Pristine Angie’s Good Homemaker Adventures at www.d332.com

Hagia Sophia looks like any other Byzantine Church from the outside

The Sahaflar Book Bazaar is right at the southwestern tip of Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. It is practically attached to Istanbul University and accessible through Beyazit Square. While Constantinople was able to boast its very own university as early as the 5th century, I found that many of the present day college students were wholly clueless when attempting to help me find their Museum of Calligraphy (60 feet away from where they were standing). Instead, heady Socratic debates centered around Christina Aguilera’s decision to marry a music magnate- and whether this could be construed as following in the venerated footsteps of Mariah Carey- seemed to be the order of the day.

Unlike the Grand Bazaar, there is no haggling at the Book Bazaar. So when I asked a dusty old man stationed outside his shanty kiosk for any books on the Haghia Sofia, he produced a slim paperback volume found in tourist stands. I remembered seeing an etching of this magnificent church in my youth: Since then, it was a place I’ve wanted to visit all through my early adult years. When I was finally standing inside the structure which Mehmet the Conqueror wasted no time in converting into a mosque upon entering Constantinople, the gargantuan space that Mimar Sinan tried to outdo with the Blue Mosque (but failed), I could safely say this: It’s going to take an unusually large book format to capture the dazzling proportion of this colossus.

A writer and a wife of a straight male crossdresser harnesses what would otherwise be dissatisfaction, frustration, and nagging questions into a book that inspects heterosexual crossdressing for heterosexual crossdressers and their heterosexual partners. It also doubles as Basic Training for crossdressing husbands, meaning, a guide for wives to train their crossdressing hubbies to be husbands first, and crossdressers second. Therefore, the title, My Husband Betty. It is a must read for the the straight male crossdresser and his partner/SO/wife, as it brings excellent feminist insight into the realities of the biological gender these men so often covet on a superficial level.

For me, the most important and valuable part about this book is its critique of how crossdressers “exotify” women. This has been going on for years between mainstream cultures and racial minority groups. To understand this, you have to look at it from the perspective of the minority group: Where the mainstream folk (here, straight crossdressing men) enjoy the option to temporarily dip in, act, behave, and talk - usually in caricature-like the exotified group (genetic women), the latter are stuck with their fringe status for life.

The threat of homosexuality is a revisiting grim reaper. Homosexuality, in itself, is not a threat. However, when the possibility of homosexuality is present, then the institution of marriage is rocked. Boyd’s book, like other books of heterosexual crossdressers, sees this as a substantiated danger, as men often keep their dressing secret when they take their marriage vows. Who knows what else they can be hiding!?

While this book stays relatively openminded throughout, I did raise an eyebrow when I came upon a few minor generalizations made about men. (”For women, witholding information is akin to lying. We tell each other everything, and when we can’t friendships feel false. Men-non-CDs and CDs - don’t enjoy the same intimacy with their male friends.” “Most crossdressers-and most men in general-take a woman’s selflessness for granted.”) I found this to be a minor point of distraction as a reader. Amy Bloom in Normal, does a more diplomatic job at describing this irony in a one sentence nugget hidden within the pages: “Happy wives are everyone’s favorites, but happy or cowed, enthusiastic or grimly accepting, the wives at all of these functions are simultaneously important objects of much public appreciation and utterly secondary to the men’s business. The world of crossdressers is, for most part a world of traditional men, traditional marriages, and truths turned inside out.” (italics mine. pg 54-55)

My Husband Betty is also an excellent primer for some of the theories and studies floating out there concerning all who attempt to keep dry beneath the trans* umbrella. A valuable item in this book is the confirmation that the straight crossdresser’s belief in finding a genetic female partner who would be enthusiastic about her husband’s dressing is, in fact, a pipe dream. Straight women want their men to be men. A point adroitly illustrated by Boyd when she presents an inversion of the scenario, where the wife insists on dressing like a man during bedroom activities. To all the straight crossdressers out there: If your girlfriend insisted on wearing a false mustache and boxer undies during sex, and claiming it is part of their identity, then railroading you for support, how would you take it? Well, that’s how women who marry crossdressers have to take it. Many straight men, I can only imagine, would protest.

Compared to the rage I imagine must go on within the support groups for wives of crossdressing husbands, I think this author does a remarkably entertaining job in exhibiting restraint, and turning that dissatisfaction into an informative book that will ultimately benefit many.

I think a refreshing aspect of this book, unlike many straight crossdressing books and institutions is that it doesn’t pretend that everything is rosy and normal. I’m glad Boyd lets some of her anger and rage come through. Straight crossdressing men, who have often been barred from support groups for their wives and SO’s ought to get a taste of what’s really brewing behind those closed doors.

I know of no other book where, upon closing the cover and finishing the last page, I was able to wipe the sweat of relief off my forehead and sigh: “Phew, thank GOD, I’m gay!”

Some of the most memorable Hamams (Turkish baths) at the old city of Sultanahmet in Istanbul were designed and built by the city’s greatest Ottoman architect, Mimar Sinan. In fact, the Lady Hürem Baths, opposite the Hagia Sophia was the steamy spot where Roxelana, (Lady Hürrem, the first kadin of Sultan Süleyman the Magnificent), did her evil plotting and planning to oust the other lesser wives.

As luck would have it, I was still able to duck into one of the functioning Hamams built by Sinan. At Cemberlitas, they gave me a plaid red-white cloth to wrap my disturbingly hairless body, which must have given the Arabic masseurs a start, especially when combined with my lengthy mane. I was surprised I didn’t send whole stampedes of Muslim men* tearing out of the locker rooms screaming in confusion.

When it came time to prep myself to be manhandled on the raised marble plinth, I folded the plaid towel halfway up my thighs and sashayed out onto the hararet, causing more scandal than the Eunuch who once proclaimed to the harem girls that he was, indeed, “all that.” What could I do? I felt homesick!

While all the men pretended to be horrified - in that sheep’s glance way, you know: the disgusted-but-can’t-quite-look-away way - I announced that I have most certainly detected a very large pole in evidence.

I was referring to the Cemberlitas Column, just outside our Hamam, of course.

Next, a stocky Arabic man in his forties came over and ordered me on the marble platform. He took a handful of my towel, and snapped it back down over my thighs. Then the beatings began. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve always found pleasure in half-naked older men barking instructions and ordering me around in a foreign tongue. This one he kneaded my bony elongated smooth limbs into tizzy to boot. Some of his drills included: “Go here!” (scrubs soapy mitt all over my body) “Sit down there!” (pours hot spa water over my head) “Back here on your stomach” (massages dangerously up one leg and then up the other) “Now turn around on your back, face up!”

Btw, does anyone know how to say in Turkish: “Umm, I don’t think that’s a good idea right about now” ?

All in all, I felt like a little kid being bathed by my daddy. It was lots of fun. I just wished my attendant had followed me back home so he could hand me my stuff animal, tuck me into bed and give me a goodnight kiss.

Upon entering the harem at Topkapi Sereyi (Topkapi Palace) on Seraglio Point in Istanbul, one should remember that the term Seraglio itself means the sequestered living spaces for the wives of the Sultan. Inside, the first thing that is visible are the rows of square windows with iron gratings over each. If one were to look inside, squat, unadorned prison-like cubicles would become visible. These are the spaces where the Black Eunuchs in training lived.

The entrance to the courtyard where Black Eunuchs were trained.

In Ottoman times, Black Eunuchs were often enslaved men who were brought over from Africa, castrated, and trained to become the extended ear of the sultan, the Sultan Valide (the sultan’s mother, who runs the harem), and the hundreds of wives who competed for the sultan’s favor, rising from the ranks of weekday booty-call to the grand post of the succeeding Sultan Valide, if they succeed and their child became the next ruler in power. These women were also kidnapped from various countries such as Russia, Armenia, and any corner of the earth that happens to offer individuals with fair skin.

Long before Hollywood perpetuated that myth.

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Keeping in mind that Istanbul is home to the transgender classical singer Bulent Ersoy, you can either shrug off suggestions from travel guides about how Istanbullus are permissive of their own trans culture but smirk at outsiders who decide to cross sartorial lines while in their town, or grow a long doormat on your face with the words “Welcome” buzzed in. While this city remains a secular state (thanks to Mustafa Kemal or Ataturk), the growing Muslim population might make one reconsider.

Even though most guides and websites recommend the club Hengame, I can safely say that Sahra was hopping and much livelier than the former. From Istiklal Caddesi- Istanbul’s main pedestrian thoroughfare - there are many side streets that look like unpaved Eastern European sidestreets: Boys and girls trudge in mud to get from the main street to their beloved bars. If you can’t find Sadri Alisik Sokak (where Sahra resides), all you have to do is ask one of the many members of the polis standing on each corner. Some have machine guns while others have semi-automatic pistols. Don’t sweat it, because Istanbul kiosks along subways (walkways that cross under busy streets) sell fake full-sized pistols without neon barrel tips. “Neredeh Sadri Alisik Sokak Lutfen?” (where is Sadri Alisik Sokak please?) and they will gladly point you in the right direction.

Our destination sidestreet happens to be paved. Maybe the girls in spike heels complained, since it rises uphill from Istiklal Caddesi. At the crest, it suddenly plunges downwards into dark alley, but don’t worry, Sahra is right there on your right. Entrance fee is 10,000,000 lira ($7.40 USD) and includes coat check and a free beer. There are three floors of action where pounding euro dance music alternates withe Turkish favorites. I report that transgirls behave the same way as they do all around the wide world: They either stick with their own or wait like wallflowers on one side of the dance floor for men to make the first move. Traditionalists.

There is one difference though. The men are young, handsome, and hot, as opposed to married, can-do looks, and cheap. There. I said it.

Hengame is on a more touristy and brighter lit street further west of Sahra, further downhill off of Istiklal Caddesi. Don’t ask any of the guys standing outside of the other clubs, as most are undercover criers working to mislead you into their clubs. But Hengame is fairly visible once you move two storefronts into Sahne Sokak. Just know that going towards the Tunel/Golden Horn, once you reach the HamalBarsi Caddesi-Yeni Carsi Caddesi elbow of Istiklal, you have gone too far: Sahne is one street before it. I talked to the bartender and he said that the crowd doesn’t begin until around 2am.

To read an article about Istanbul transgender and gay culture, click here:

Here is a list of other Istanbul trans/trans-friendly clubs bars.

SAHRA BAR: Sadri Alisik sk.
HENGAME: No: 6 Sahne Sokak
CABARE 33 : Istiklal Caddesi, Imam Adnan Sokak,
1001 PUB MARILYN (or 1001, ‘bin-bir’): Siraselviler Caddesi
VAT 69 : Tarlabasi Bulvari
VAT 69 ll : Istiklal Caddesi, Imam Adnan Sokak
KOSK: Istiklal Caddesi, Mis Sokak,
PINK BAR: Istiklal Caddesi, first left from Imam Adnan Sokak

Looking at the hand-painted Iznik-inspired dishes at the Istabul archeological museum’s Cinili Pavillion, I marveled at the shadings of blue around the interweaving tendrils, a pattern that is often repeated in Islamic calligraphy. But it was not until I saw Vasif Effendi’s mother of pearl inlays for Islamic calligraphy and the various paly of light and shade along the edges of the strokes, that I began to understand the possibility of multiple interpretations that were used in the nascent days of encryption within the decorative patterns of Turkish carpets. It reminded me of the multiple meanings of Aramaic as well as the Mandelbrot set in fractals. You see, I think the modern machine-generated beauty has a flawless mathematical perfection. What makes handicraft of the bygone days a thing of value? I think it’s that imperfection, that lack of redundancy, and the sense that every moment of the painter’s life changes with each stroke.

It is then no surprise when the artists and calligraphers of the Timurid period escaped to China in the 16th century and subsequentlyincorporated Mongol influences into their work. By the time the Sifavids returned, there was even Shamanistic references within their Tendrils.

It makes me think that imperfect repetition, is the path to enlightenment.

It’s been several days since I’ve arrived at Constantinopole, the history-rich city that I have most wanted to vist, since the day I saw an illustration of the Haghia Sofia church as a child. I have not been disapointed, in the very least.

On the first night, along Istikal Cadessi (the main drag on the “European Side” of Istanbul”) devilishly handsome Turkish men are in proliferation along the the entire length. I just don’t get it. How do men look so good without trying? They’re either like better versions of young Omar Shariff, or they just look downright hot. There’s something to be said about looking that attractive. And look at you guys over there busting a nut trying to live up to the Abercrombie and Fitch cookiecutter. My condolences.

On the second day, we went to Dolmabche Palace where the last Sultan of the ottoman period ruled. The previous sultans have happily resided in Topkapi Place. But this fella felt he needed something more extravagant. I knew it was the last on my list of importance, but I didn’t remember the reason behind it. In the midst of the tour, when the tour guide started describing all the British crystal chandeliers and the French crystal candelabra, my memory returned. Frankly, the rampant Europ-worship and pathological Anglophilia was a bit of a put off. Happily I exchanged a few witticisms with our guide. I asked for example, “since this palace was built when the empire was practically crumbling, how were the everyday serfs able to withstand the extravagance squandered on emulating European folk?” Our tour guide said, “look at it this way, they paid back in the end. If they’re great great grandchildren (who are all living in England in present day, by the way) were to visit this palace, they would have to stand on line and buy tickets with the rest of the common folk.”

I then asked, “If the Muslim religion forbade pictorial representations of human beings, how come this Sultan has the oil paintings of the Queen of England and Corot-style Naturlist artworks of himself and his family members plastered all over the walls of his palace?” She said, “well the sultan has certain privliges that exempt him from many restrictions. No sultan ever needed to perform their pilgrimage to mecca. The final sultan certainly didn’t.” I questioned this. And she said, “as a sultan, hey had other things to do…”

My answer: “Like visit Europe.”

Later on in the evening, we visited the Mevlevi Monastery, the home of the Islamic sufi whirling dervishes that was also home to one of the greatest poets Jelaludin Rumi. Not able to catch the performance, we caught a later one at the Serkeci Station, where the Orient Express would come into and depart from town. In my mind of mysticism, I felt that even though we didn’t catch the dervishes at their home base, the decision to perform at a platform where departures and arrivals were conducted made the event more poignant.

Afterwards, a six person traditional Turkish band played folk and bard songs to our delight.

Today, we went over to the Asian shores and visited the Cinili Cami, a mosque with the most intricate Iznik tiles. Upon entering, the holy men guided us up to the second floor, and we actually sat through an entire Islamic prayer session. The microtonal incantation is devastatingly beautiful and for me, an equivalent to catching my favorite performance at a small venue. The acoustics were gorgeous, the Iznik tiles were dazzling, and the beauty and peace of men in prayer was a memorable event.

Some other things happened at the Grand Bazaar, but that’s another story.

Shortly before my dentist broke my wisdom tooth in half last week, he asked me what the meaning of life was.

I am conscious of discovering the design of why I am here. I understand that being able to observe the lives of my parents unfolded, for example, is a great asset in building upon that foundation. This lifetime around, I take my turn reinventing our family wheel and attempt to create a better piece of work in the art of living. I think theres sometimes a sense of arrogance when each successive generation prides itself in being near the end of the evolutionary chain. If one were to look at it relatively, it would become clear that a race, consisting of hundreds of generations, can live and become extinct before a star even decides to blink. That combination of wonder, humility, and drive is an idea that that keeps me searching.

Inside the mnemonic device known as the Memory Palace of Simonides, I carry ten items in my head to remind me of courage when I am far away in a strange land. For example, I think of Kalenjin Tribesmen running across the Nandi hills. I think of Orestes talking to Electra when she asked him where they were heading in the Sartre piece The Flies : I dont know. towards ourselves. eyond the rivers and mountains are an Orestes and an Electra waiting for us, and we must make our patient way towards them. I think of Chekovs Cherry Orchard. And I think about that time when I was traveling alone down the highway in Indiana after a two week thundershower: Water came up to the shoulder of the highway, it was 4 in the morning. I had to tell myself that if I kept going, I would reach daylight. I think about Bachs Contrapunctus in the Art of the Fugue, Claudio Arrau with 80 year old fingers, and I think about Tang poets drinking wine alone on the mountainside.

I said to my dentist: One never finds the meaning of life. The search for the meaning is the meaning.

I was going through the folders archiving unpublished photos. Most of which are personal and a little too sexually-explicit to post. As I have mentioned before, most of the pictures I post here either function as a time-stamp of how I appeared at a particular period, or a piece of photographic art work.

I will be beginning a body of work in December that will include other individuals (or parts of them) within the frame. For now, stay tune for more solo sittings.

John Waters’s Female Trouble is an allegory about filmmakers, I suspect. Donald and Donna are the proprietors of a beauty salon. They interview and hand select the most hideous of potential clients. When they come across Dawn Davenport, they decide to take the horrors of her life and build her up in a catalysmic orgy of what is sometimes known as “gay delusion.” When they decide to showcase Dawn at a theatre, her act does not go over well with the audience. On trial, they are called to cross examination, where both Donna and Donald deny everything. This struck me as a close semblance to film-makers and artists who try to wash their history clean of flops.

I came to this realization when John Waters himself, plays the defending lawyer for Dawn. In effect, he is defending a piece of art work to be it’s glorious self, no matter how hideous.

Of course, the movie would be a gem just on the hilarious dialogue between Gator and Ida, a mother who begs her son to be gay, and warns of the dire consequences of becoming heterosexual: “I worry that you’ll work in an office, have children, celebrate wedding anniversaries. The world of heterosexuals is a sick and boring life!” A scene many of my straight friends and I replay and fall over onto the floor laughing till it hurts.

A must for anyone who brought their entire family to the delightful Broadway play of Hairspray and felt they wanted to get better acquainted with Waters’s previous work.