By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
The lips were plumper than beefsteak tomatoes at the Imperial Court of New York's annual gala at the Marriott Marquisa benefit for God's Love We Deliver, which served the usual head-spinning procession of big "gals" in masochistic heels and chandelier-scraping headdresses. New empress GEFIL TEFISH added a crown to her ensemble, turning her coronation into a Midsummer Night's Dreamthemed spectacle, complete with almost redundant fairy lights scattered through the crowd. You turned gay just watching it. (Well, you did. I already was.)
Bedecked in fairy lights, I went to a special screening of the amiable trifle Kinky Boots, the real story of a drag queen who helped save a dying family business by inspiring shoes that another character calls "porn wear for hermaphrodites." It's Mrs. Henderson Presents for the silicone-down-there crowd. As in the flawedFlawless, the drag character veers between hyperdramatic exclamations ("Burgundy? Burgundy? Red!"), self-pitying revelations ("Dad felt I never fit in"), and unsolicited life lessons ("I didn't want you to know what it was like not to feel respect"). And even if she represents pure sex on a stick, she has no ostensible love life. Butthe only drag in the world who sings liveshe puts on fabulous shows, with backup dancers and hair extensions yet. CHIWETEL EJIOFOR plays the part ferociously, and it's funny to realize he's also in Inside Man, because here he's inside a woman.
MR. BLACK IS THE NEW BLACK
Still fairy-litbut now in burgundy heels for hermaphs I spent Friday at Mr. Black, the downstairs East Village dance club, which has a nicely casual dungeon-cum-speakeasy feel, studded with waiters with their butts exposed (for real crack addicts, I guess). My admirers included a guy who kept gushing, "Guess whose hair I blow-dried today. Mrs. Huxtable from The Cosby Show!" and a gent who glamorously regaled me with tales of his Crohn's disease (which involves bloody diarrhea, what ho). I love the nightlife.
But let's plug up some of the other provocatively puckered parts in clublandnamely the upper lips, especially when clubbies who crave attention with their legs spread try to sell me stuff like "Fame is so hollow. People are so fake friendly just because I was on a silly TV show"; "I'm a hugely successful model, but on the side I wait tables in Hohokus"; and "I had to hire a new publicist just to keep people away!" It's certainly working, dear.
But the talented gays keep soaring. As I told you last year, GSN is launching an updated, wacky I've Got a Secret with a fab all-queer panel. And contrary to an early newspaper article saying the gay record label Twist was a bad idea because no sane person would want to be labeled a gay artist, people have been cartwheeling out of the closet while singing "Dixie" and then landing on their knees to do so. Rather than aim to ghettoize gay musicians, Twist wants to break them out of the ghetto of small labelland and put them on the big stage they deserve. Bravo!
They cartwheeled with burgundy bells on to the Splash party for SANDRA BERNHARD's opening night, where LIZA MINNELLIwho's hot again, thanks to a 34-year-old TV specialwas so swarmed by gushy gays and greeters that she had a panic attack and had to be escorted out the door. (Bye bye, blackbird.) Sandra was feeling no pain, probably thanks to the "no MADONNA" rule that I hear downstairs DJ JOHNNY DYNELL had been given, and CHARLES BUSCH was also percolating, especially when he spotted S. EPATHA MERKERSON in the crowd. "Should I ask her to be in my next play?" he wondered, then thought about it and said, while rolling his eyes, "No. People do that to me all the time. 'I want you to star in Coco!' " All through this, I stood with a glum, defeated look; the last time someone was spotted having fun at Splash, the cops shut it down.