Show Me What You're Made Of

Growing up, my father's brother, my Uncle Vito, would always try to butch me up or as he would put it "make a man out of me." Well, even though back then Uncle Vito was a real pain in my ass, I realize now what a great character he was and it's a great story to tell. It also doesn't hurt that I'm now making money off of him as well - I had an article published in the August 2007 edition of Instinct magazine that focused on Vito and his macho mentality.






Vito would always force me to drop and give him twenty and often yell in his rough, gruff, gravely voice: "Come on neph, show me what you're made of." Hence the title to my article.





Uncle Vito passed away when I was in the fifth grade, but I wonder how he would feel knowing his story was published in a gay magazine. I'm sure it wouldn't go over very well, but at least he would know I grew up to indeed become a man, on my own terms and brave enough to live my life truthfully and honestly.

What's Her Name? I Mean His...

My parents Lois and Big Vince had three children before I was born - all girls. When I arrived the morning of March 8, 1971, their dream had finally come a true – a boy! I was to be their last child and their only son, not to mention the last of the family name. Little did Mom and Dad know they now basically had four girls.

I was their pride and joy, named after my father and my grandfather. My grandfather was Vincent James, my father was Vincent Jr. and I was crowned Vincent James II. The family name would now live on, tradition would stand and I too would have a son one day and name him Vincent James III…or at least that was the plan.

By the time I was one-year’s old, I had bold, beautiful cerulean eyes and the most sublime curly blonde hair. I was absolutely adorable, if I can say so myself! My mother thought so as well, as she proudly paraded me around the neighborhood in my carriage; however the reaction she received from others wasn’t always one she had anticipated.

“Oh Lois, look at her. She’s beautiful.”

“Lois! The baby is adorable, what’s her name?”

“Another girl, oh my you have your hands full. What’s her name?”

Did these people know something Lois didn’t? “His name is Vincent,” my mother would always snap back. But it was an easy mistake…everyone knew Lois had a few girls and with those beautiful, long, flowing blonde curls, it was hard to tell.

Always looking out for my best interest, my parents decided to put an end it once and for all during the summer of 1972 and finally took me to see Enzio, the local Italian barber.
Enzio was an old school Italian, fresh off the boat from Italy; he owned the local barbershop in our neighborhood and specialized in two types of cuts – the crew cut and the Italian slick back. This was the man my mother decided should be responsible for my very first makeover?

From the photos, it appears as if I was thrilled to see Enzio or maybe I was just enamored by my own image in the wall of mirrors before me? (Some things never change.) However, once Enzio put the clippers to my head the elation evaporated. I started to cry and my mother even had to hold my head. (Still to this day, I hate getting my haircut; I have little faith in my stylist’s skills and always fear for the worst. I wonder why?)

I’m sure I was wondering why my parents would allow this strange man to shave my head and rob me of my precious curls. Everyone loved them after all! Did they have any idea how difficult it would be and how long it would take to grow them back? What were they thinking?

However, when it was all over there would be no more thinking required. I was definitely a boy, no doubt about it! My parents solved that dilemma pretty well and all was fine…until I started to speak.

Christmas in Queens

For as long as I can remember, every Christmas Eve my parents would bundle me up in my coat and hat, hand me a plastic baby figurine that was supposed to represent the Baby Jesus and instruct me to trample through our front garden (or what we in Queens consider a garden – more like a patch of dirt) and place the baby in the manager.

My father, being the construction worker that he was, would build a makeshift manger out of spare wood every December, assemble it in our front garden and then strategically place the plastic figurines that resembled Mary and Joseph, the three wise men, a shepherd and a few sheep in and around the manger. Baby Jesus however, would always remain inside our house where he and the rest of us would eagerly anticipate the night of his birth. Then come Christmas Eve, I would lay Baby Jesus in the manager and officially kick off our Christmas celebration. This annual ritual was of course, always captured on film. As the years passed, the allure of the tradition began to wear thin. Some years the garden and the manger would be covered in snow complicating my task even more, or it would be pouring rain and my umbrella would never quite keep me as dry as I had hoped, or it would just be plain freezing cold out. I mean, did I really need to subject the little guy to those weather conditions?

By the time I reached my teens, I couldn’t wait for my sisters to start having kids so I could pass the obligatory torch or in this case baby, along to their children. However, my first niece Francesca wasn’t born until I was twenty years old, and even then I still had to do the honors and carry both her and Jesus to the manger. When my second niece Stephanie was born, the entire family and I couldn’t wait for the two girls to grow up and take over the tradition. I was relieved and thrilled to say the least!

However they both simply refused. These innocent little girls ages two and three, threw fits and temper tantrums, adamant about not stepping one single foot into our garden or going anywhere near that manager. They wanted no part of this tradition and believe it or not everyone simply accepted their belligerence. As a result, the torch was never passed on and that bastard Baby Jesus would remain my responsibility and mine alone.

I am now…well let’s just say I’m in my thirties, yet still every Christmas Eve my parents become far too elated as they grab their cameras, toss the Baby Jesus my way, and insist that I once again perform the honors. Like an obedient child, I still give into their wishes as I squeeze past the rose bush hoping not to catch my cashmere sweater on a branch or thorn, try not to crush any plants with my freshly polished Kenneth Cole loafers, squat down between the now overgrown shrubs and pose for my annual photo op. And in that moment, much like the figurine I lay in the manger, time stands still and neither one of us has grown up or changed much - we’re still just our parents precious baby boys.

Daytime TV and Dynasty

As I grew older, my interest in Gary Coleman dissipated (the attraction wore off) and my attention turned toward the seductive and sultry world of soap operas.

With three older sisters, it was difficult not to become influenced by or involved in their interests (see below…Barbie dolls, batons and basketball cheers!) Anyway, when I was in the first grade, my sister Christine decided one day to pay a visit to Port Charles and the entire family soon followed, quickly becoming addicted to “General Hospital.” I was captivated day one and from that point on, I could not cope without my soap. It was the late 70’s; Laura Webber had recently been accused of accidentally killing her boyfriend, but in an attempt to protect her daughter, Dr. Leslie Webber took the blame and went to jail for the crime. While Leslie sat in the slammer, Laura fell in love with Scotty Baldwin, who was slammin! (At least that was my point of view.)

Scotty was an all-American blonde haired, blue-eyed boy from a good family, his mother Gail was a doctor and his father Lee was an attorney. Scotty had just passed the bar exam himself when he asked Laura to marry him one fateful Christmas Eve as they decorated the Webber’s Christmas tree. Scotty placed the star atop the tree and a ring on Laura’s finger. It was incredibly romantic as Laura began shedding tears of joy expressing how she had always dreamed of this moment; decorating the tree with the man she loved and who she would spend the rest of her life with.

However, true to soap opera form, their love would inevitably die much like that once fresh Christmas tree they decorated that afternoon. Shortly after they were married, bad-boy Luke Spencer came to town, opened a disco, hired Laura to work for him and then one nefarious night decided to rape her right there on the dance floor. They soon fell madly in love (but of course), running off together to escape Frank Smith, the local mob boss, who they would eventually take down, only to triumphantly return to Port Charles for the wedding of the century (30 million viewers watched that afternoon in November of 1981.) Luke and Laura would later save the town of Port Charles from the evil Cassadine family and the Ice Princess, which threatened to freeze the entire city. Talk about excitement, nothing like that ever happened in Queens!

By the time I was in the fourth grade, I was a soap fanatic with my “General Hospital” t-shirt, notebook and scrapbook, which tracked every single character and cast member. I dreamed of one day being on “General Hospital” arriving in Port Charles as a distant relative of the wealthy Quartermaine family. Then I discovered the lavish lives of the Carrington clan on “Dynasty” and that became my newest obsession and escape from the common, narrow-minded world of Queens.

“Dynasty” was pure decadence and debauchery and I loved every minute of it! The Carrington’s lives were full of murder and mayhem, catfights and caviar, and hookers and homosexuals. The later of which peeked my interest the most.

Steven Carrington was the first gay man I ever knew. He was sensitive yet seductive with his blonde hair and blue eyes, tall yet timid, conflicted yet courageous, wealthy and hot as hell. HELLO! Forget Arnold Jackson, I wanted to be just like Steven Carrington; wealthy, blonde, beautiful and gay…or at least find a boyfriend just like him.

Steven’s life, much like my own, was met with difficulty due to the fact that he was the only son, gay, and the heir to the “Dynasty” fortune. (Okay, so maybe there’s no fortune for me to inherit, but can’t a boy dream?)

Steven was the outcast of the family wanting little to do with the family oil business while his father, Blake, wanted nothing to do with his homosexual ways. Their relationship was strained to say the least, but became much worse when Blake accidentally killed Steven’s lover, Ted Dinard. After discovering Ted in Steven's bedroom, Blake pushed him away from his son, sending him crashing into the fireplace and smashing his head on the base. Poor Steven, could you imagine?

Steven would later succumb to his father’s demands and marry his step-mother Krystle’s low-class, common, money hungry whore of niece Sammy Jo (expertly portrayed by Heather Locklear), then ended up with crazy Claudia when Sammy Jo left town to become and actress, before finally settling down with men again and dating Luke Fuller, (actor Billy Campbell) who was even dreamer than Steven. However, much like Ted, Luke met an untimely demise as well at the wedding of Steven’s sister Amanda during the now infamous Moldavian massacre.

Steven’s life may have looked glamorous from the outside, but it was pure drama on the inside. No thanks.

Two years ago, I actually visited Filoli, the mansion used in the opening credits of “Dynasty” and where they shot the first three episodes, in northern California with my ex-boyfriend. (Who come to think of it, was somewhat like Steven.) As we roamed the halls and grounds of Filoli, it was a dream come true. I ran up and down the staircase giving my best Carrington impersonation and posed for photos in the ballroom where Blake married Krystle. It was amazing. I felt like a kid in a candy store, reliving a portion of my childhood and all those fantasies I had of one day growing up to become rich and famous like a Carringtion. Well, I may never be a Carrington, but I think I still have plenty of time to become rich and famous.

Whatchoo talkin' bout Vincent?

Growing up I had plenty of friends, but my best friend of all was the television set. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by that little box my parents referred to as the “boob tube”. It all just seemed so magical to me, the way these people came to life inside that set and inside our home. It was a world I desperately wanted to be a part of, one that seemed larger than life and so extraordinary.

Back in the late seventies when I was growing up, we only had three major networks, ABC, NBC, and CBS. Well, I was literally the walking TV Guide. I knew every show on every channel, every night of the week in every time slot. When my parents or sisters wanted to know what was on TV, I’d ramble off all their viewing options as if I were reciting my own name. It was quite a talent, and considering this was before the advent of the remote control; I saved them plenty of time from standing around turning the dial and adjusting the rabbit ears just to see what was on.

While most young boys my age spent endless hours watching “Starsky & Hutch”, “Chips” or “The Dukes of Hazard” my favorite TV shows were “I Love Lucy”, “Laverne & Shirley” and “Different Strokes.” I loved the comedies and I loved Gary Coleman, I wanted to be just like him! (Yes, at eight I dreamt of growing up to be a short black man.)

Honestly though, there was something about Gary Coleman (a.k.a. Arnold Jackson) that just resonated with me. I wanted to be him. I wanted to be the center of attention, the one who always made everyone laugh, who always had the funniest line, the one who was always trouble but never “got in” trouble. I wanted to be the kid who lived in a penthouse apartment and dropped water bombs off the balcony or stole cookies from the bottomless cookie jar, who hung with the housekeeper and who always had an exciting adventure or trick up his sleeve. Arnold Jackson was my peer, my colleague and my roll model.

Arnold always put a smile on my face and made me laugh. We got along splendidly and always had fun together and whenever he uttered that infamous phrase; “Whatchoo talkin’ bout?” I just loved it and I loved him! (Come on, admit it…you wanted to squeeze those cherubic cheeks of his as well!) After seeing Gary on TV, I begged my mother to take me into Manhattan for auditions so I could become an actor just like Gary Coleman. I called information asking for a listing in Burbank, California (I knew that’s where NBC was located) under the name Coleman, Gary. I never got the number, but my father located an address at NBC and the letter writing began.

I wrote to Gary asking for an autographed photo, telling him I wanted to grow up to be just like him and asking for career advice. Each time I wrote, I’d receive the same standard black and white postcard with a note from Gary on the back. When I received the first one I was convinced it was for real, but as the others began to arrive, I realized it was just a form letter.

Each postcard was addressed “Dear Fan, ” Gary would thank me for my support and for watching his show and then signed it “Sincerely Yours, Gary Coleman.” I didn’t even care that the cards weren't original, personally signed cards. I was just thrilled to receive something from Gary, delighted in knowing that he received my letter and kindly asked his assistant to mail me a postcard, which I hung on my bedroom wall and admired daily.

My sister Jacqueline and I shared a bedroom back then. While the walls on her side of the room were covered with photos of Scott Baio and Leif Garrett, the walls on my side of the room were covered with photos of Gary Coleman!

About six years ago during a commercial audition, the casting director explained the audition process, she was just going to ask a simple question. As she pulled four of us into the room, she lined us up in chairs, I was last in line. She started on the left side of the room and asked the first guy a question: “What’s your favorite band?” I thought about it and immediately had my own answer – REM. The second guy’s question was: “When was your first kiss?” I thought this is easy, the sixth grade, a girl named Michelle. The third guy’s question was: “What’s your favorite sport?” Again, I thought how easy – baseball, the New York Mets. Then my question came: “Who was your hero growing up?”

WHAT?!?!

I was completely dumbfounded, thoroughly shocked and for once in my life rendered speechless. “My hero? What do you mean by hero? How old are we talking? My hero at five or my hero at ten?” I asked completely perplexed.

The casting director repeated the question once again and I still had no answer. The other three guys just sat there staring at me like I was an idiot with an expression on their faces that read; “Dude, you blew it.” Then she rephrased the question in an attempt to make it easier for me and inquired; “Whose poster was above your bed growing up?” Without hesitation, I erupted with my answer. "Gary Coleman!”

She looked at me in horror and mockingly said; “Whatchoo talkin’ bout Vincent?” I knew immediately my competition was right, I blew it. She thought I was pulling a fast one on her, but I assured her I wasn’t kidding. Growing up, I did have a big blue poster above my bed with the full-length image of Gary Coleman on it. The audition ended, and although I never booked the job, I walked out of there thinking at least I gave an honest and authentic answer, and at the very least they would remember me. After all, what other white boy from Queens would admit Gary Coleman was his childhood hero? March 1980, my 9th birthday celebrated with a Gary Coleman cake!

James Bond....

is definitely Butch!

Carson Kressley, on the other hand is definitely not!!

Butch - a definition

According to the Mirriam-Webster’s dictionary, butch is defined as masculine or said of a lesbian. Well trust me, I have no desire to become a lesbian! So what defines masculinity? What does it truly mean to be masculine or butch? Again, referencing the trusty dictionary, masculine is defined as male; suitable to or characteristic of men, strong, vigorous, manly, etc.

So I guess unless you have enormous bulging biceps, pumped pectorals, killer calves and ferocious forearms, you’re not strong enough to be considered masculine! What if you’re strong willed, does that make you masculine?

When most people are asked what they think of when they hear the words masculine or butch, most respond with words like: manly, strong, tough, muscular, and/or buff. So is it safe to say that all those ubiquitous Abercrombie & Fitch advertisements we see with young, virile, muscular men define masculinity? If you ask me, they more closely resemble a gay man’s fantasy then the epitome of masculinity.

A cowboy would be considered butch. A firefighter would be considered manly. Let’s face it, both are usually strong and participate in what we as a society consider manly activities. A cowboy wrangles horses. A firefighter fights blazing fires. But a male dancer, with legs muscular enough to crush the head of say Hulk Hogan is considered anything but butch. Why is that? He’s clearly muscular and strong. Is it because he prances around all day long to classical music wearing incredibly tight pants? I guess that’s not really considered very masculine.

So maybe simply being muscular and strong has nothing at all to do with being masculine or butch. Maybe it’s about the physical activity you partake in, say like hunting or playing football or changing the oil in your car. Surely those activities are all considered butch and/or masculine.

As boys, we are taught to be tough, never let them see you sweat, and whatever you do, don’t dare think about crying. God forbid a man should cry! That’s not masculine. We men should be devoid of feelings and emotions and should never reveal a sensitive side. After all, it’s a sign of weakness and anyone with a weakness can’t be strong enough to be masculine right?

What if we lived in a world where masculinity simply meant not being afraid to speak your mind, stand up for what you believe in, be brave enough to show your emotions, and live your life truthfully and honestly without fear of what others might think? If you’re man enough to do all that, shouldn’t you be man enough?