EDITOR’S NOTE: In Part 2 of an article that began in Monday’s edition of thegazz.com, LA-based actress Ann Magnuson, a West Virginia native, takes up the story of JT LeRoy, the child prostitute “lot lizard” from her home state. As LeRoy parlays “his” story of abuse, sex work and drug abuse into books and articles, the young writer’s fame soars. LeRoy becomes the toast of the media for his transgressive fiction and odd persona. Magnuson hops on board for part of the ride, but discordant notes begin to appear. To read Part 1 of this article, click here.

Now, doubly hooked by the West Virginia connection, I continued corresponding, going on to share with JT some of the Appalachian memories his books were evoking. I asked him about certain places, but some of his responses confused me. Looking back I can see that a lot of the specific references to places he made in his e-mails (specifics we don’t get much of in the books) I had actually mentioned in a previous email. I asked him:

Did you ever go to Coonskin Park near the Charleston Airport?

He replied:

Yeah I Coonskin Park is pretty. But the f**kin airport ruins it. They keep hackin parts of the park for the f**kin airport.

That’s weird I thought. Charleston’s Yeager Airport sits atop a shaved-off mountaintop and they can’t expand much beyond what it was when originally built. Oh well, he was an abused young man. He’s just confused.

Since my grandfather was a Swedish evangelist and JT’s pappy was supposedly a Bible-thumper, I wrote asking him to tell me more. JT told me he used to “street preach in Charleston.” That’s strange, I thought. I never saw any kids or adults, for that matter, “street preaching” in all the years I grew up in West Virginia’s capital city. Maybe it was a part of town I missed.

Then, he e-mailed saying he used to “street preach in Charlestown.” But wait a minute, doesn’t he know CharlesTON and CharlesTOWN are two separate places in two separate parts of the state? Anyone who grew up in W.Va. knows that. Oh well, probably a typo.

One e-mail, responding to a comment I made about passing through Elkins read:

I love Elkins. really pretty there. It is like the North part of WVA is a whole other world from the South. It is so untouched. They are putting in a lot of 4 lanes and that is going to change it a lot.

But that didn’t really compute. Elkins is in the center of the state. The eastern end and the western end of the state are fairly different, topographically speaking. But the north and the south? Not so much. Well, he’s damaged, I kept thinking. We’ll excuse him.

I doubt the whole JT ruse would’ve worked in the days before e-mails and the Internet. There is so much you’ll choose to ignore about a person when all you are doing is e-mailing back and forth. You can project whatever qualities you like onto the invisible cipher on the other end. But eventually it got too weird even for me. I finally asked JT I needed to see who I was ‘talking’ to.

The picture that came back waylaid some of my suspicions. It sure looked like a boy. A girly boy. Tres femme. A not-that-unusual type I’d encountered many times before in the arty circles I travel in. But it was hard to tell since it was not a close up and ‘he’ was wearing big aviator sunglasses and what seemed to be wig. Whatever. I used to like to wear wigs. They are easy to hide under. At least I now had a sense that this was, indeed, a flesh and blood person.

One day I forwarded JT an e-mail sent from a pal of mine in Charleston titled “You know you’re from West Virginia when…” There was a long list that kicked off with a mention of one of the state’s old youth correction facilities:

Your parents have threatened to have you sent to Pruntytown.

Your idea of a traffic jam is ten cars waiting to pass a coal truck on a two-lane highway.

You know several people who have hit a deer.

You cook green beans for a really long time...

And JT’s favorite (as he e-mailed back):

You know which leaves make good toilet paper.

But then JT reciprocated by sending me other West Virginia “jokes” – cliché-ridden stuff about incest, poverty and lack of education that I have found no real native West Virginian ever thinks is funny, just stupid, offensive and tiresome. Well, I rationalized, when you are abused you have no boundaries. And he is so-oooo young.

JT said he enjoyed hearing about our ‘shared’ home state, but most of the e-mails were really only about all the press he was getting and his new famous friends:

I got back from LA from a big 3-day photoshoot for Vogue and POP mag (a 20 page spread!) they recreated the Taxi Driver set and I was dressed as Iris / Jodie Foster it was intense, and it was such a big thing for me, being out there in a big way, PS check out the new Garbage Cd, Beautiful Garbage, and the song on there, CHERRY LIPS. It is bout me/ Sarah.

The press whore-mongering and name-dropping really got annoying. But then again, I thought, he’s young, impressionable. We must make allowances. We’ve all been there. He’ll grow out of it.

More penis-bone necklaces

The LA reading at Skylight Books was coming up fast. I’d volunteered to help find a replacement for Brad Renfro who was suddenly AWOL. Enter Norman Reedus, an actor/model with scruffy street hustler good looks, famous mostly for doing some Prada ads in... what year was that? JT knew. And JT was ecstatic. Whatever. At last we were ready to roll.

JT had sent me one of the penis bone necklaces he gave to friends. Honored, I wore it. (What a chump!) I paired it with a tank top and floor-length hippie skirt I’d just bought at Budget Tapes and Records during my last visit to Charleston. Budget was (and probably still is) the one and only ‘hip’ record store in town. That’s where I used to buy my Jobriath and New York Dolls records. Wearing clothes that recalled my crazy days in the 1970s, rolling around in the poison ivy while semi-nude on quaaludes, made sense while reading a JT Leroy story.

What didn’t make sense was the crazy phone call JT made to the bookstore just as we were about to start the reading. JT had everyone in the store running in circles. First, he wanted to talk to me, then Roddy, then the book manager, then me again, then Roddy. He was furiously composing outrageous, mostly fictional intros for everyone, asking tangential questions, throwing everything in chaos while hemming and hawing. It was all very confusing.

And sadly familiar -- typical nutty addict behavior I’ve encountered in the past, most notably with folks I met in 1999 who are thinly disguised characters in my “Rave Mom” show. (Opposite of James Frey, I’m afraid to admit my ‘fictionalized’ accounts are all true as it’s just too damned embarrassing!) Still, I pressed on. JT couldn’t be blamed for his behavior. It was that crazy mother of his! Besides we had a ‘show’ to put on.

During the reading, I made a point of utilizing the West Virginia accent my college theater professor had worked so hard to eradicate and ‘acted’ all the characters in the story I was to read. The reading was videotaped and if that thing ever sees the light of day, I’m sure to turn seven shades of red. But what the hey? It could be worse. It’s not like I’m some Playboy Playmate who Colin Farrell is riding doggystyle for all the world to see.

The reading was packed and declared a success. JT’s next email was short and brief. “Guess what? I got a Hollywood manager!” it read. I knew who it was. He’d come to the reading. The person was technically supposed to be my manager, too, since his company and my New York manager’s company merged, but I never hear from him. That’s life in Ho’wood. Maybe if I posed as a twinkie street hustler…

Lie like a rug

After that there were precious few e-mails from JT. But there were plenty of media stories about this wondrous new literary star and all the fabulous celebrities who were reading his stories in public -- mostly clients and pals of the aforementioned Hollywood manager.

The New York Times wrote about a glittery event at The Public Theater that included Winona Ryder and others. There was a photo of JT wearing a ridiculous long blonde wig (different than the more realistic one in the photo he sent me), sunglasses and a black Stevie Ray Vaughn hat. He looked one brick shy of retarded. He was accompanied by Laura Albert who was calling herself “Speedie”. Oy vay. She seemed to be milking the whole thing for something that, at the time, I could not quite figure out. Apparently they had a band, too, called Thistle, which JT eventually sent me photos of. It all looked and sounded kinda’ lame. But I wrote him back.

I didn’t save that email but wrote something to the effect of: “Wow that NY reading certainly sounded glamorous. Congratulations.” I knew the scene all too well. Again, all documented in “Rave Mom.” Been there done that and now would rather stay home and watch a good DVD.

I pretty much forgot about JT and went on with my own life. Every now and then I’d read about yet another star-studded reading or see yet another photo spread in a trendy mag like Interview or Vanity Fair. One night, JT’s name came up and an old pal who is a seasoned night club impresario and party planner quickly interjected: “Puhleeze, I know queens like that. They all lie like a rug.”

That comment snapped me back to a reality I always knew existed but willingly – willfully -- suspended belief in. I easily accepted that most of the books were embellished, if not completely made up. But I didn’t think JT himself was fake. Even after my friend’s reality check I was still convinced JT was yet another severely damaged kid doing what most severely damaged people do -- lie. Pathologically.

Then one day I came home to one of the most bizarre messages I have ever gotten on my answering machine. It went on and on, consisting of nothing but hemming and hawing:

“Uh..uh.......uh.....hmmm....uh....hmmm...uh..this....uh...this is.....uh..uh...uh. Is.....uh...uh......hmmm......uh......." Ending with “This is JT.” Then JT abruptly hung up. The tape ran out. JT called back and was slightly more direct. He had a question -- could I call him? (Take a listen for yourself right here, as I saved the message.)

My husband had no doubts. “That is so bogus,” he said dismissively. “There is no way that person is for real.” No, no, no, I assured him. JT is just a really, really, REALLY damaged kid.

But I wasn’t so sure now. Maybe anyone who is that damaged should be give a very wide berth. Or handed over to medical professionals. I can’t remember if I called JT back. Probably not. Or if so I’ve blocked it out of my memory. Did I? And did Laura answer the phone? Did she wait a moment, go into a Method Acting Zone and return, feigning the JT voice? Did I naively carry on a conversation while Albert suppressed her giggles? Pretty clever. And soo-oooo streets of San Francisco. And now that I’ve recently heard that Laura Albert may have worked as a phone sex worker the whole scam makes perfect sense.

All pose, No heart?

I more clearly recall one phone conversation that was very frustrating. The content wasn’t too different from the “Fresh Air” interview featuring JT. I remember I couldn’t get any real specifics out of him regarding names of places. Which is odd since anyone I run into who is either from W.Va. or has spent any time there is quick to rattle off all the places they’ve been and wonder if I know them.

I do remember running into someone I knew who was working with Italian film actress and now film director Asia Argento on the film adaptation of “The Heart is Deceitful..” She was not only directing the film but starring in it. This time I was not only disinterested but rather antagonistic to the idea since I felt this bunch was not the right crew for the job. I love the Italians but there is no way these particular Italians were going to capture the West Virginia milieu. It’s gonna end up like some Interview magazine spread, I thought to myself -- all pose and no heart. (But hadn’t I read the title? “The heart is deceitful above all things”) But this Italian fellow who worked with Argento was friendly and excited to find out that I was from West Virginia.

“Oooh, Vir-geen-ee-a!” he blurted out. “ That is where our film takes place! Tell me about it! What does it look like? We want to put it in the script.” I thought, wait a minute, You’re about to film this thing and you don’t know what the place that is so integral to the story even looks like? And it’s not Virginia for cryin’ out loud, it’s WEST Virginia!!!! We’re a separate f**kin’ state! We seceded in 1863! We fought AGAINST slavery!!

But I remained cordial. Straining to think of something good to say, I offered: “I did like the part in the book where the kid thinks they are making crystal ashtrays. That was humorous. ”

“What?” Marcello (not his real name) asked. “They are making ashtrays, yes.” I looked at him, stunned when I realized he didn’t ‘get it.’

“But they weren’t,” I told him. “They were making meth. Crystal meth. The kid keeps hearing the word ‘crystal’ and thinks it’s glass -- like glass ashtrays they’re making to sell, not meth. That’s where the humor come in, right?”

Marcello still did not understand. And it dawned on me that he didn’t even understand what a meth lab was. Oh for God’s sweet sake! And THESE people are adapting this into a film (which by all accounts is apparently unwatchable).

Time to leave the party.

A better con artist

But, as one soon learns in life, there’s always another party. Some time later I was invited to a “Heart is Deceitful...” bash at the infamous hotel, The Chateau Marmont (where, appropriate to the world of JT Leroy, John Belushi died of a drug overdose). JT let me know he would be there and I was curious to see finally see ‘him’ in the flesh.

When the time came to get ready for an evening of terminal uniqueness, I decided to stay home. I’m glad. A friend of mine who did attend described the scene as “your typical, tense, boring, Hollywood Chateau party where the usual suspects kept disappearing into the bathroom for ‘private conferences…” One of the last emails I sent to JT apologized for missing the party, but I said ‘that just isn’t my scene’.

He e-mailed that he understood. Then, he proceeded to name-drop all the people who were there. I emailed back, warning him to be careful and that the world of Hollywood was full of sharks. Ha! Little did I know the professionals were being taken by a better con artist than they!

About a year later, after no real contact with JT, New York Magazine ran a cover story proposing the whole JT phenomenon was a hoax. It didn’t come as a shock. In fact, it was a relief. A confirmation of sorts. Like I wasn’t crazy in feeling weird about it all. That the fame game really is just a house of cards that sooner or later collapses. But I will admit, it was a lot of fun reading about the details. People may come and go here in Hollywood but the shaudenfreude remains the same.

The final nail in the coffin for me was reading that JT refused to present a social security number and passport in order to confirm his identity to the New York Times Magazine before they would agree to run another piece of his. And that all the money received from publishers was deposited into an account set up by Laura Albert’s mother. Tsk. Tsk. Any good con artist knows you always be paid in cash!

Then the British paper The Guardian ran a piece about the nutty scenario that involved the whole wacky JT circus holed up in Carrie Fisher’s Hollywood home. That story helped lowered the coffin into the ground (and made me wonder if Carrie Fisher was in on it all -- or just as nuts.)

Then, in early January of the new year, the New York Times pulled the wig and sunglasses off the woman pretending to be JT (it was Laura Albert’s sister-in-law) and that basically filled the grave with enough dirt to close the case.

JT was finally dead and buried. At least for the time being.

Stealing our voices?

Then the personal stories of “how JT hoodwinked me” began to appear on the Internet and I began to think about my own participation, however brief. No one likes to be conned but I’m kind of happy I was included. It makes for a good diary entry. Unlike others, I hadn’t invested much into it all and felt no real emotional repercussions. Not like Susie Bright or Dennis Cooper or the many people who really felt strongly about his books and who are reeling from the deception.

“Stealing our voices and using our pain for your profit is inexcusable,” reads one justifiably angry posting on livejournal.com by the San Francisco Lesbian, Gay, Bi, Transgender, Intersex, Heterosexual, Queer and Questioning Youth Community.

They’re right. The real disservice of this JT Leoy hoax is to the real people who have real stories of real abuse to really tell. People who don’t get the seal of approval from the likes of Oprah and the New York Times and a literary world that operates not too differently from Hollywood. Having lost many friends as well as my only brother to AIDS, I’d have to agree with Cooper who calls the hoax “amoral and sadistic.”

On the other hand, as a piece of performance art it is, as my friend Roddy Bottum recently e-mailed me, “pretty genius.” Or to quote his entire thought: "The hoax is pretty genius but i'm bothered ultimately by the playing of the HIV card to evoke sympathy from the unwary."

I’m with literary agent Ira Silverberg. Quoted in mediabistro.com’s literary arm, Galleycat, Silverberg says: “A good hoax is a wonderful thing.. if it doesn’t hurt anyone. “ But with LeRoy, he continues, “People were deceived in a brutal way: playing the AIDS card to elicit support, money, connections. That is simply unacceptable. It is morally reprehensible.”

Using West Virginia

Less dire, but no less annoying, was the way West Virginia was used. Once again, the Mountain State was annointed as the source of debauched white trash dysfunction. Even on the last Golden Globes broadcast, poor ole “Almost Heaven’ got slagged again when they showed that clip from “Silence of the Lambs” where Anthony Hopkins is taunting Jodie Foster about her inability to escape the ‘shame’ of her poor white trash West Virginia roots. And Newsweek just printed that one of the many submissions to New Jersey’s new image campaign was: “New Jersey: At Least We’re Not West Virginia.” (Ironic considering that Russia’s new image campaign uses the slogan: “Chernobyl: At least we’re not New Jersey.”)

It’s annoying. And insulting. And just plain lazy.

On the other hand, maybe we fans of the state shouldn’t let the rest of the world know how wonderful West Virginia really is. Maybe we should keep the crazy hillbilly stereotypes percolating. After all, the whole eastern panhandle has been turned into a bedroom community for the well-heeled folks who work in D.C. The Greenbrier Resort has closed it’s doors to the hoi polloi. And I’m told rich New Yorkers, who know a good deal when they see it, are buying up farmland in the state sight unseen...pushing real estate prices into the stratosphere. Hell, if this keeps up there won’t be any place for real West Virginians in West Virginia!

So maybe we better keep alive this idea that West Virginia as a scary, unappealing place full of crazed hillbilly hustlers, truck stop ‘hos and scripture-quotin’ moonshiners. Maybe we all better start blacking out our teeth, scream 'yee-haw!' in inappropriate places and sell raccoon penis bone necklaces at our local truck stops. Maybe we should disguise those beautiful hills so they look more like factories in New Jersey.

And tell them big city folks to keep their leering cameras out of our coal mines and their grubby mitts off our ramps. Because if they don’t, well then, we’ll tell them that the ghost of JT LeRoy might just crawl out of his glittering, star-studded coffin and git ya! He’ll git ya’ll real good!

Yeee-haw!!!

West Virginia native Ann Magnuson is a performer now based in Los Angeles. For more on her work, see annmagnuson.com