Rita Knight
01-17-2007, 11:26 AM
Hi Everyone,
The New York Post is not my type of newspaper. However, gossip columnist Cindy Adams wrote in her column today about her recent visit to the well known drag restaurant in New York, Lips. If the moderators want to move this or delete it because of duplication, that's OK with me.
GLOBES A LETDOWN, LIPS A GET-DOWN SULTANA & CINDYSomething's wrong with this picture. January 17, 2007 -- ENOUGH already with Jennifer Lopez's backless, sideless, armless schmatta at the Golden Globes. Enough already with Beyoncé, who'll come back in her next life as double-sided tape because that gown actually kept her "Dreamgirls" in place. Let's don't discuss Her Majesty Helen Mirren's open-front dress. I mean, please. She's a Queen of a certain age. She's not supposed to show why England isn't what it used to be. And news that TV is no longer black-and-white but is now in color obviously hasn't yet reached Salma Hayek who wore white, Cate Blanchett who was in black, Cameron Diaz in white, Penelope Cruz, black. Angelina Jolie's kerfuffle about what to wear was solved in blaah gray.
Naomi Watts' head-squiggles looked like she hadn't gotten to the hair person. Renée Zellweger's nose shone so that it looked like she hadn't gotten to the makeup person. Reese Witherspoon's simple, simple, simple, simple, nice little yellow dress looked like she hadn't gotten to her stylist person. And Prince, the Audrey Hepburn of rock, who was in not only traffic, but also some kind of ocher funk, is probably back with his wardrobe person.
All so disappointing that I did what any intelligent person should do. I went to Lips. On Bank Street. It's a drag queen palace. Listen, they know how to dress.
My waitress - you should excuse the expression - was 6-foot-4. A 46-double-D. The waist is 44 inches. The weight, 350. The introduction? "Hi. My name is All Beef Patty." She/he waited for the laugh, then, "I'm actually on Weight Watchers. Soon I'll be Patty Melt."
All Beef Patty, inside a sky-high wig that would make Dolly Parton look bald, glued-on eyelashes so thick they'd work in a carwash, major makeup and a short black patent-leather skirt, sniped about a fellow (pardon the expression) drag queen who went by: "Her outfit's by Dolce & Garbage."
My friends - the Village Voice's Michael Musto, who has a new book out called "La Dolce Musto," and Beauregard Houston-Montgomery, who collects dolls and was a contributing editor for Doll magazine - took me there because they decided I was becoming boring and should see something other than Le Cirque. Musto, in a coat decorated like a dinosaur tail, said to me, "You're the only real woman here," to which Beauregard answered, "I resent that."
Also with us was Sultana the Egyptian belly dancer. By day, in a suit and tie and different look and different name, Sultana's a respected businessman in a very traditional operation. By night, a blond celebrity working his/her varying parts off - bumping and grinding - at Lips. "Lola, a transsexual, makes my Sultana dresses from a Vogue pattern size 22," she/he said. "My wigs come from 14th Street, but Patricia Field, the famous award-winning stylist from 'Sex and the City,' styles them."
Sultana, the Queen of the Middle East Village, was wearing a spaghetti-strap, beaded, low-cut sheath. I was in tailored plain black pants. There was something wrong with this picture.
All Beef Patty handed me a menu. It was nice. Roasted beet salad, crab cakes, grilled chicken, shrimp, salmon. Michael Musto murmured, "You're the only one here interested in the food."
And All Beef Patty made suggestions like, "Eat your spinach, honey, so your boobs grow big and strong."
Lips was jammed. Open 10 years with branches in San Diego and Fort Lauderdale, Fla., it's the Starbucks of drag queens. People read about the place in tourist brochures because it's obviously a staple of New York. Me, the New York columnist, I didn't know about it. The patrons, many out-of-towners, were mostly straight. Their interactive dialogue went like this:
"I'm from Iowa."
Frankie Cocktail the bartendress: "You have indoor plumbing?"
"I'm from Michigan."
"Even worse."
"My friends told me about it."
"Oh, the ones on crack."
The "waitresses" entertain. Lines like: "What's the difference between our owner Yvonne and a bag of trash? The bag of trash gets picked up once in a while." "Ginger" complained, "Please. More applause. I just got my back waxed." Someone named Jason Cosmo did Liza doing "New York, New York." And then they played Bitchy Bingo. The winner to get a porn CD. One heckled a clean-cut Pennsylvania kid with the oldie: "Drink up. The more you drink, the better we look," to which Sultana sniffed, "Oh, please, that line is Drag Queen 101."
But they were very nice to me. They promised they'd make me an Honorary Drag Queen. They said they'd christen me Mme. Nu-Wave. And then maybe I could borrow Bjork's old swan outfit.
The New York Post is not my type of newspaper. However, gossip columnist Cindy Adams wrote in her column today about her recent visit to the well known drag restaurant in New York, Lips. If the moderators want to move this or delete it because of duplication, that's OK with me.
GLOBES A LETDOWN, LIPS A GET-DOWN SULTANA & CINDYSomething's wrong with this picture. January 17, 2007 -- ENOUGH already with Jennifer Lopez's backless, sideless, armless schmatta at the Golden Globes. Enough already with Beyoncé, who'll come back in her next life as double-sided tape because that gown actually kept her "Dreamgirls" in place. Let's don't discuss Her Majesty Helen Mirren's open-front dress. I mean, please. She's a Queen of a certain age. She's not supposed to show why England isn't what it used to be. And news that TV is no longer black-and-white but is now in color obviously hasn't yet reached Salma Hayek who wore white, Cate Blanchett who was in black, Cameron Diaz in white, Penelope Cruz, black. Angelina Jolie's kerfuffle about what to wear was solved in blaah gray.
Naomi Watts' head-squiggles looked like she hadn't gotten to the hair person. Renée Zellweger's nose shone so that it looked like she hadn't gotten to the makeup person. Reese Witherspoon's simple, simple, simple, simple, nice little yellow dress looked like she hadn't gotten to her stylist person. And Prince, the Audrey Hepburn of rock, who was in not only traffic, but also some kind of ocher funk, is probably back with his wardrobe person.
All so disappointing that I did what any intelligent person should do. I went to Lips. On Bank Street. It's a drag queen palace. Listen, they know how to dress.
My waitress - you should excuse the expression - was 6-foot-4. A 46-double-D. The waist is 44 inches. The weight, 350. The introduction? "Hi. My name is All Beef Patty." She/he waited for the laugh, then, "I'm actually on Weight Watchers. Soon I'll be Patty Melt."
All Beef Patty, inside a sky-high wig that would make Dolly Parton look bald, glued-on eyelashes so thick they'd work in a carwash, major makeup and a short black patent-leather skirt, sniped about a fellow (pardon the expression) drag queen who went by: "Her outfit's by Dolce & Garbage."
My friends - the Village Voice's Michael Musto, who has a new book out called "La Dolce Musto," and Beauregard Houston-Montgomery, who collects dolls and was a contributing editor for Doll magazine - took me there because they decided I was becoming boring and should see something other than Le Cirque. Musto, in a coat decorated like a dinosaur tail, said to me, "You're the only real woman here," to which Beauregard answered, "I resent that."
Also with us was Sultana the Egyptian belly dancer. By day, in a suit and tie and different look and different name, Sultana's a respected businessman in a very traditional operation. By night, a blond celebrity working his/her varying parts off - bumping and grinding - at Lips. "Lola, a transsexual, makes my Sultana dresses from a Vogue pattern size 22," she/he said. "My wigs come from 14th Street, but Patricia Field, the famous award-winning stylist from 'Sex and the City,' styles them."
Sultana, the Queen of the Middle East Village, was wearing a spaghetti-strap, beaded, low-cut sheath. I was in tailored plain black pants. There was something wrong with this picture.
All Beef Patty handed me a menu. It was nice. Roasted beet salad, crab cakes, grilled chicken, shrimp, salmon. Michael Musto murmured, "You're the only one here interested in the food."
And All Beef Patty made suggestions like, "Eat your spinach, honey, so your boobs grow big and strong."
Lips was jammed. Open 10 years with branches in San Diego and Fort Lauderdale, Fla., it's the Starbucks of drag queens. People read about the place in tourist brochures because it's obviously a staple of New York. Me, the New York columnist, I didn't know about it. The patrons, many out-of-towners, were mostly straight. Their interactive dialogue went like this:
"I'm from Iowa."
Frankie Cocktail the bartendress: "You have indoor plumbing?"
"I'm from Michigan."
"Even worse."
"My friends told me about it."
"Oh, the ones on crack."
The "waitresses" entertain. Lines like: "What's the difference between our owner Yvonne and a bag of trash? The bag of trash gets picked up once in a while." "Ginger" complained, "Please. More applause. I just got my back waxed." Someone named Jason Cosmo did Liza doing "New York, New York." And then they played Bitchy Bingo. The winner to get a porn CD. One heckled a clean-cut Pennsylvania kid with the oldie: "Drink up. The more you drink, the better we look," to which Sultana sniffed, "Oh, please, that line is Drag Queen 101."
But they were very nice to me. They promised they'd make me an Honorary Drag Queen. They said they'd christen me Mme. Nu-Wave. And then maybe I could borrow Bjork's old swan outfit.