American celebrities he met overseas. He followed this up with "San Francisco Daddy," which took a close up look at LGBTQ dating life in the Bay Area. "Uber Diva" and "DTLA Hustler" are humorous short reads on the gig economy where Charles shows the realities of working as a rideshare driver and Postmates courier, respectively. He continues his work as a wit and humorist maintains the handle @kingcharles0921 on Instagram and Twitter.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Walking Pandemonium

Girl, what are you doing? I asked.

I’m Nair-ing my ass and listening to the Cure. Where are we going tonight, Charles?

Look César, I can’t sneak out three nights in a row, and you know that power lesbian bouncer at The Edge doesn’t believe my ID.

Silence, motherfucker!

I tried to picture César as he cradled his phone against his neck and smeared hair removal cream onto his butt cheeks. Drag queens L’Oreal and Melinda Ryder are MCing the show, and I wouldn’t miss them for anything. Pick me up at eight.

To sneak into The Edge we had to arrive before ten, when the lesbian doorwoman, Larissa, appeared. If Larissa was there, she’d cut up your fake ID right in your face, then threaten to toss you out on your bare behind if you ever came back — i.e., she did her job. But if we arrived before ten and hid in the bathrooms until the bar filled, we underage gays could dance to Crystal Waters and the Real McCoy to our heart’s content.

César Garcia was the brother I never had and my first close gay friend in Kansas City, Missouri. Or perhaps I should call him gay- adjacent, as César also made out with girls — though he squealed higher and pranced girlier than any homo I ever met. Whatever he was—homosexual, bisexual or polysexual— César was so obviously not-straight that he’d endured far more homophobia than me. Legend had it he’d been tossed out of Catholic school for slapping a nun. He’d then attended a rougher high school where the other students slammed him into lockers and called him César Gay-cia or César Cock-munch. One clever redneck came up with César Toss-My- Salad. I’d gone to quieter bourgeoisie Shawnee Mission East.

Since high school was perilous and got in the way of his partying, César quit, got his GED, and began his not-a-career of getting fired from jobs for coming in high or not coming in at all. César was unemployable. A nightmare for any boss. He got caught shoplifting black jelly bracelets from his gig at Spencer’s Gifts and pillaging the Aveda at high-end salons. But he was still more fun than anyone else.

PhD in partying

César could turn any day of the week into a fiesta. Though he was unavoidable at our favorite hangout, Club Piranha, I got to know him when I hung out with a clique of Gothic lesbians — we just all ended up at the same parties. Whenever I wanted a night of adventure, I’d cruise my jalopy ten minutes down 95th Street to César’s, and then we’d take off. César could dance like a superstar, do make-up like nobody’s business and make you laugh any time, any day.

The boy knew how to party. He practically had a Master’s Degree in Mind Altering Substances: marijuana, mushrooms, Vicodin, Percoset. César loved to experiment with different substances. Picking him up was like picking up a new friend every day. I could get Mellow César who had munchies for cookie dough or Speedy César in platform shoes, grinding his teeth or even Raver César with a pocketful of ecstasy. Fast César. Crying César. Fun César. Bitchy César. There were so many Césars to be met.

With my social life revolving around César and Club Piranha, I was not exactly on my way to becoming high school valedictorian. I’d been in Drama Club at Shawnee Mission East, but who had time for Our Town and South Pacific when there were parties to attend?

The Drama Chair at Shawnee Mission East grew displeased. She nearly tossed me out of Drama Club (gasp!) when I got caught smoking during rehearsal.

I can smell the cigarettes on you. I think I smell pot on you, too, she’d accused. But I had not indulged in pot that day; maybe the smell was from the designer imposter’s fragrance she bathed in.

Ironically, this led me to being banned from the gayest production ever put on at our school: Cabaret. Fortunately, with no drama class or productions, I had extra time to get into trouble with César.

I loved visiting the Garcias. César’s family had an affinity for Mediterranean cuisine and an appreciation for gastronomy in general — they didn’t subsist on microwave pizzas and Fruit Roll-Ups like my family. Nary a Manwich to be found in Casa Garcia. Booze flowed freely, myriad Mexican cousins visited, and music and dancing were always on the agenda. Seriously, César had so many cousins there seemed to be one quiceañera per week. If you could chop up FUN and mold it like Play-Doh into a human form, it would be César and his family. He was a natural celebrity and walking pandemonium.

And if my life had had an MPAA rating, César would have knocked it from PG-13 to NC-17. One day I ran into him right after he’d had a threesome with some Goth lesbians. All true Goths are bisexual, César asserted, as if this were a well-known fact written on the Statue of Liberty. César made out with Gothic non-lesbians as well, and occasionally even made out with me. I just can’t get enough,’ he’d say. I need both peen and poon."

He was a Goth Latino Don Juan. Edward Scissorhands meets Antonio Banderas.

Why we drove to Red Lobster

The only resistance César ever received was from straight men. When not making out with his gay and lesbian friends, César became infatuated with straight-ish men who never reciprocated. We’d find ourselves driving to Red Lobster to leave love notes on Dustin Davenport’s car. Dustin had long greasy hair and the aroma of hush puppies. He never trimmed his nails, sweat stains circled his pits, and his goatee was never shaved into a recognizable shape.

But César thought this moron was the second coming of George Clooney. César spent hours analyzing Dustin’s every utterance and wardrobe choice for traces of homosexuality, he wrote love poems to Dustin, and we’d have deep conversations about him over the phone.

Dustin once wore pink bell bottoms to that party we all went to.

But César, that was a costume party.

His nails were totally long and painted black. He is a Goth bisexual just like me.

OK César, number one, you are only bisexual when you are drunk and there are no men around. Number two, I think Dustin’s nails are just long and dirty from working the swing shift at Red Lobster. Bringing out the seafood lover in you is grueling work, and he doesn’t have time to scrub behind his nails and do his cuticles.

Whether gay, straight or inclined to bestiality, César and Dustin were not destined to be Andromeda and Perseus. It is unfortunate that the book He’s Just Not That into You was not out at this time, as it would have saved thousands of Hispanic tears and much gasoline consumed in vain errands to the Red Lobster on Shawnee Mission Parkway.

Disturbing the peace

César would leave stores with things he had stolen that you wouldn’t know about until you got in the car. I was never party to the decision to make off with this contraband and was usually shocked when 20 minutes after leaving a store, he would produce a virtual cornucopia of items from his pockets. César was the Jack Sparrow of Johnson County. He stole heaps of cosmetics, bottles of vodka, and even a Halloween pump-kin once. Over the course of several years he reportedly made off with boatloads of product from luxury salons and a grand bottle of Thierry Mugler perfume from the counter at Saks 5th Avenue. After years of heists right under the eyes of store workers throughout the KC Metro Area, César finally got busted at Camelot Music for stealing a clearance bin tape of Billy Idol’s Vital Idol.

I graduated high school a semester early, and the last Friday I was there César came to Shawnee Mission East with me as my guest in the dead of winter. We lied and said he went to school at Our Sister of the Worthless Miracle in LA. My first class was a Biology test, and we were rather sedate, it being 8 a.m. We both wore our PVC (vinyl) pants; he wore his blue velvet jacket which matched my green velvet jacket. We applied Gothic makeup in the parking lot, shaking in Kansas City’s subzero temperatures. This was in January 1995. We looked like the faggot leprechauns of doom.

I’d been dying to terrorize the preppy Shawnee Mission East kids for years, and with César and me in full Gothic regalia, the school went ballistic. People were yelling and screaming at us. I was in my last semester of gym senior year; this was a class in which I’d long been terrorized by jocks.

If I were you I’d just kill myself, some football players taunted us. What’s your phone number? Maybe you can suck my dick?!

César yelled, I have a phone number! It’s 1-900-FUCKOFF! We escaped further harassment by going to the counselor’s office. During lunch we drove to César’s, smoked ganja and then we took off for the International Center where I studied Japanese. Being high made studying the Kanji char-acters so much fun! Shogun and Sayuri took a ride on Jefferson Airplane. Those hep cats from Osaka became groovy, baby, groovy.

Hippies under the full moon

One night soon after, a fabulous full moon shone overhead. We were stoked because every full moon the hippies held a drum circle in downtown Kansas City. César and I wanted to go, but we were flat broke.

I called César on my Best Buy black cordless. César, we need to come up with some money.

My father is giving me money to start a Gothic dance club. It is going to be called La Ment. Get it, Lament?

Yeah, I got it César, that’s a moronic name. Anyway I thought you said last week that it was going to be Dracula’s Last Stop. it."

Either way it is going to be the shit. Everyone is talking about it.

Yeah, I’m sure it’s the next Limelight, Peter Gatien. Look César, I’m dying for a little buzz before we hit the hippie drum circle. Do you have any weed?

Girl, you know where we need to go.

But I don’t have any money. I spent my last cash buying you chalupas and Oreos after the 2-for-1 beer bust. Now look, I didn’t want to do take this route, but there’s just one solution. The saxophone I’d played in junior high mostly lay around collecting dust. My older sister’s friends had destroyed it during a kegger she’d thrown when my parents were out of town. The bastards had kicked my alto sax down a flight of stairs and it would no longer blow. But it could be pawned for enough to buy us a dime bag and vodka.

The full moon glowed over the city as César and I went to buy pot from a notorious dealer named Handyman. The dealer had only his white briefs on, and when he turned around there was a big brown stain on the back. I looked up at the farm tools and bludgeoning instruments on the wall that served for décor, then turned to César, grabbed our Maui Wowie, and said, Let’s get the fuck outta Dodge!

We went to join the hippies in their full moon drum circle in a dodgy part of downtown Kansas City. Dreadlocked white girls danced around a bonfire wearing the flammable-looking, purple flowy skirts that were in vogue with the spiritual chicks. Though none of the hippie girls caught fire that night, everyone was, in fact, quite well-lit.

César and I sat on a bench overlooking the deco-era brick buildings and knocked each other over, laughing about small-town gay gossip. Then I asked him, This can’t be all you want César, don’t you want to get out of here?

What for? I have everything I need in KC. Great family, great friends.

Oh you just like being a big rainbow fish in a small dreary pond. Not for me, César, I gotta get out of here.

Bitch please, where the hell do you think you’ll go?

Europe, New York, Japan, South America? Who knows?

You know what I want Charles? I just want to be loved.

You are loved. You have more friends than anyone I know.

No. Like a real boyfriend.

Well, you need to clean things up. Slow down. Do less drugs. Get a career going.

Okay. I’ll think about it after we finish this joint.

Come on César, don’t go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you’re used to.

César was annoyed at me for quoting the overplayed TLC song, Will you shut the fuck up and smoke?

Some hippies were coming and we didn’t want to share our blunts with them so we went inside a sketchy bus parked nearby. The last time this bus had been driven, the Partridge Family was popular and girls wore flowers in their hair in San Francisco. The bus was filled with old furniture covered in white fabric. It smelled like mold and garbage. So naturally César and I did the logical thing in a bus full of refuse: we started making out.

We both pulled back and laughed. What are we doing? A lot of gay friendships are based around the fact that there isn’t a lot of chemistry and the window for becoming boyfriends had shut. César and I were no different. The full moon, Maui Wowie and the stench in a hippie bus had made us crazy for a moment.

Burning bridges with napalm

No one could burn bridges faster than César. He could napalm bridges! But we always forgave him. It was simply more fun hanging out with him than holding a grudge.

But not only did he atomize friendships and leave employers enraged, he also got banned from gay clubs. The Cabaret, a gay club, banned César after he went out with the owner and doorpeople, then announced that he was only eighteen and had been illegally entering their club. César had been a fixture at all the gay clubs for some time, so no one had questioned his age. After the Cabaret banned him and the Arabian Nights shut down, that left us one last resort I didn’t want to turn to: the Dixie Belle.

We were always able to sneak into the Dixie Belle, a leather daddy and cowboy bar. César and I would run through and laugh at the circle jerks going on in the basement. One night I saw a physics teacher downstairs.

Oh my! Charles St. Anthony? What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to see me here, he flustered as he zipped up his black jeans and flounced off. Maybe this explained the twinkle in his eye when he explained Gibbs free energy. Having missed a peek at my teacher’s Bunsen burner, César and I ran back upstairs and looked for daddies to buy us Michelob Light.

I missed the action another night at the Dixie Belle when César and some friends locked themselves in the private VIP bathroom. César decided he was Sid Vicious and karate-kicked the porcelain sink off the wall. And so, César was banned from Kansas City’s foulest gay bar as well. Which should have earned him a medallion, or something.

Of course it was hilarious when his stealing and bitchiness was directed at someone else, but he would also direct it at his friends. Even at me. Um, girl, I think this is my Elastica CD, I said one day when I came over for sangria and salsa.

No, I totally lifted this from Camelot Music at Ward Parkway.

Um, César, I don’t think so. This is the limited edition CD I searched around for. Not only that, aren’t those my Madonna tapes?

A line had been crossed. Mess with a gay’s Madonna, and you’re bound for trouble. I don’t think this is funny, César.

Why do you have to be such a shady bitch? They’re just tapes, get over it.

He did this to all his friends, but the fact of the matter was you just had to get over it, because when it came down to it, there was only one Mr. Walking Pandemonium.

César and I had many ins and outs over the years. So at first it seemed fine — even funny — when he decided to start the morning by buying a 24 pack of beer at ten a.m., or mix three different types of pills with his Caipirinha.

I don’t think you should be mixing alcohol with those pills, César.

They work faster!

Indeed both César and I became victims to a common disease in the gay community.