The Transporter Couch

The thing about drag queens is, once you start talking about them, however tangentially, you can’t stop. And that’s because they’re larger than life. And it’s because they’re beautiful creations and we all love beauty and we all love creation. We can’t all IDENTIFY with the life of a drag queen but we never fail to stop and gaze.

I was Miss Sophrosune. I was the St. John’s Drag Queen of 1987. And it was a drunken, silly event but I WON! And my drag name was “Plethora Fairygrove.” Which apparently was such a ridiculous name that Scott Nickerson, the MC, had to take a moment to collect himself before he could announce it.

But I won because it wasn’t a serious competition and was not a serious endeavour and I got drunk and put on a skirt. REAL drag queens are fuckin SERIOUS. I mean SERIOUS. First there are the look alike queens. Oh wow there goes Barbra Streisand! Wow there’s Tina Turner! Oh hell there’s Rosie O’Donnell!

My best drag queen story is about “Misty Valdez,” who was performing at the now defunct Robert’s LaFitte in Galveston. I was there with my friend Sherri for beer bust, which meant you pay a buck for your beer glass and they will refill it all day long. Cheapest beer in town, if you can stand the company. And about 6 the drag show started and Here came Misty. Hefty latino (latina?), not particularly attractive or talented, and in the middle of the routine (and mind you I was drunk), I just started laughing. Misty didn’t like that and came over to me and grabbed me by the hair and said, “you don’t EVER laugh at me when I’m on stage!” She lost a nail in the transaction so it was all good.

My other best drag show story is one time when I was in Albuquerque I went to a show at ……where? Pulse. And it was a contest and relatively early on a Sunday afternoon, and I pretended to be a reporter covering the event. This afforded me the opportunity to actually SPEAK to the performers. Who were nice! I loved talking to them in a setting where they weren’t feeling like they had to be working me. Of course I had to *create* that setting so I guess I lied to them. And maybe there’s a psychological facet to it all. But for what it’s worth I did eventually write a long essay on drag queens so maybe I’m not so deceitful.

People love to look at beautiful people. We disparage glamour but we are fascinated by it. I wouldn’t like to go OUT in PUBLIC with Madonna or anyone else who is wearing a pink satin gown and elbow gloves. But the visual experience is captivating. And of course glamour is an industry. But I admire people who can take themselves seriously enough to just GO AHEAD and wear what they want and say “check me out.”

Not since Miss Sophrosune 1987 have I dressed up in transgender clothing. But I dress up. I am almost always the best dressed man at a party. My attire is always carefully planned and, I would say, carefully studied. I won’t leave the house if I don’t feel like grabbing attention. I don’t go out to drink and smoke. I go out because I want people to notice me.

OK suddenly this became a little more about me than I wanted it to be. What’s the detached peroration? Well, I remember the scene in Angels in America when Prior says, “I was applying the face; I thought it might make me feel better.” Applying the face. The face as an appliance. The face as a machine that works for you. Like a telephone or a dishwasher. But it’s really just a reference to how women don’t leave the house without makeup. How makeup makes them feel better. But better about what?

I can see that if I dive into this one, I will have to dive deep. Maybe I’ll just back off.