Fortunately, I have somewhat of a ‘real’ life in the real world (though that by no means implies it’s always “really fun”). Whether or not it’s an option, I’m generally too busy to “lurk” and find a forum this acerbic of my own volition.

Moreover, it doesn’t exactly make me turn cartwheels to read a succession of posts ripping some of my ‘IRL’ friends (at this point, only a few of them; most of my closest compadres don’t “do [this] internet shit”) into bloody shreds. But among the public targets (i.e., those with some sort of internet presence, thereby garnering discussions about them in this specific forum)? I’d say my skin’s more akin to a rhino than theirs—not just because I’m ancient, but also because I grew up in a hateful, homophobic Southern town where insults were tossed at me (along with rocks, school books, and Skoal tins) on a daily basis.

I’m not sharing this information for a “Boo Hoo” sesh, nor is this intended as an act of chest-boasting “I’m a survivor!” bullshit.

Yeah, sure—I survived it. Doesn’t make me special. Also doesn’t mean I’m indestructible, as there were times in which I nearly didn’t. All I’m sayin’ is: statistically, 65-75 percent of teenage suicides are LGBT kids in ‘the fly-over states,’ and I get it.

The fact that I’m still flouncing around just proves my skin’s a bit thicker, I suppose.

S’anyway, while an opportunity for a general blog post has presented itself through my recent ‘enlightenment,’ I’m opting to spare my pals specific details/criticism within the community that I know would make them feel less-than fab…’cause uh, I don’t feel better about myself by making people I care about feel lousy about themselves.

Generally, the same applies to my interaction with strangers—or people I dislike, even. (Though, come on…I’m human. If I claimed I never had a laugh at the expense of someone I think is an entitled ingrate or downright douche-bag, I’d be as full of crap as L.A.’s water reclamation system.)

That stated, I’m in no position to question motivation in terms of the four group moderators. Going on the basis of their personal commentary—in addition to at least a cursory glance at each of their pages/profiles (three of the four were set to private, incidentally)—these [GENDER DELIBERATELY UNDISCLOSED] are no dummies.

In fact, I can’t help but have fond affections for two of the moderators in particular. Yes, I’m admitting I LIKE THEM. Big deal if they don’t want to be my new best friend; they’re fkn’ funny.

I overdosed on all the rabid squeals and tabloid fodder about Pete Wentz and his fucking eyeliner lifetimes ago, so the first post I saw a mod make slamming shite of a similar ilk? Had me at ‘Go.’ (When I see piddly minutiae about his day-to-day posted as front page news anywhere, I can’t resist the inherent body language of rolling eyes and a dysphoric groan that translates to Are you putting me on?)

Plus, anyone who possesses the prowess to sling snark my direction so deftly that I find myself laughing as the blade pierces between my ribs? Props are in order. Period.

Unlike Perez with his crude scrawlings of cum splatters and cocaine on the faces of celebrities I find about as fascinating as a microwave pizza box lining in the first place, there’s some clever commentary among the group.

There’s also some myopic judgments—but again: none of my business.

However, since I’m often queried about several of the topics discussed in this group through the “Contact Clint” option on my personal site, anyway—I figured I’d address them here (unlike the embarrassingly high percentage of personal messages that go unanswered on my end…sorry, but it’s just not humanly possible for me to keep up) and ‘kill two [clichés]’ with one stone.

Here’s my initial response to what I’ll post as a series. In the interim, if anyone out there has any queries for me, now is the time to bring those little effers on.

Q [PARAPHRASED]: Aren’t you too old to be involved in this scene/to “model”/to wear make-up/to utilize social networking sites? Why don’t you just grow up and get some friends your own age?

Yes, I’m a Geritol-ridden relic; yes, since my return as a ‘shutter subject’ I’m cast with models 10-15 years younger; yes, I’m grateful, and yes, I’m going to continue being me as long as my heart is beating.

This bullshit about “growing up”? Save it for suburbanites with scopes as limited as their job descriptions, daily drives, and boring lives.

Putting the basic processes of epistemology aside—in other words, breaking down my own personal belief system into what I’ve deduced on my own versus what society has deemed via check-list for “successful living” that I’m expected to believe Just Because—exactly what does that mean? “Grow up?”

Isn’t that when an adolescent emancipates him/herself from the confines of parental judgment to venture out into the world and experience whatever he or she wants?

Then what’s the big threat?

I’m one person. SO WHAT.

One person who saved money through the part-time jobs I worked as an undergrad, moved to California, and—here’s the thing—am doing exactly what I set out to do.

Nowhere near enough of it, and I’ve still “miles to go before I sleep,” I fully admit.

Oscar Wilde, Quentin Crip, Isabella Blow? Retained their iconoclastic style till their final breaths.

Anna Piagi? Lord knows how old, and continues severely letting us have it.

Tony Ward? 44 and in major campaigns with models 20-25 years younger in age.

I should be as lucky.

Granted, I’m not an aspiring model.

I’m a writer and hyper-hyphenate who gets asked to “give face” every now and then.

I don’t know if it’s the fact that I Don’t Give An F (about moo-deling, that is...anyone who claims to not care what anyone thinks is about as credible as a person who claims to never lie) is the reason opportunities to play “hanger” or “walking stick” present themselves.

I don’t know if it’s the fact that physically, I’m off-kilter, imperfect…and in this Babylon-by-the-Pacific where I reside, there’s an endless supply of candidates with DNA so spectacularly aligned, sometimes I can’t even look at these Perfect Specimen.

All I know for sure are two or three things:

I moved to San Francisco in 1994 to attend graduate school at USF. Without ever approaching an agency (still the case to this day), the first thing that started “working” for me was the offer to be photographed.

I wasn’t conventionally attractive then:

Nor do I claim to be now.

“Stunning,” “striking,” “strange”: Now, those are adjectives that I’ll own. I’m from the school of triple-takes and rubber-necking. I’m of the ilk of “What the Hell?”—but hey, I'd aim for Abercrombie rather than creepy if that’s where I wanted to be.

I’m not the archetypical homecoming king, the speak-where-you-can-hear-her-smile-against-teeth prom queen, the Nordic God with chiseled abs, the leggy Russian Doll whose features are perfect and eyes are perfectly blank as a doll’s.

I represent the outsider. The discontent. The gender-bent.

The Smirk-Not-Smile, The Queer-Not-Gay, The Glint-Of-Damage-And-Danger-Behind-The-Eye.

I represent That-Option-That’s-Unlisted. The Thing-Beyond-The-Margins. The attractive-teetering-on-ugly, and vice-versa.

I’m as much the Anti-Ken as I am the Mutilated Barbie.

But more than anything, I represent the individual. The catalyst: a person who stands out, who causes a reaction. Granted, that reaction isn’t always positive.

When it is, though? Great.

That’s the thing I like about the internet. The world is a highly-polarized place—though within the web, there’s a home for others like me: a place where anti-heroes reign, and the small-town freak might find an admirer or two.

Insofar as 'getting friends my own age'? Um, I have plenty of them. I’ve also got some that are (GASP!) older, even. Just because I’m photographed with younger folks—some of whom I happen to befriend—by no means implies those are my only associates.

Not everyone wants to “be up” for public scrutiny.

When a dear friend made a website for me as a gift, that was a decision I had to make. It was while I was on a promotional book tour—and by the time I made it home, I had an In-Box full of messages awaiting. (“Emails”? That one will always be difficult for me…)

Through the positive response there—then through that of pages that have been constructed for me elsewhere (I know less than ten HTML commands total, honestly)—I’ve had everything happen from being flown to literary/art festivals to being cast in films.

But yeah, I’ve got my share of “haters,” as well. Goes with the territory. I’m not a Politician; in fact, I think I’d be doing something wrong if everyone liked me.

So, love me or loathe me: here I am.

As the adage goes, I’ve only failed if you can forget me.