Ditmar and Neil Bull at The Palace last night.
But before I found myself back at home base, I was embroiled in a drag nightmare.
Sometime back I had been asked to be a "celebrity" judge at the Miss Ocean Drive drag contest, the winner of which goes on to compete in the Miss Florida Pageant. I was told to arrive at 7 and promptly did; party promoter Edison Farrow was there as a judge as was George Neary, the director of the Convention Bureau's "Cultural Exchange" program, a nice euphemism for "Gay Events".
I was asked to write down the question I would ask of the contestants, and I requested to see what the other judges had put down. Inaudible groans emitted from me as I read: "If you became Miss Ocean Drive, what would you do to help the fight against AIDS?" (ugh) "What does winning this title mean to you?" (burp) "Do you think winning this contest will make you a better drag queen?" (a little better, but...)
So I wrote: "If you win this title and go on to compete in the Miss Florida pageant, will you engage in a viscous campaign of back-stabbing to get what you want, or will you conduct yourself with grace and poise?" I should have known then, that all was not going to go well.
The show was supposed to start at eight
and we judges entered the ballroom and started having martinis; my fellow judges were a rather diverse group of people very much involved in gay political and social endeavors. I enjoyed meeting them, but hung out with Edison (he is always a fountain of gossip, even if I do see him almost every day).
By about 9:20pm
I was getting mad and went up to a kah-ween with a kah-lipboard and asked when we judges were to take our seats and when the bloody show was going to begin. The kah-ween snootily replied, "The show will begin when it begins." I stared the little bitch in the eye and said, "If it doesn't begin in ten minutes, I'm leaving." He answered, "You can't leave." I said, "I'm from New England. Eight means eight, not five past eight and NOT 9:30." He made some sort of squeal and ran off. At 9:31
I bid goodbye to my fellow judges who were in a very confused state, also. And, as I was leaving, the fat Cuban in charge of the event tapped me on the shoulder and had the nerve to say, also, "You can't leave." I replied, "Watch me, bitch" and walked out.
This morning I got an email from Edison through is sobesocialclub.com telling his crowd that he left after waiting three and one-half hours and will watch the Herald and Wire come out to see who won. I was able to get to The Palace by ten to again join a goodbye party for Neil Bull from the BBC (there will be one more here at 11am--we never stop). I also got to see Miguel, whose story is developing in my life.