drag night at the palms

Drag night at "The Palms." The club rests atilt, on the east precipice of Hades, foundation crumbling. A heavy eyed-lined, droog/wiccan protege of "Anton Levay " reluctantly mag-lites your I.D. and doesn't thank you for coming.

A hip-cocked posturing queen was a little spooked by my flashbulbs. As a card carrying member of the hetero he-man club, I'm homo-mystiqueless. Making damn sure, I added arm-bow to my gait (dodging floatational minglers who sashay obliquely as they dust the carpet with their nay-nay powder). Disputants are the last to be noticed. The barmaidtenderessster held me transfixed. A cross-pollination of Cokie Roberts/June Lockhart/Ziggy Stardust, he/she/it is a real trooper for incessant dysfunction. Throbbing woofers and strobe lights suggest, maybe, playing charades as drink ordering technique. It never gets it wrong. If the C.I.A. could utilize this genius of determination, he/she/it (hope he wipes) would control all man-kind. Wearing an O.S.H.A. approved anima spit shield, it's lean and scream all night long.

There's rumblings of clique-hissing, mistimed disunfunniness beckons back molar flash (status, ala orthodontics. The truly wonderful will need a chiropractor by morning). The witching hour approaches and cranks the volume to full flame. My third Heineken has me thigh-pinching my urethra, but timing my strides in between the pulsing comewithusness keeps me contentedly seated. As I quasi-mingled with spoken-for wall-flowers, the DJ mercifully announced it was show-time. The dressing room door flew open, pushing the patronage back into Virginia Reel reverence. "Mother Oil," a beauty school booted, second shift shampoo-setter from "Hurry Up and Dye" salon, gazelled out and dove into a break dance that resembled a half-eaten worm being tossed into ashes. The rendition is stale, yet she maintains self-esteem. This same number won her a second place trophy at last year's "Miss Tacky Triad." Convulsing clockwise in fetal misery, senior fag-hags applaud her just for keeping her pumps on. Her second song is "Flashdance." Lip-synching worse than a Godzilla Film Fest, her head rolls around in ecstasy (her leg tucked back with outstretched palms to the wall). She is much-loved, but, according to the hierarchy of faggotry, will not be trusted. Charlene Fagg is the second act. Flashing teeth more mantangled than fishing lines in a Mexican laundromat, Miss Fagg has the denial of a once-mirrored duckling. Her choice of song is "It's Raining Men," and honey, let me tell you, it's wishful thinking . . . my last pic was of her, the camera sputtered... locking into the curse of never-use.

Making no friends and clashing my Aramis with clouds of CK-I, I thanked the women of drag by buying the big-un a drink. She thanked me in "real-voice," letting me know, as the strobe skipped a beat, it was time for me to go. Walking the parking lot, past the idling sugar-daddies, it was a certainty that wives were home, soft-pressed into satin sheets with copious amounts of juice in the fridge.