On approach into the Denver airport, however, the view was more "Great Plains" and than "Rocky Mountains". In this high desert, a patchwork of farmland occupied all peripheries, and the Rockies were but a distant north-south stretch, not the protective ring in which the city were nestled, as I had imagined- a residual Banff ideal. Never having been to either of the wests (mid or wild wild) or "cowboy country", I was naturally inquisitive, excited and ready to explore this "foreign America"- a world away from the liberal San Franciscan enclave
Roxanne (the friend I was visiting) was meeting me at the airport, and we were heading out to celebrate her father, David's, birthday. Curiosity piqued, I expected something mid-western, provincial, Coloradan- maybe a rodeo, stampede or bucking bull competition. Instead, I'd be going to a drag show (his birthday wish, apparently). It's worth mentioning that I grew up in Sydney, the capital of many a (terrible drag show). Looking at the drag queens there, you'd think that all it takes to be a performer is to throw on a sequinned, thrift-store-bought dress, smear on some clownish make-up and unconvincingly lip sync to "I Will Survive" or any number of campy compositions. This theory proved itself not entirely untrue. The four "Demented Divas" mouthed the lyrics (not even to their own voices) to a set of pre-recorded tracks, reworded to the music of popular Christmas carols. Nonetheless, titles such as "Santa Raped Me and I Liked It" and "Do Some Blow", - were performed with sufficient flourish, costumes were decked out with enough jewels and over-the-top kitsch, and lyrics were peppered with enough bolsteringly bitchy comments, which somewhat deflected from the fact that perhaps they weren't so theatrically inclined.
What made my night, however, was being 'randomly' selected by Iona Trailer, a wigged and heeled towering queen, topping the height chart at about six foot six, to come up on stage. I am never one to shy away from the spotlight, so to speak, so when she was trawling the floor for a volunteer I had to fight the urge to raise my hand. When the spotlight fell on me, I acted sufficiently coy that not one of the audience of middle-aged men or their feather-haired female friends would have suspected that I was rearing to go. I was shepherded onto the stage, minimally ridiculed (but sufficiently witty in return), and asked whether or not I thought I looked "pretty enough" when I left the house to come on down to the Clocktower. In case I was worried about my stage look, I need not worry, said she- the demented ones would look after me. With this, I exited stage right into the trusting arms of the production assistant. The aid gave me my garb- a pair of rubber breasts, with a string of pearls attached from armpit to elbow- so when she spread her wings, she soared. The crowning glory was a white, feathered headpiece with a rather heavy swan adorning the top.
Stagehand Rick gave me my choreography: when he said go, I was to gracefully walk out to a certain point on the stage, where the divas would rally around me, making revering and worshiping gestures. After this was an eight-kick dancing girl-type scenario. All very simple, with the main piece of advice being this: Don't stand still and have fun! I certainly took this and ran with it. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. Being part of the finale certainly allayed any of the mediocrity that I had felt about the performance- somewhat narcissistically, it was the most impressive drag performance I had ever witnessed! Roxanne later said to me that she wondered what they had taught me when I was backstage all of those five minutes, because I appeared to genuinely be part of the routine. All I can say is that I must somehow have an innate gift for performing in mid-western holiday-themed lip-synced drag shows.
They ended by getting me back out on stage, make me twirl (which I did with my own flourished curtsy) and giving me an honorary drag name: Betty Swallows. This stuck in the heads of audience members, because waiting in line after the show at the coat check, I got cries of "Is that Betty?" "Hey, Betty!". There was even an autograph request from one devoted fan. Alas- with the drawing of the curtain, the dimming of the lights and disrobing of the divas, Betty's fifteen minutes of fame fizzled, and she went back to plain old Ben. One element of Betty remains within: Ben swallows too.
