Taylor Mac, You Better Hurry Back

Where were you on Monday? Anyone who is *anyone* was at the first preview night of Taylor Mac's show at Soho Theatre.

For his first "sort of" West End run he's revisiting his Be(a)st of Taylor Mac show. It didn't matter that I've seen it twice before, it was still blummin fantastic.

You can read my previous thoughts here and here, so I'm not going to carp on about it too much, but there are still parts that can make me weep (Sylvester), feel uncomfortable (Miles Blumenthal) and get horny (black men from San Francisco).

Here's a picture of me stalking him after the show - what an angel!

He's at Soho Theatre until April 7, then he's coming back to do new stuff at the BAC in May. BEHIND ME in the queue please.

Girls Will Be Boys

For the second weekend in a row, I experienced some slight pangs of trans-envy on Saturday. I was at the LLGFF showing of Boy I Am, a study of three FTM transsexuals going through their transition. They started off by binding their breasts, then taking testosterone, then finally going under the surgeon’s knife for chest surgery. There were also soundbites from their friends and family and other people who are gender queer.

I was specifically envious of a cute girl / boy called Norie. The most amazingly beautiful woman – spiky blond hair, piercing blue eyes and full lips; he then transformed into a fantastically attractive man with light stubble, a sleak, tattooed body and an outwardly more comfortable air.

Just for a moment I wanted to be that person and to go out and buy “little gay tops” (his words) and not have to make so much effort to get ready. Suddenly my inner-boy wanted freedom.

I felt the same intrigue last week when I came across trans performer Lazlo Pearlman at a Queer Artists’ workshop. He’s a striking guy with good clothes, cute facial hair and a general air of cool. I kept sneaking glances and thinking, “hmmm … could that be me?”

I don't feel I need the change, though. In fact I love having breasts and a cunt. I certainly don't want to be hairy and I don't want a big engorged clit. But what I really envy is the muscles. I’d love to have serious shoulders with big, sturdy arms and thick wrists. No matter how much I work out I’m never going to get there without steroids, I guess I’ll just have to resign stay fat.

We stayed after the film for the Q&A with the director. It always seems rude to leave, but this section can very often spoil the night. It's my own fault for not putting my hand up, but I wanted to know about phalloplasty and why none of the subjects had considered it. They were all having problems raising money for their top ops, so was it for financial reasons? Or was it, like Buck Angel says, that the options available are so awful, few people bother?

There were a few interesting and pertinent questions - one young woman who's partner is going through her own transition wanted to know more about the subject's relationships - but it was mostly just people saying, "Why didn't you include this?" I hate those dumb arse pedants. I allowed my self a quick smirk when the response to one was a very polite, "perhaps *you'd* like to make that movie."

The most popular question was, "Why didn't you include more input from feminists and how they feel about transsexuals?" Hmm ... perhaps because that would be VERY, VERY BORING. Who the hell are they to judge? Unless you understand another person's situation you don't have the right to an opinion. So shut up.

See a clip of the movie here

Teenage Lobotomy

There’s a small boy in our office on work experience - all grunts and ticks and problems making eye contact. It’s kind of annoying and makes me want to kick him, but also makes me remember, wasn’t being adolescent just GRUESOME?

You’re so painfully aware of your physical presence and suddenly your body feels awkward and cumbersome. What happened to the childhood days when you were so uninhibited and could express yourself freely?

There’s something about your teenage years that completely removes that instinct and you have to start to learn again what came so naturally when you were six.

I can remember literally wanting to die if people spoke to me when I was younger. Tears of embarrassment would burn the backs of my eyes when all somebody had asked was, “Do you want a biscuit?” I lived in perpetual fear of being asked for an opinion. It’s not that I didn’t have them, I just didn’t have the faintest idea how to express them and all I could hear was the sound of the blood pumping through my ears.

These people who say, “What wouldn’t you give to be young again” must be mental. I wouldn’t go back to that for anything. I live in constant joy of getting older, aside from the grey hair it’s all a blessing. By the time you hit your 60s not only do you have your self confidence back, you can once again ride free on the buses!

Behind a Painted Smile

I don't usually like to put video clips on here, but there's an "in production" documentary about the SF drag scene I've been aware of for a while, and this trailer is making me breathless with excitement. I simply cannot WAIT to see it.

The clip is a load of the SF girls talking about why they do drag and what it means to them. Look out for a breathtakingly beautiful snippet of my hero, Kiddie, being a little bit pithy about the straights (chuckle) ...



During a conversation with Jason at RVT the other week he was asking me to explain my infatuation with drag queens, I've been trying to formulate a full answer since as I kind of stumbled with my response.

The biggest issue is the breaking down and inverting of traditional gender roles, which are like an albatross around my neck. But then if it were just as simple as that I'd have an equal love for drag kings, and I don't find them nearly as fascinating.

I think drag queens pretty much sum up my gender confusion, I’m drawn to feminine beauty but male energy, and with drag queens you get it all. Drag kings can mimic the energy but they don't have the required element of GLAMOUR. I like to be surrounded by pretty things.

I also enjoy the fact that drag allows some of my friends to express themselves in a way their male persona doesn't. It's like getting two friends for the price of one. Heklina talks in the clip about how drag, for her, is like putting on armour. While some of my friends - Justin Bond, David Hoyle - are as loud and ebullient no matter how they’re dressed, there are others – Timberlina, Joan Dairy Queen – who become livelier and much more outwardly confident beings once they have the drag on, and I love that dual personality aspect.

It’s like it’s a way to draw a line from the real world and retreat away from it for a while. There’s no time to sit around complaining about your day job when you’ve got the drag on, and I need escapism as much as any queen.

It’s about the “do what you want and don’t give a shit” attitude, but without the snotty petulance that comes with that in the straight world. Do what you want but do it with humour, don’t give a shit but be creative.

Laugh at yourself, laugh at the world and do it all while you’re looking FABULOUS.

Low Scores

Trivial Pursuits and the likes has never been for me. "What's the capital of Estonia?", "Who won the World Cup in 1962?" It annoys me that if you don't know the answers to these questions then people decide that you're stupid. As far as I'm concerned it's more to do with having a good memory than an intellect. But then maybe I'm just being defensive, because I can only remember about things if they interest me, and when it comes to moon landings, historical dates and such, I really couldn't give a toss.

Anyway, point is, Joan Dairy Queen and I are so vague that we wandered off to a pub quiz at Vauxhall Griffin last night, completely neglecting that our general knowledge is practically non-existent. We scored an average of 4 out of 10 in most rounds, but we did win 4 top quality Easter eggs for drawing a picture of a lady's sex parts surrounded by dildos, a tongue and a wiggling finger. You see, we may not have the best memories (neither would you if you drank as much as we do), but what we do have is pure, naked TALENT. So now I'm glad I spent most of my history classes looking out of the window or drawing a perfect reproduction of The Cramps logo on my rough book, you never know when these skills will come in handy.

We ended the evening APPALLINGLY drunk, staggered into RVT about quarter to midnight and slurred at everyone we encountered. Then I grew so confused I headed off to Clapham Junction to catch a train, forgetting that they had stopped running to Crystal Palace an hour previously, and so I ended up paying 23 quid for a cab. At least it was one of those nice, pretty pink ones, I refused to be chauffeured in anything less.

House of Fierce

Talking of the Vauxhall Griffin, I'm starting a dance night there next Friday (23rd), do say you'll come along. There'll be disco classics, club stompers, soul, baggy and groovy pop. What do you think of the flyer? I have grand plans for expansion, I see House of Fierce really taking off, moving to a larger venue and having drag acts on at midnight. I won't rest until the whole world is FIERCE, so make sure you don't miss the inception!

Scream for the Camera

Have I ever mentioned that I kind of quite like drag queens? Oh, OK. Well, this Sunday I assembled a group of tranny-stalkers-in-training (Toblarina, Tall Paul, Stephen ArtEast and SockMonkey) and marched them to a small (very small!) exhibition of drag queen photography at Frontispiece in Canary Wharf.

The pictures are all black and white masterpieces by Jeanette Jones. A few of them were very familiar - these two, for example, can be bought on greetings cards in places like Scribbler, but there was also a lot of stuff I have never seen before.



A few of them featured Miss Kimberley, a beautiful queen that pops up in my world from time to time. Most notably was at the Pride march last year when Toby ran to proudly tell me that a drag queen has just complimented his hair. "That’s not just a drag queen," I exclaimed in mock indignation, "that’s MISS KIMBERLEY!" I was also thrilled that she introduced me on stage at the Vauxhall is Gurning Ball last year.

We had a nice little chat with the man in the shop who seemed camp as tits but was keen to reassure us of his heterosexuality. Lots of references to his wife and daughter and "ooh, it’s hard to believe these are all MEN, imagine if you made a mistake when you were a bit drunk on a Saturday night!" Yes, *imagine* we all agreed, as we struggled to pull Stephen’s slavering form away from the pictures of naked muscle boys.

I would have loved to buy a few of the full size prints, but at £195 - £295 a go they were out of my price range. Luckily, the nice straight man was happy to show me the under-the-counter selection of mini prints that retail at a mere tenner.

Our joint favourite was a variation on the laundrette pic above, with all the queens in a row stripping off their pants to put into the machine while a stunned looking attendent watched speechlessly on. In the end I came away with this pic of "Ruby" and one of some adorable, pretty boys in a taxi who may or may not be the couple from the top right pic without the wigs and costumes. I think I’ll have to email Jeanette and find out.

UPDATE: I emailed Jeanette and apparently she's now into photographing Ballroom Dancers, so I guess the above are a limited edition. Shame.

A Weekend of Hmmm

I had a couple of events I was looking forward to this weekend, but they fell a little short of the mark. First I went to see The Seagull, featuring Kristen Scott-Thomas, at the Royal Court.

As I have mentioned before, my criteria for choosing theatrical outings is if I like the poster, I'll see the play. With The Seagull I didn't like the poster, but I did like Kristen, so I went anyway. I think I'll be returning to my old method in future. It's not like I hated it, I enjoyed it well enough, but I didn't feel any affiliation with the characters and I didn't really care what happened to them. Nor did they give me cause to think about stuff.

The story revolves around a kind of extended family and their relationships with each other - the tension between parents and their children and the pain of unrequited love - but it's decidedly short on action.

I kind of felt a bond with the tortured artist, Constantine, particularly his relationship with his mother. (His didn't read his plays and mine hasn't read my magazine but, unlike him, I'm not about to blow my head off over it.) I also quite liked Masha, the terminally depressed alcoholic with a tendancy for wearing black clothes (curious bond there, don't you think?) but the woman who played her was rubbish. Kristen as the hard hearted and selfish mother was quite marvellous, but I think I expected to see more of her and her part isn't a central role. Instead that goes to Nina, a determined but annoying teenage girl with big plans of becoming an actress. I kind of wanted to slap her.

Given my vast knowledge of theatre, having now seen five plays, I have decided that Chekhov isn't for me. I'm waiting for more Shakespeare or Ibsen ... or something about the queers.

On Sunday Nathan and I went to check out some of our VauxhallVille competition, in the shape of All That Jazz, the new cabaret night at Soho Revue Bar. It starred a few of the acts we have had on at VauxhallVille, those from the more mainstream end of the market. Sandwiched in between the spit and sawdust acts we present they seemed refreshing, but an entire evening of slick production and happy clappy and it all got a little bit sickening.

Nathan commented during the interval that he felt like he'd been sound blasted with Tate and Lyle sugar. I nearly asked what the hell he was on about, then I realised he was right - my teeth were actually aching from the sweetness of it all. Paul L Martin is a great singer, but his straight forward show tunes did little to inspire without any kind of ironic content. Scales of the Unexpected did better with a barber shop quartet version of Kate Bush and a rousing compilation of one hit wonders.

I don't think the Soho Revue Bar is marketed as a gay venue anymore, the audience were largely straight and, boy, were they easily amused. A man announcing he's been shopping and then pulling out a tub of Vaseline and a cucumber is apparently *hilaire*, and God help them when we got to the posh girl who didn't mind admitting she jolly well like a bit of porn, thank you very much. She then fell into the usual female trap of whinging about failed relationships, losing weight and moany, moany, moan. I was starting to pine for our Bearlesque boys - bring on the tubby camp lads doing handstands in shorts.

Thankfully an edgier element was injected by Dusty Limits (pictured) who simulated sex with a chair, then later performed a moving version of Think About You which he sang to a bottle of vodka, before collapsing to the ground, drunk and weeping.

If it hadn't been for him I think I'd have done the same.

On Queer Street

On Saturday I spent much of my time hanging around Castro, San Francisco's gay street. The area gets slated for being consumerist, reinforcing stereotypes and all the usual blah, blah, blah, but I love being contained in a little plastic gay world. And while there isn't strictly a need for shops like Something Rainbow with their assortment of cheap novelties and tat, I would counter that there very much IS a need for the great selection of gay bars, restaurants, sex stores and bookshops that also make up the area. Why shouldn't people have an space where they can relax, be among like-minded people and escape the blandness of the straight world for a while?



I had a pleasant lunch and a few glasses of chilled Pinot at a delightful cafe as I watched the fags coming and going, then I spent ages in A Different Light, looking at books and picking up amusing birthday cards. I bought a book called Nobody Passes, a compilation of work that challenges the rules of gender and conformity, edited by a very interesting guy called Mattilda / Matt Bernstein Sycamore, who identifies as female while making absolutely no attempt to look like a woman. Should make my train journeys to work more interesting for a while as I peruse it's pages.

Also, that afternoon, I paid a trip to Good Vibrations, an enormous sex shop on Valencia Street. After examining the wares I came away with, amongst other things, an extremely satisfying Turbo Glider vibe. I have no complaints regarding it's performance, but the question I raise is this - if they can make a mobile phone with a silent vibrate function, why do sex toys have to make more noise than a jumbo jet?! This gross oversight in production results in items that are really quite unsuitable for those who live in multiple-unit accommodation. It's most distressing.

So that's about the end of my San Franciscan diaries, the other main highlights were the aquarium, the art gallery and the zoo. I've done zoos before so I'm not going to go on about it, but here's some pics of the hippo.