Friday, January 25, 1:40 a.m.
The scoop on the Fruit Loop is that Toni James is making a comeback. I’ve worked and played alongside Toni for two years, the Robin to his catty, fabulously coiffured Batman. I’ve observed him in jeans and a T-shirt, working the First Friday crowd with Beauty Bar fliers. I’ve watched him arrive two hours before an event to apply talc and thick black eyeliner, transforming his former bodybuilder features into something softer, something feline if not entirely female. And I’ve helped him into countless gowns, some with hoop skirts, some employing live fish. We’ve drank, we’ve gotten drunk ... we’ve celebrated our good nights and our bad, but never have I seen him quite like this.
Gipsy is unnervingly quiet next to the thumpa-thumpa of Piranha, across the dirt and gravel parking lot from where I enter and surrender $5. I pray Toni James’ Late Night Lip Sync Contest is still going on ... 20 minutes before showtime he’s not answering his phone, and he’s nowhere to be found. A handful of patrons are sprinkled throughout the tiny, dark club, either in tight groups or suspiciously solo. As one young couple dances to poppy remixes, I sulk, worried if I’ve just paid $5 for the privilege of watching them.
At the bar, a slender young man in a blond wig and crushed velvet dress nurses his drink between deep pulls on a cigarette. Our eyes meet over my boyfriend’s shoulder, and from somewhere deep inside I hear my inner lioness let out a territorial growl. But I’d kill for his boobs. The old girl (Gipsy, not Ms. Velvet) looks like she’s gotten some attention, a whole new wardrobe even: new draperies, plasma screens and an all-around fresh coat of polish. Finally, large groups pour in with just seconds to spare. At 2:01 a.m. I hear Toni’s familiar nasal voice on the PA, huge hair silhouetted in the DJ booth. At 2:15 a stool appears—progress.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage the talented Miss Toni James!” Okay, he’s fashionably late, but that’s Toni. In a purple satin sheath and floor-length black coat, Toni—my Toni, with the wide grin and the foul-mouthed wit—is intoxicatingly beautiful. Bills appear, and he delicately relieves the crowd of them as he deftly mock-belts out Whitney Houston’s “It’s Not Right, But It’s Okay,” then effortlessly banters in pidgin with the rowdy Hawaiian audience. “You got a tita in your crowd?”
They’ve come to see Sasha Colby, a famous Hawaiian drag performer from Chicago. With wide eyes and a blinding smile, she’s like a thicker Kimora Lee Simmons. Her Beyoncé and J. Lo moves are so studied, so practiced that I just can’t get over the fact that not one note emanates from her throat. I say “her” because I only know what I see, and the effect is breathtaking. “If that’s a man,” my boyfriend says, craning his neck, “then that’s one hell of a tuck!”
The contestants are up next: Ms. Velvet turns out to be Paris, contestant No. 1, who does an intense Madonna to “Hung Up.” I’d kill for his calves. Jay-Jay Lover is not in drag but doing a damn admirable Michael Jackson, right down to the halo-like ’fro wig, singing along with “Blame it on the Boogie.” Devo, a woman in an even larger ’fro wig and sponge-painted beard (let it be fake!) struts like a rooster to House of Pain’s “Jump Around.”
Fourth is LA, a rotund drag queen wielding a confetti-filled umbrella. Lip-syncing to Rihanna’s “Umbrella,” LA has zero accuracy but who cares? Look at those eyelashes! That hair! Shiny rounds out the group—a peppy, athletic young blonde in sequins and fringe. Thigh-high boots become him, and his sync to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” quickly gives way to Kat DeLuna’s “Whine Up.” The battle between old-school and new-school drag pits LA’s traditional over-the-toppedness against Shiny’s “Toxic”-era Britney looks and moves.
In the end, the crowd favors Shiny, who will return in three weeks for the finals. The illusion quickly falls away as the event concludes with Shiny and Toni cartwheeling, revealing thick pantyhose, suspiciously knobby knees and an unfeminine gait. Yes, new school it is.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at [email protected] and visit thecircuitlv.com to sign up for Xania’s free weekly newsletter.