(In the manner of Hattie McDaniel) Lerd, lerd, lerd today, chile…
Or, alternately…
(In the manner of Bella Abzug) Oy, such a weekend.
A combination of good weather, limited work/rehearsal duties, and plenty of lazy time made the weekend pretty near perfect. The capper? Two–count ’em–two drag shows that restored my faith in the art form.
Most drag shows…well, to say they’re boring would be kind. To say that they’re half-assed, hackneyed, public demonstrations of manic insecurity, served at room temperature with a side of cold beets, that’d be more to the point. I’m serious. I don’t mean to be all Dorian Corey or anything, but there’s something lackluster about drag now, n’est-ce pas? It’s no longer showgirl glam, it’s more like a bunch of 14 year old closeted nancy boys dressed up in mommy’s camisole pretending they’re Mariah/Whitney/Celine. Ugh.
Saturday, however, I got a good dose of oooooold skool drag–the kind they used to have in the separate-but-certainly-not-equal black gay bars in Mississippi when I was a wee lassie. Grande dames cutting up–no trannies, just a bunch of screamin’, over-emotin’ queens singing songs from Doris Day and Patsy Cline and–Heavens to Betsy!–Dreamgirls.
But the best part of the evening was the tipping ritual. These girls stayed onstage and worked their little Lee Press Ons to the nub and made us get up and bring the tips to ’em. Every time someone new came on, there was a mad rush to the front of the stage, with dozens of queens holding singles like dirty diapers. And I thought to myself: what a strange ritual this is. If someone who’d never seen a drag show walked into the room, would s/he understand why on earth a bunch of otherwise sensible sissies are practically throwing money at a bunch of hard-lookin’, beat-to-Jesus drag queens who are, at best, simply cavorting in time with the music and mouthing about half the song’s words properly? I dunno if I understand it completely myself… Still, it was fun, and the energy of the performers and the crowd was nice.
Last night, we crossed to the other side for the quasi-monthly drag king show (put together in part by our very own Alana) at the Shim-Sham Club. No Whitney. No Britney. There was, however, a particularly charming Madonna number, a couple of diddies performed by a striking red-haired chick I don’t know, and, the best bit, an N*Sync routine. It was cute and sexy and fun and packed with screaming grrls and queens and straight folks and it’s how more drag shows should be. Props to the ladyboys.
Now, of course, it’s back to the daily grind. Ugh. Must. Have. More. Diet. Coke….
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