Monday, May 12, 2008

Is It Any Wonder?

It was one of those weekends.

Thursday night I performed at Upstairs, generally making a scene to Bowie's "Fame". I took my face full of green food coloring and lipstick back to Brooklyn where I enjoyed too many rose martinis with my room mates and an amiable Brit who flirted with all four of us and then went home with somebody else. So we had a pillow fight and listened to "Edge of Seventeen" repeatedly, drank rum and unpacked all of Mrs G's boxes of drag. There the mess began but there it did not stop.

Friday was "Night of a Thousand Stevies", my opportunity to wear a wedding dress backwards and see all of my friends blissed out on psychedelics. If you've never seen a gaggle of trannies high on shrooms chasing each other about to "Stop Dragging My Heart Around", or watched a nude and bewigged burlesque starlet talk to plastic birds as if they were real, then you haven't lived. I myself was stone cold sober, which allowed me the honor of *ahem* enjoying all of the performances, and wondering if the event would not be better named "Night of a Thousand Trainwrecks". There was some serious so-pilled-up-I've-forgotten-my-words-and-anyway-who-am-I? legendary realness happening on stage.

The divine Mixter Justin Bond however, complete with a triptych of dark beauties on backing vocals and the passionate Our Lady J on piano, gave a performance that can only be described as transformative. Singing "Night Birds" she summoned up all the dark magic of Stevie and belted out a spiritual of emancipatory power.

Saturday it got worse. I worked the door at Victoria, the monthly faux-queen throw down at Stonewall. The party was slumber party themed so I wore Betty Boop bedsheets and rollers. I discovered two things at the door of the party; that absolute power corrupts and that people find Betty Booop irresistible. Then I got smashed and don't remember anything else until I woke up at dawn , wearing only bikini bottoms, staring at my reflection in a mirror on the ceiling above a bed in a Times Square flop house, with Erin Markey reading Bible stories out loud to a collection of barely dressed party goers.

Sunday brought me the hangover from Hell and a trip to Legs Malone's apartment for a housewarming brunch. I made it there for seven pm with a bottle of sparkling water functioning as both gift to Legs and covenant with sobriety. The get together was something of a burlesque convention, and I enjoyed the bruschetta very much thank you.

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1 comment:

Dizzy Swank said...

Erin Markey reading Bible stories out loud to a collection of barely dressed party goers.

That sounds quite frightening! Hilarious!