To Priscilla, Queen of the Birdcage, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar

I just returned from an extended road trip with two good friends of mine. What’s that? You want to hear all about it? Well…

Cue Music

Opening credits play over a helicopter shot of a road running through the desert. A high-energy dance tune plays. And we zoom into three figures in an open powder pink 67 Mustang Convertible. As we get closer, we see that they are women. A bit closer still, and, wait, those aren’t women at all. Those are men, in drag, one white, one black and one hispanic. The camera pulls in tight and the "woman" in the back seat stands up and lip syncs.

It’s raining men! Hallelujah! It’s raining men! Every spe-ci-men!

Turn off that damn radio! Shooted Marcela. (Really my friend Marcel but in drag.)

I reached over and turned off the radio. Luisa (really my friend Luis but in drag) plopped down into the backseat and pouted. But I like that song.

Look, I said to Luisa for no apparent reason, we’ve decided to dress in women’s clothes and drive across country in a effort to make ourselves less threatening to a ‘general public’ still uncomfortable with gay male sexuality.

Mmm-hmm, chimed in Marcela, because she’s a sassy black woman. (Really she’s a man.)

And you’re the young, impetuous, spicy Latina that will ultimately cross the line of acceptable behavior for men in drag.

Mmm-hmm.

Who needs to learn the limits of your status.

Mmm-hmm.

Marcela is a sassy black woman with plenty of attitude.

You got that right.

Who needs to learn how to connect with people instead of hiding behind her fierce attitude.

Say what?

And I’m the only who gets to experience any inner conflict because…

Yes? Marcela looked up from her nail filing.

Because I’m the one whose… driving.

Hmmm! And with that Marcela put away her manicuring supplies and started on her lips. (Because drag queens are really men, but they wear makeup, and that’s what makes them interesting.)

And that’s why the radio needs to be off! I exclaimed triumphantly.

But’s it not fair, Erica! (It’s really me, Eric, but in drag.) And then she prattled on in Spanish. Este arreglo entero es racista y sexista y homofóbico. ¡Cuándo la revolución viene, usted no será reservado!

That spicy Latina!

I know, I added. Why don’t we pull into this little town ahead. We’ll have a nice lunch at the local diner and maybe a little more plot exposition. Won’t that be nice?

Whatever. Luisa was sulking.

We pulled in the center of a town so small that there was only one road. We pulled up to the local diner. How lucky to find a parking spot! Oh, wait, this isn’t the Big City. Silly me, you can park anywhere. We walked in and the locals all turned and stared at us, suspiciously, yet what they didn’t suspect is that secretly we’re all men. While Marcela and I knew enough to move straight ahead to a table, Luisa still thought she was entitled to wave and talk to people, normal people. What a hoot!

We found a table and sat down. The waitress (Stockard Channing) came over to us and suspiciously handed us menus and three glasses of water. I’ll give you a few minutes, she said, suspiciously.

Thank you, Marcela replied, with as much genuine politeness as anyone could muster. But Stockard Channing was already gone.

Oh miss, said Luisa, who was surely leading up to something inappropriate. Do you have any Evian? I’m sure that this, holding up her glass, comes from the finest well in these parts, but…

The water is fine, I interrupted. And both Marcela and I shoot Luisa a look before turning and smiling to Stockard Channing. Stockard Channing just glared and turned back away. (You see, Evian is something they only have in cities.)

In a few moments Stockard Channing returned with a pad in her hands, but spoke not a word. I ordered The Special. Marcela went for "just coffee" and the Luisa was still looking over the menu like there was an abundance of choices, like in the city.

She’ll have The Special too. Marcela ordered for her. And Stockard Channing just walked away, suspiciously.

I still don’t understand why we had to make this trip, griped Luisa. Cheeses Luisa, take a pill, or something!

I told you, I said.

Well, I forgot.

We’re going, Marcela chimed in, to a wedding in Miami Beach. Friends of Erica’s…

Armand and Albert, I interjected. Albert is actually a drag performer named Starina.

They have a son who’s getting married…continued Marcela.

To a woman? Luisa gasped.

Yes, said I, but thing is that the son’s fiancee is the daughter of a very conservative senator that has no idea that their daughter’s fiancee has two gay dads.

What a hoot! We all exclaimed in unison.

And we’ve been asked to be bridesmaids. I finished. And perform at the wedding. I finished again.

Wait a minute, Luisa interjected, why is everyone so concerned about what the straight conservative people think? Maybe the gay couple aren’t so keen on having a Republican in the family. Ever think of that!

Marcela and I just stared at Luisa, dumbfounded.

They’re your friends, but if ask me, this ain’t 1978 no more. Oh, Luisa!

Plot exposition over, we cut to the three of us leaving the diner and getting into the car, which we call Priscilla, for no apparent reason. We each take our positions in the car which are in no way related to our positions in society. I try to start it, and darn it! It won’t start. I try and try, but no luck. Some of the locals have gathered around us, suspiciously.

Excuse me, says Marcela, do any of you know where we can find a mechanic? Silence. A mechanic? Marcela repeats.

Stockard Channing steps forward. My Jeb can fix that. He can fix anything mechanical.

Great, I say, much obliged. Now if you’ll just point us in the right direction…

But probably won’t have the parts, Stockard Channing adds, never has the parts, probably have to order them, take two, maybe three days.

What are we going to do in the meantime? Asked Luisa.

Okay, let’s shortcut this a little. Marcela asked where there is a hotel. Stockard Channing said that there is one just down the street – (insert exited response) – but it closed two years ago – (insert disappointed response) – I suppose you could stay with Jeb and me, plenty of space in the spare room – (insert response of polite resignation.)

Contrary to expectation, Jeb turns out to be a controlling, soul deadening jerk who won’t even let Stockard Channing use any spices in her cooking – that because her life is so bland, that is without flavor. (Because the whole spice thing is a metaphor.) (Get it?)

Aaanywho. While Luisa is flirting with the local (male) youths, who don’t know she’s a man because they’re so credulous on account of how their from a small town, but she backs off in favor of a real woman because that’s better; Marcela draws an old woman out of her shell by finally putting all that useless knowledge about movie trivia to use, because knowing the complete filmography of every actress, ever, is just the sort of thing you’d expect from a drag queen.

Okay, wait, you know, I’m getting a little sick of me too. I mean, I put on a little make-up, and an ungodly amount of stuff, and all of sudden I’m so jaded. Seriously, how do any women do this? Why? These shoes are freakin’ killing me. I’d consider cutting off some toes just to stop this pinching, and… wait…ok… wait… and we’re back.

Aaanywho. I naturally turned my attention to helping Stockard Channing discover her self worth and stand up to her husband. And to do so, the three of us dress up all the women in town is the unbelievably large number of clothes, which we have in our too small amount of corresponding luggage, that isn’t at all too big even though all three of us stand a head taller than all the women in town – without heels – yet by helping the women in town connect with their inner drag queen we are also helping them tap into our remaining masculinity and thereby liberating them from the shackles of misogyny - sorta.

And breathe.

Also, I befriend a local man, who is trapped in a loveless marriage and…

Now, wait just one minute!

Marcela, helloooo, I’m narrating now, thank you..

Oh, no, you do not get to liberate Stockard Channing and start an affair with a lovelorn local. Plus he’s not bi and you’re not a transsexual.

Am too.

What?! You can’t just switch in the middle of the story!

Can too. Look, if we learned anything from Luisa’s story, it’s that men who dress like women don’t get to hook up with men, unless it turns out that you’re really a woman.

But you can-not just switch!!

Lookit! Did you write the rules for To Priscilla, Queen of the Birdcage, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar or did I write the rules for To Priscilla, Queen of the Birdcage, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar? Because if we’re gonna play To Priscilla, Queen of the Birdcage, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar, we’re going to play by the rules.

Whatever. It’s a stupid game anyway…and Marcela trailed off.

Aaanywho. So Richard and I, who I am only introducing now to the plot line for no apparent reason, had a brief little thing, this time no pun intended. He was all brave for being willing to (in this only temporary version of the ongoing narrative) have a fling with a woman who once had a ‘little thing’. (No pun intended – except that really – not so little – I mean really – once we’re out of this particular narrative – not so little at all!)

Having fixed the town, it’s high time we hit the road! So we got in the car, which was now repaired, and drove.

Not so far along, we had arrived upon a desert-like environment, not unlike the Australian outback. Being late, we decided to pull into the desert for a rest, and, perhaps a bit more plot exposition.

Sitting around an impromptu campfire, Luisa heard a noise.

What was that?

Oh, nothing, I said reassuringly. And then, as if as from a scene from a movie people, aboriginal people from the area, started to emerge from the darkness to discover this strange new thing – drag queens by a fire. Before you knew it, we had entranced them into our world. Our dance music, which, of course, is the gateway to all things queer, had lured the local Natives into a desire to dress into unnecessarily frilly clothes and dance about. So, again, and this time for no apparent reason, we coaxed the locals to dress in the unlikely amount of flamboyant clothing that we happened to have with us.

Cue music.

Once I was afraid, I was petrified…

The music from our little radio filled the desert like it was theater quality surround sound. We all learned a lot that night, about life, about love and about how to dance in sand in clogs.

Finally, after our impromptu evening soirée, we settled in for a little more plot exposition.

Erica, said Marecela, you seem so pensive. Is there something on your mind?

Oh, no, I said, nothing, nothing at all. (Barely contained sob.) Nothing!

Erica, Luisa added, there is something, I just know it.

Well, if you must know, when we get to Miami, you will discover my deepest, darkest secret.

What? What can that be?

You see, in the past, before I was out as a gay person and then switched to being transsexual and then switched back, because that’s the way To Priscilla, Queen of the Birdcage, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar works…

Yes?

I was married and had a… son!

So? What’s the big deal, join the crowd. Hello! It’s called a Gay-by boom, Luisa stated.

But… he… doesn’t know! I barely could contain my roiling emotions. (It is a word. Look it up.)

Know what? Marcela asked, the capital of North Dakota?

No. That I’m… I’m… gay!

Umm…you do know that this is 2004. Umm.. no one cares anymore. Luisa was always stealing everyone’s thunder. Thunder stealer!

Yeah, Marcela added, and why is it, exactly, that you get to be the one who liberates Stockard Channing from low self esteem, has an affair with a local man and has a son to come out to?

Remember? I reminded everyone, I’m the only one who gets to experience inner conflict. I mean I haven’t even mentioned my stuffy upper-class family who…

Oh! No! That is not…

Marcela…

What-ev-er!!

But, Marcela, I am the one who’s…

What?!?!!

Who is… you know…doing all the driving?

¡Cuándo la revolución viene, usted no será reservado!

Marcela, I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.

Honey. The list of things you don’t know… Whatever!

And so it went. You know the ending, don’t you? I reconciled with my son. We performed at the wedding and were a smash! And we all had (well I had) a mega-happy ending.

Cue music.

We are family, I’ve got all my sisters with me…