Hoofing It Down to the Land of Dreamy Dreams

Secret Agent Fred and I have decided to invade New Orleans for Mardi Gras, 2014.  I know the last time I went there for Carnival, I swore I wouldn't go again because visiting the madness is so much less fun than actually living there for it, but I've reached an age when repeating my mistakes is a charming quirk, so here we go.

First step: make hotel reservations, which is not easy during the highest of high seasons.  Second step: wonder if simply buying a house there wouldn't be cheaper, considering what hotel rooms run during Mardi Gras.  Third step:  start sopping for shoes for my costume.

Footwear has always been problematic for me and my costumes.  I get all the other pieces together and suddenly my Converse tennis shoes are just not cutting it.  Even if I don't do drag, I might still want to wear high heels, cause they're so gay.   Still, you'd be surprised how puny is the selection of ladies size 15 pumps.

And how ugly they are.

I'm thinking about boots and am willing to consider input from you guys.

The fucsia, third from Right, are particularly fetching

Brooding about my feet just reminds me of a long ago Southern Decadence when I was back there for a visit and had to rustle up something in a hurry.

My friend Rich let me borrow his red wig (I know not everyone can pull off that Titianesque shade, I'm just lucky that I can really rock it)

and that tired old Merry Widow bustier has long been my go-to for a quick get up, but even with fishnets, the whole thing sort of skids to a sorry halt with those white mules, which Rich described as "Nancy Nurse on vacation."  Bitch.

That same giddy afternoon included a tragedy when another friend, Cow Queen, accidentally knocked off my wig (at least, he claims it was an accident) outside some not-very-nice bar on Rampart Street.  I certainly was not going to take that and so, CATFIGHT, which thrilled onlookers no end.

Later he tried to suck up, but between a wig on the sidewalk and those shoes, I was just mortified.

That's why I'm leaning towards boots, boots with which I can kick the shit out of somebody.

What do you think?

Seen on the Street

I've been meaning to write about this for a while, but my fast paced life as a celebutant is just so darn distracting.  Anyway, last week I spotted this shaggy looking drag queen in the Castro, hanging out on a milk crate with a giant keyboard on her lap, serenading passersby with this warble as aimless as it was tuneless, commenting on Life.

Oh, people walking down the sidewalk
Coming home
from the train

 I saw her again this afternoon and was struck by three distinct things at the same time, cause my super duper brain is just that awesome.

1) Her repertoire is very reminiscent of that rendered by Eddy Monsoon in Absolutely Fabulous.  Perhaps you remember it?  Eddy had only one song, which consisted of only one line which she had written decades before in an attempt to jump on the singer/songwriter bandwagon and had clung to ever since.   It goes like this

I'm walking down the road,
People sayin' hello....

Believe me, the similarity is striking, although my friend in the Castro was selling hers with considerably more verve.

2) Secret Agent Fred lives in a sketchy-ish part of town across the street from a place that identifies itself as "The Medical Arts Building."  Details about which medical arts, exactly, are going on in there have been elusive, but since we always saw a bunch of drag queens on the sidewalk out front, we decided gender reassignment was probably on the menu.

Because these girls were uniformly unconvincing, we decided it was some kind of training center and dubbed it Tranny College.  Our theory was that they had a box of wigs and a box of handbags in the back; on the first day of classes, students are herded back there and instructed to take one from each box.  The next day they get their diplomas.  Congratulations!

My point is that the street musician looked very much like a graduate of Tranny College, but poor thing must have been at the back of the wig line.  It looked a lot like she had a dark possum on her head.

3) I was reminded each time of one of my favorite music videos ever.

Al Green, Love and Happiness on Soul Train: is there a more inspiring sentence in English?  But what makes this particluar video so noteworthy?  It is a wonderful version of one of the greatest songs ever.  EVER.  Also, there is the big lump o' love and happiness on exhibit in Mr. Green's polyester pants.  But particular to this post let us turn our attention to the church lady on keyboards.  I love the fact that she has brought her purse out on stage with her and put it where she can keep an eye on it at all times.

Also, one has to admire the consistency of her sour expression, which says to me that her thoughts never stray far from her conviction "These chillrun have done turn their backs on da Lawd." even as Al is rocking it.

Have mercy.

Get to Work, Slacker

Now I understand why MJ includes all those bitchy, nagging, hectoring posts leading up to her contests, it's because you lazy slags will not follow a few simple instructions.  To wit: find some photo  of your drag self and send it, along with your drag name and your big number, to mr pee nee at yahoo.com  (take the spaces out, silly.) by July 24 in order to participate in our anniversary virtual drag show.

Is that asking too much bitches?  So far, only Jason and anonymous,too have come across and mummy is starting to feel a teensy bit annoyed, so get on it.  Do not think that I will fail to replace you with some  deluded queen with plump tits mincing about dressed like a bird to the swelling strains of Tosca because I will if I have to.  Although she does seem like she could be some serious high maintenance.

Sparkle Neely

Working our way through yet another sad little thrift store and disparaging their so-called goods, Diane and I ran across a rack of bridesmaid dresses. one of which defied our attempts to figure out which side was the front and which was the back. I mentioned once again to D that if I were a Lady, that is, a Person with a Vagina Lady, I would always dress in second hand bridesmaid dresses, and not ironically either. They fascinate me as a kind of art piece. When Diane explained one purchases these gems at shops, legitimate businesses, I was floored. I had always assumed one had to have some little elf run them up for you.

Aside from a wardrobe consisting solely of shiny magenta, coral, peach, fuscia and the occasional teal, I would also have boxes of glittery, glitzy bijoux.

My lips would always be lacquered a brilliant red.

I would totter round town in Barbie doll heels, the sluttier the better.

My hair would be a model of restrained good taste.

I am undecided on the subject of bags.

I would, in short, rig myself out just like a style-deprived drag queen. I see Ladies tarted up pretty much like this every day on my to work, so I would fit right in, and besides, if I had to put up with Lady plumbing and its inherent wacky hi jinx (did you know Midol is just Tylenol, and caffeine? Imagine my disappointment, I had assumed it was some magic, secret elixir. Thanks a fat lot Wikipedia) I would have to demand some polyester based glamour.

The Name Blame Game

The results are in! It's the Munroe Sisters vs. the Divine Chan Triplets. Yes, the Munroes, America's singin', sinnin', tippytoe tap dancin' Sweethearts taking on those SIrens of the Mysterious East. It's the Smackdown of the Century! Don't miss it on Drague Pay Per View.

Name Game

I have no idea why this blog has suddenly swerved into Trannyland, but there you are. One possible reason: Project Runway's big night of the Drag Queen Zombies. In reading about it, I stumbled onto the Drag Queen Name Generator

My Drag Queen Name is Grace Monroe.
Take The Drag Queen Name Generator today!
Created with Rum and Monkey's Name Generator Generator.

I have to say, I was sorely disappointed in mine, "Grace Monroe." Am I missing a joke here? If so, feel free to explain it me. All I can picture with Grace Monroe is the heroine of some not-very-good chick lit effort about a divorcee with kids who finds True Love despite her weight issues. Let me tell you, that is not the drag image I'm looking for.

I'm sure everyone knows about the drag queen name game where you take the name of your first pet and add it to the street you grew up on and voila (or walla, as someone once wrote me in a very disturbing email) your new genderfuck nom. In my case, Duchess Bayshore. That's much more like it, stylish, glam, pearl-touching.

There's No Business

Darlings, thanks so much for your enthusiasm over You're Too Big for Polka Dots! Your replies and suggestions were exactly what I expected of you all. Based on your input, I've decided to revise the format from a drag revue (how tired, afterall) to the much more exciting and popular Lesbian/Farm Animal smut genre. Considering the range of your talents, I'm sure you'll fit in just fine, and maybe even better, than in my original thought.

Mwah, great big air kisses to everyone.

Casting Call

Let's put on a show kids. I've decided to produce a dragaganza online and you're invited to be in it! Mostly because you're too obstreperous to ignore. I think that's always a good personality trait in a semi-professional trannie entertainress. The show's called You're Too Big for Polka Dots and did I mention it's at the fabled My-O-My Club out by the lake in New Orleans?

Anyway, since it's my show, I get to be the star. What, you got a problem with that? Shut up and sit back down. I shall take the stage as Coco Vreeland and I plan on wowing them with my big number "Strike a Match," as performed by April Ames. No, of course I don't know the words, who cares? You think Madonna actually knows what she's lip synching? Get real. I'll eat red hots so my gums and tongue will be bright red and recite the words "Thursday root beer float' and no one will know the difference.

I'm asking our dear friend Kebbin to pull his turn as Miss Simma Down performing Shirley Bassey's cover of "I Who Have Nothing" but that's as far as I have gotten in lining up the talent. This is where little you comes in. Let us know your stage name and what you'll be performing. Don't forget to bring your music. And get your own damn eyeliner.

Aux Barricades

God knows I support the freaky losers in the queer community who feel the need to dress like Brittney Spears in her "Hit Me One More Time" phase. Are not those freaky losers my brothers? Indeed they are. I am one with them in their struggles to overthrow the patriarchy. Just because I find pictures of their pasty legs sort of funny and snicker quietly at the sight of them does not alter that in the least. Long live the revolution, you freaky loser heroes, you.

If you feel the love, visit http://www.skortman.com/skortmanmainpage.html

Shop Till You Drop

Maybe it's the dawn fresh, unaffected sweet charm of pink lace...

Or maybe you want to be Naughty Tonight! Either way apres noir has got it going on.

Southern Decadence: the Glory Years

Today is the annual Southern Decadence in New Orleans. Years ago, when I was a mere baby gay living way down yonder, Southern Decadence, always the Sunday before Labor Day, placed second only to Mardi Gras as my favorite event of the year. Now the day is just one more excuse for a generic circuit party, but in my time, when dinosaurs were still grazing on the ferns in Esplanade Street, it was strictly a drag parade.

My friends and I, along with a few hundred other poofters, would doll up in regalia guaranteed to make real drag queens clench their teeth and shudder. Those true drag queens might aim for the illusion of femininity, the very soul of she‑ness, but Southern Decadence in general, and my pals in particular, shot more for a burlesque of all aspects of feminine apparel. We had an unhygienic collection we worked from called The Drag Bag, a seemingly bottomless supply of dresses, rhinestones, purses, chiffon what-nots, and wigs, wigs, wigs. Just getting together an outfit from all the scraps was pretty darned hilarious, believe me.

The “parade” would gather at a shitty little bar named the Golden Lantern, but much better known as the Golden Latrine, and slither off on a completely unplanned march from bar to bar though out the French Quarter. I never made it to the end of the route, since the aimless, drunken wandering always wore me out. One year, they wound up on the steps of the Moon Landing facing Jackson Square belting out “God Bless America”. I have no idea why, I’m pretty sure no one does.

Another year I was pretty, let me tell you, a lavender beehive, purple pumps and a gold lame miniskirt I made by sewing a scrap of fabric to a jock strap. I remember those damn pumps cause they were new and hurt so much I wound up jettisoning them and walking home in my stockings. I’m not saying that I’m certain I converted to HIV positive because of that, but you know, it’s possible. If you’ve ever seen the streets of the Quarter on a hot summer afternoon, I know you’d agree. My, how people stared. It might have been because of the beehive, or it might have been because I was barefoot.

One time my friend Robert wore a hoop skirt on his head like a mantilla from Mars and people cheered. Another year my other dear friend Magda blew up balloons and wore them like a crinoline under a gauzy little party frock. Again, cheering. We went out in the rain, we went out in the miserable heat, we went out in dresses so ugly they made you squint. I loved it.

I’m glad I got to experience it when I did. If you go to the main website for Southern Decadence now you will see not one reference to drag. It’s all muscley boys tweaking with their shirts off. Certainly, that’s not something I sneer at, I love dem mucscley boys. But it could be anywhere, anytime - Folsom Street Fair, Gay Pride in Sacramento, Halloween in Pittsburgh. It can never replace the thrill of appearing on Royal Street in a cherry red ball gown with plastic crystal chandelier pendants in my hair. Those were the days.

Portrait of the Author as a Young Drag Queen

Wit dat ratty wig.

Dee Vee

Diana Vreeland, a goddess who moved among mere mortals, wrote a column called "Why Don't You..." for Harper's Bazaar that was a source for insane ideas, because, apparently, some people can’t come up with their own. Among them:

“Why don’t you tie big tulle bows on your wrists instead of bracelets?”
“Why don’t you have your guests autograph a mirror-covered table with a diamond tipped pin?”
and my fave
· “Why don’t you wash your blond children’s hair in dead champagne as they do in France?”

which I always accidentally invert to the much creepier “…wash your dead children’s hair….”

Vreeland fascinates and inspires me the way professional football playing thugs apparently inspire straight boys. She ordered Billy Baldwin to decorate her home all in red, like “a garden in hell”; she created the Met’s Costume Institute; she painted her ears with rouge (is that true? I’ve always heard it, but don’t know and don’t really want to know differently. I retract the question.)

I once had a dream, a nightmare, really, wherein someone corrected me by saying “O honey. It’s not Diana Vreeland it’s Donna Vreeland” and I was overcome with mortification. I have never before or since been embarrassed in a dream, not even the walking-around-Kmart-in-my-underwear ones, but I was there. Thank god it was just a dream. I don’t think I would want to live in a world where such a vivid icon was named Donna.

I gotta go