I grew up in a little cement block house on 4th Avenue. It was just like all the other houses on the street, brand new and waiting to be filled with the sound of laughter and cleansed by the tears of disappointment. The suburbs of the 50's were billed as a safe place to raise children and I was, indeed, safe there

My mother always said she married my stepfather because he promised to buy her a Hammond organ. It was the joke in our family. My mother and I were the only ones who thought it was funny. She played it every day; it was her salvation in a loveless situation. It was like growing up in a roller rink, her fingers playing the same old standards, the songs she'd taught me as a child. On a good day, I'd sing with her, on a bad day I'd dash into my room, slam the door and turn up my clock radio trying to separate myself from her

She taught me to paint, she taught me to sing, she taught me to stand up straight and sent me to charm school in the hopes that I'd stop thinking I was a boy and get with the program. It worked for a while. It worked until I really got away from her and had the space to figure things out for myself. Then her dream collapsed in front of her very eyes, as my life began to unfold as only it could. I don't think she was surprised, but I do know she was disappointed.

Growing up as an only child gave me the impetus to collaborate with my friends, form silly little singing groups, put on plays, and charge people a nickel to sit in the lawn chairs and watch us act up. I never stopped acting up, or encouraging my friends to join in the festivities. I just found better venues and raised the ticket price.I wasn't really an only child, it just felt that way. My sister is considerably older than me and we didn't have much time together at home. We never fought over the things that siblings seem compelled to fight about; in fact we never fought at all. I wanted to grow up to be just like her... glamorous, sophisticated and beautiful.

I love women. I love pretty much everything about women. It didn't take me very long to work my way through three husbands and get on with it.

Like many important mileposts in my life, Seattle just happened. I was living in my van, driving from coast to coast, from Canada to Mexico. It was a caravan of bald vegan women traveling from women's land to women's land. We were smashing monogamy, attacking the patriarchy at every possible opportunity and generally wreaking havoc wherever we went. We refused to speak to men unless they were mechanics or waiters. We were the Van Dykes. When we burned ourselves out, when the dream exploded into a nightmare and we all went our separate ways, my van broke down in Seattle. That was 1980.

Seattle has been good to me and provided me with everything I could ever need or want. I opened a business that flourished and kept me in touch with the pulse of the gay community, but most importantly, I found "my people". I found a passel of women who liked to live dangerously, who liked to ride that edge between realities and who spoke their own truth. We bonded, we encouraged each other to be as wild as we could be and we raised the bar on fun.

I am and always have been an artist. I have no more wall space in my house; I have piles of art wrapped in plastic, hiding under the beds. It's spilling out of the closet in my guest room but still I keep making more. I can't seem to stop.

The Internet is fantastic, I love it. The possibilities are endless. I can show you my paintings, my tables, my toilet seats and my cakes no matter where you are. I hope you enjoy the ride. I'd love to hear from you.   - Lamar