Growing up in the 80’s, I was under the influence of Madonna. Like any other fledgling fag from that era, I was lead to believe that if only I was able to invent the proper persona, I could be famous. I actually made a list of adjectives I aspired to emulate. Never mind accomplishment, I truly believed I could get by on my looks and charm and my chameleon maneuvers. Perhaps, I was ahead of the curve, given this generations crop of fabulous nobodies. But I was able to obtain notoriety as I started to promote parties as a club kid. Running around town with a sense of entitlement and free drink tickets certainly felt like public adoration. Maybe my initial strategy wasn’t so far off. Part of the process was my elaborate dressing ritual. It literally took me 3 hours to transform myself from Stephen Dixon to Sebastian Jr. And my costumes were never so complicated. Rather, the apricot scrubs and mud masks gave me the time to perform my outrageous affirmations. Long before Oprah made them popular, I was talking to myself in the mirror telling myself I was funny, unique and gorgeous. In retrospect, it was like The Secret for the shallow.  Blocking out any data that might interfere with my skewed self-perception, I was able to approach the night with supreme confidence. A little chemical enhancement greased my self-esteem wheels, too. I was able to erase years of teenage self-doubt with designer grooming products and trendy junior sportswear. Brilliant! After I retired from nightlife, I did not alter my ridiculous routine too much. Sure, I was able to present myself to the world in an hour. But the essence of my bathroom time remained the same. Part beauty laboratory, part therapy session, part meditation chamber, part fashion workshop.  I continued to put emphasis on the preparation portion of my program. All dressed up and no place to go became a lifestyle choice. Long after I started to grow more confident about myself, and my status in the world, I would not leave the house without going through my maniacal motions. And music was always part of that habit. In order to set the mood, I used to play extended remixes of songs with a Machiavellian flavor. Imagining myself as a budding icon, I would listen to music that would perpetuate my self-delusion. So I was taken back in time when I stumbled across this video. World Domination was a track I used to play while I concocted my plans to conquer the night. The lyrics reflect the naive notion that you could transcend your everyday life by transforming yourself into a celebutante. Perhaps, this is why I don’t judge Paris Hilton and her ilk too harshly. When you are young and in the spotlight, it is easy to believe your own press clippings. The notion of hard work seems like a tedious chore for the hoi polloi. While I am no longer that juvenile jellybean, I have adopted certain aspects of my former ceremony. Perhaps, it is due to my OCD, but I still measure my facial cleanser. In fact, my roommates once hid my special spoon to prevent me from leaving the house. I was ill, but that was no excuse to cancel my nocturnal plans. And I always need the appropriate soundtrack to get myself psyched. Maybe life is just one big mind trick. If you can fool yourself into feeling smart and seductive, why not? So perhaps my formative years as a pretentious poser came in handy after all. In a city, where almost everyone seems like an impostor, you have the freedom to re-invent yourself. Why not indulge in a little urban role-playing? So in the spirit of blond ambition, I present this classic flashback. While the Belle Stars never became big stars, I’d like to believe they are out there somewhere giving attitude. I will think about them the next time I dress to impress. Because we are all attention addicts!