Bash Compactor: Saturday Night’s A Drag

On Saturday night, a dirty-blond tourist wearing loose gray sweat pants was riding up to the eighth floor of the Marriot Marquis on Times Square. Surrounded by sleekly curved crystalline clear windows, she looked down at black-tie revelers moving beneath her. Screwing up her tiny nose she said self-assuredly,“Nope, that’s a world I don’t want to understand.”

The party in question was an army of fabulously bedecked drag queens and their beaux making cock jokes about the bulletshaped elevators and commandeering the ladies room. Get out of the way, Red State Woman, if you don’t understand—this is

Night Of A Thousand Gowns.

Bebe Zahara Benet, the winner of the just-completed first season of Rupaul’s Drag Race (“Don’t fuck it up!”), was parading around in a full-length beaded turquoise gown. Two square-jawed guys in penguin suits brought up her train. Holding a silver tiara to her head so it didn’t fall off, she said bitches were just jealous: “They don’t have luxury to be here in full regalia.”

In the capacious auditorium, the clock ticked down to coronation, the moment when this year’s emperor and empress of New York drag would be crowned. Joan Rivers was being broadcast over two Megatrons, as a duo of her impersonators chased each other around in a madcap dash. Away from the crowd, two middle-aged guys in white tuxes were talking about the deep recession. Chip Duckett, Rivers’ garrulous manager (and the night’s DJ), told Tony Monteleone, the newly crowned emperor (the empress was Miss Anne Tique): “This would be vulgar if it wasn’t all costume jewelry.” Fingering his royal scepter, Monteleone shot back with a shrug, “It’s all shtick.”

The two oohed and ahhed as Danni Daniels, a transgendered 21-year-old—wound tightly in a black velvet gown—pranced by in heels, a stuffed pheasant attached to her Marie- Antoinette red wig. As Danni splayed herself on a high, glass guard railing, someone yodeled in a campy lisp, “Pheasant under glass, that’s my favorite dish.”

The belle of the ball, Her Imperial Majesty of 1986—Night Of A Thousand Gowns’ first year—was looking frowny in his rouged mouth; the tanned and muscular sexagenarian, Sybil Bruncheon, has hung up his gown for a white tux and tiara. Clasping one white-gloved hand with the other he said,“Oh my God, honey, [in ’86] it was at the Waldorf and it was sold out. The clubs were still alive!” Lowering his voice he continued,“But AIDS took everyone, everyone.” He looked out at the decked out gals with a faraway gaze and added sadly, “I’m the only one of the first Imperial Court left…”