I’ve been operating a little too much in the gay-male ghetto, so I ventured into the lesbian arena to judge Murray Hill‘s hilarious Miss Lez pageant the other night at the Knitting Factory, way out in Brooklyn.
And I was thrilled to find I wasn’t anonymous there.
In fact, the second I walked in, a lesbian ran up to me and gushed, “A couple of years ago, my friends and I had a contest about who would see the first celebrity in New York. I saw you and I won!”
“Sorry I’m D-list,” I sputtered with faux-humility, fishing for more praise.
“Yeah,” she said, “but still…”