The HX awards for gay nightlife, presented by the long-running bar mag, were held outdoors at Lincoln Center, leading to a general, free-floating ambience of opera, ballet, and fisting/felching. I have a fuzzy recollection of what happened onstage, but I can tell you in distinct detail what mirthy madness transpired by the open vodka bar in the waiting area.
First off, big-wigged MIMI IMFURST confided in me: “I campaigned for best drag queen. My slogan was ‘Because sometimes the retarded fat girl deserves to win’.” She didn’t.
Raucous, tits-flapping-in-the-wind singer BRIDGET EVERETT confessed, “I’m worried that when I perform, I’m going to get arrested for public profanity.” She didn’t. (What does it take to scare uptown these days—actual insemination?)
Also generally not in handcuffs—or anything—MICHAEL LUCAS‘s crotch-heavy porn discovery BEN ANDREWS told me, “The article about me in HX was amazing, but I didn’t like the cover picture. I didn’t connect with the camera. I complained back at work and they said, ‘You know who you sound like right now? Michael Lucas!’ ”
Spring Awakening co-producer THOMAS HULCE—the only one for miles who seemed to belong at Lincoln Center—wasn’t complaining as he told me that next he’ll do “the tour of Spring Awakeningthe London Spring Awakening, the Korean Spring Awakening. . . . ” And a movie of Spring Awakening? “It’d be a trip to do something either fairly realistic,” he said, “or—as DUNCAN SHEIK and STEVEN SATER suggested—something like Dancer in the Dark.” Yes, bring in Björk on an electric chair! It’s the bitch of dying!
Singer/comic JONNY MCGOVERN told me that Logo’s Big Gay Sketch Show has not been executed—it was just renewed. One of the show’s recent sketches had him playing Oscar Wilde in a leering spoof called Girls Gone Wilde, but things apparently won’t go wilder. “I pushed to play Wilde as a substitute gym teacher inappropriately coaching the high school teens,” said Jonny. “But they were a little afraid advertisers might not like the idea.” Still, they’d probably love it outdoors at Lincoln Center!
Funny lady JACKIE HOFFMAN—who was an evil gym teacher in Hairspray—told me that in Xanadu, “MARY TESTA and I play evil muses who sing ‘Evil Woman’ and try to make Kerry Butler‘s life miserable. That isn’t easy, because you know how perfect Kerry Butler is!” Well, how about the Hoff? Is she a MARIAN SELDES type, or does she ever miss a performance? “I get very Jewy with health problems,” she admitted. “The first year of Hairspray, I was terrified. But when I learned the joy of calling in sick, I became a regular DONNA MURPHY!”
Hoffman added that when she does show up, she’s not spinning around on blades like most of the other Xanadu-ers. “The geriatric cast members—me, Testa, and Tony Roberts—are off the skates,” she related. “But we dance a lot. They’re really working us.” And the result, we pray, will not be remembered as “a place where nobody dared to go.”
By the way, Splash promoter AARON TANNER dared to sport his bare ass and a hint of crotch on the HX awards stage—thanks to some light pants-pulling from ROBIN BYRD—but I showed full-frontal thingie backstage when a handsome Puerto Rican gentleman yanked it out for an attempt at some high-toned cultural ritual or other. Take that, Lincoln Center.
Zipping up and moving toward the “True Colors” concert’s after-party, I found a certificate for “the Mimi Imfurst award,” clearly presented by Mimi to her own self for “best drag queen in the world, better than HX award.” That was obviously very gratifying for the self-described “retarded fat girl,” though it couldn’t have been all that special—it was sticking out of a big corner garbage pail!
The Mother Teresa award goes to drag star Sweetie, who the day after the HX event sent Michael Lucas an e-mail saying, “I feel like I owe you an apology for some unkind remarks I made about you in the past. . . I find you absolutely fascinating. My background is theatre and you are definitely a brilliant character study. I digress. Making amends is really what this e-mail is about. My apologies for my lack of judgement.” The fascinating Lucas is thrilled to have one less hatchet in his back so he can concentrate on inserting things in other people (and on complaining).
Meanwhile, MARC JACOBS‘s on-again-off-again beau, JASON PRESTON, wants to be inserted back into HX. Unflappable editor BRANDON VOSS got two messages in a row from Preston declaring that he and Jacobs would love a cover story to announce that they’re supposedly not only reunited but totally clean. Instead, Voss offered Preston the chance to write something short about “how to snag a rich and famous boyfriend,” but he tastefully declined—just as shoe-wielding self-defender FLOTILLA DEBARGE turned down writing something about “how to survive a night in jail.” “I have a very good sense of humor about it,” Flo responded, “but if you want to see that sense of humor, you have to pay for it at my cabaret show at Helen’s.”
Instead, I’ve been trolling around on yet more rounds of pre-coital clubbing and, miraculously, have not been arrested for public profanity. Where to? Well, at Barracuda, I heard them talking about the VANESSA WILLIAMS movie party there, where a female producer was so intoxicated—by the whole experience, I guess—that she became belligerent and had to be seriously de-attituded.
At a West Village piano bar, glamorous divorcée ELLEN BARKIN supposedly got the benefit of celebrity privilege and was allowed to openly smoke, which offended the various singers who were not trying to sound like ELAINE STRITCH.
A few blocks north at the Plumm, a trail of smoke was left by SHANE O’NEILL, former co-host of the PATRICK MCMULLAN/ CHUCK ATTIX “Monday’s Hard” night there. It seems the promoter/shutterbug/personal assistant had just deserted McMullan in Europe to run off with DAVID LACHAPELLE and his posse. (Yes, folks, it’s a major lens-off. Snap-snap indeed!)
Photogs ran wild putting together the new “Skin” issue of the club mag Gazelland—edited by, you got it, Gazelle—which features a bevy of downtown regulars from KENNY KENNY to KIM AVIANCE in even more colorful states of undress than an HX presenter. As a subject, I made sure to sport a large feather boa—not to cover that thingie so much as my expectant stomach—and started to feel like Stevie Nicks hiding behind all those lamp shades in her puffy period. At the publication’s party at Kino 41, JULIE ATLAS MUZ made her pussy sing “This Land Is Your Land” as my butt and nipples cheered. As WANDA SYKES says in the annoying Evan Almighty, “I can’t even get my cat to use the litter box.”
The opening, as it were, of the Times Square Ripley’s Believe it or Not odditorium would have been more outrageously fun if I didn’t regularly hang out with all the previously mentioned circus freaks, but it was still interactively amusing, from the Last Supper made of spider webs to the swatches of hair from both Elvis and a woolly mammoth. (Yes, those were two different creatures.) The shockers? Believe it or not, I ate free food! And I couldn’t find the celebrities (except for a lizard guy and the midget version of KISS)! And they wouldn’t let me take a “penis sheath” out of a display case! And they let in conjoined twins even though they weren’t on the list plus one!
I made the list for RICHARD TURLEY‘s birthday dinner for the legendary PATTI LABELLE at Serafina, where the singer gamely admitted that it wasn’t exactly her birthday—”but I woke up this morning, and I think every day you wake up is your birthday!” Quite a scam, huh? Still, I was nice enough not to demand that she return my gift of DIANA ROSS-brand panty hose from the early ’80s.
And now, it’s back to the opera, ballet, and you know.