NY Mirror

And if there's "nothing wrong with being gay," blah blah blah, why are you instigating lawsuits? (Last time was a threat against PETA for using a drag queen, FLOTILLA DEBARGE, to mock you. You'll be happy to know that Flo recently landed in Rikers, having attacked someone with a high heel. I guess they cast those ads pretty well.) And isn't it weird that you're pulling a "This is not a sham" tantrum, considering your history with the subsidized wedding itself, not to mention your amazing diet plan?


Haunted mention: The "Nightmare: Face Your Fear" event
photo: Miles Ladin
Haunted mention: The "Nightmare: Face Your Fear" event


I got my own angry letter—to the editor—last week when a Catskills resident critiqued my write-up of a gay event up there. All right, yes, I'm a bitch. But didn't I say the shebang was "sweet" and the Catskills gays were "creative"? More importantly, in the course of insisting how much gay pride there is upstate, did the guy really have to take pains to say "I'm heterosexual"? Oh, well, I guess that was his choice.

An even bigger humiliation came at a sneak peak of "Nightmare: Face Your Fear," a TIMOTHY HASKELL–created haunted house at CSV Cultural Center, based on polled New Yorkers' admissions of their 13 deepest phobias. (The other four boroughs have a Nightmare: Face Your Fear too, but I'm afraid to leave Manhattan to see them.) The brilliantly conceived spook house led you from dank room to dank room, each one dotted with people in surgical masks and blood-soaked aprons, forcing you to act out all your worst-case scenarios. Some of these motifs—fear of rats, clowns, and being home alone—were things New Yorkers confront every day, so that was no sweat. But once we were ordered to run on a shaky, strobe-lit ramp, then climb into a dark hole in the wall, I started crying and had to be escorted to the exit as one of the blood-soaked droogs generously dropped character and said, "That's OK, honey." Now I'm living with disadumbassophobia—a deadly fear of being made fun of for being a wuss.

I wussed out even harder by sniffling during A Chorus Line, the return of which proves that while people may want politics during wartime, they also crave safe revivals of their high-kicking favorites. The Pulitzer musical—about a Broadway audition run by a director probing for psychobabble—now shows some strain, especially since it's hard to believe that knowing these hoofers once shaved their sister's heads or got caught in drag by their father would help him decide if they should dance in his show. But the premise is simply that—a pretext for dazzling dancing and mini star turns, and even if the revival sometimes feels as freeze-dried as Walt Disney's head and the gay monologue wilts, it's all so lovingly done, I gave in and (to change one of the famous song titles) I felt everything.

But stop everything. Flotilla just took off her size 14 Payless shoes to call and say she's home and is "recuperating, desperately trying to get my strength and spirit back and drink some real water and eat some food." She was also preparing to go to the hospital to have her head x-rayed, "which they wouldn't do in prison." Her dark humor's intact, though. She announced herself as "Flotilla—or should I say LIL' KIM."


I'm glad someone else is having a seizure besides me. I just tried to go to the club Avalon, but found the place boarded up, with a notice posted outside saying it's been "seized" because of non-payment of taxes. Don't people ever learn? Back when Avalon was called Limelight, owner PETER GATIEN was jailed and deported for non-payment of state tax! This is all very taxing on my nerves.


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