Shopping yesterday for Mona’s outfit. No shortage of fluffy gowns, sequined jumpsuits or shoulder-padded gold evening jackets. I filled my shopping cart with possibilities. Padded bras, door knocker earrings, false eyelashes, spike heels, and, the wig. I put the deal together in the dressing room, and what did I see? A drag queen. I don’t have anything against Drag Queens although they get all the gigs. They have replaced Carnival, Freak Shows, Circuses. They are the only segment of the population that seems to be having fun. Their irreverence is sacred and healing. I envy their solidarity. In the dressing room, I was alone. Not gay, Not a Drag Queen, not a Butch Lesbian in a business suit, just a straight woman in a stupid outfit. Why? I thought it would be fun, pretending to be a blonde, dumb nightclub singer instead of a graying, depressed nightclub singer. In the dressing room I realized that the outfit was a One Trick Pony. A unoriginal visual gag that demanded no talent, no creativity.
It’s easy to dress up. It’s Halloween, nothing more. So clever, fishnets. So clever, a purple tent dress. So clever, sparkling eyelashes and bright pink pumps.
I put everything back on the rack except the wig. My creation, “Mona”, must retain her dignity. What dignity? Her artist’s dignity. Mona doesn’t need spike heels or fake nails. She can sing. Sadly, not too many clubs want singers. They want Drag Queens, Kareoke, TV sets, Open-mike nights.
I put the costume pieces back in my shopping cart. I added a boa, pearls, girdle, gloves, cigarette holder, evening bag, shawl, hat, minature chih-wawa. If you can’t beat em, join em.