Question: What does one wear to the 22nd annual Night of a Thousand Gowns? Answer: Whatever the hell you want.
It had been 10 years or so since I had attended the Imperial Court of New York’s annual drag (queen) race, but this year’s invitation, opened on a lazy Saturday afternoon in the Hamptons, got my idle ass moving. There was, as usual, the colorful copy: Their Most Imperial Sovereign Majesties, "Emperor XVI Craig Hollywood: The Flaming Rose Emperor'"and "Empress XXXI B: The Bewitching and Bewildering Empress," request the honor of your presence.... But new to the game were honorary chairs Mikhail Baryshnikov, Michael Kors, Bob Mackie, etc., plus two respected AIDS charities I support, Acria and Bailey House.
I flung the invitation to my friend Susan Murphy (who really does all the legwork for this column) and said, “Let’s mark this one down.”
“Idiot,” she sweetly replied, “it’s tonight.”Luckily, one of the new fancy names of co-chairs on the invitation was People magazine empress Martha Nelson, so after a series of rudely timed phone begs, tickets emerged, and into the Beemer we went, with feathers, top hat, and dog. (Yes, we brought the dog.)
Dinner, long passed, waited on the tables for us like two matronly aluminum hospital bed pans. We traded them with a savvy waiter (plus a twenty) for wine, and in minutes we had caught up with the rest of the crowd.
(Note: It’s taken a while, but I’ve finally gotten used to the Marriott Marquis as a venue. Some tips: Have a driver drop you off under the porte-cochere, but hoof it to an avenue for a faster taxi getaway. Don’t let event organizers sell you on the escalators; take the ‘vator to the sixth floor. Leave early.)
I can’t really tell you exactly how this imperial court works, but let’s try. Apparently every town in the state that can support a drag community furnishes a royal court that schleps it on down to Manhattan once a year, hoping to win a set of crowns and other bedazzlement.
I met the king of Buffalo, who seemed annoyed when I kept introducing him as the king of Albany; apparently, in the drag hierarchy, Buffalo way outpaces the Empire State’s capital. Maybe this year’s set of super-shagging govs might loosen things up a bit.
So each court has a jester/announcer, who does a spoken bit, then the costumed court marches on down a good old runway, and then there’s applause and judging.
It is wild, wild, fun.
Since Ms. Nelson’s table is befitting her status and therefore right next to the stage entrance, I got to interview some of the royalty at their most nervous moment. One gent, a duke or something, told me he couldn’t talk to me just then because the lady he escorts “can get quite upset if I miss my mark.” Another lady, after I complimented her on her dress and jewelry, in earnest, seemed to take an interest in me. For a second there I had visions of being chloroformed in a lace hanky, dragged to a purple minivan, and ending up in Schenectady for an evening of unplanned debauchery. That’s the fun of nights like this.
The silent auction must be mentioned, because it was dominated by autographed items from Cher. Oh, if only she was on hand. Maybe next year.
It had been 10 years or so since I had attended the Imperial Court of New York’s annual drag (queen) race, but this year’s invitation, opened on a lazy Saturday afternoon in the Hamptons, got my idle ass moving. There was, as usual, the colorful copy: Their Most Imperial Sovereign Majesties, "Emperor XVI Craig Hollywood: The Flaming Rose Emperor'"and "Empress XXXI B: The Bewitching and Bewildering Empress," request the honor of your presence.... But new to the game were honorary chairs Mikhail Baryshnikov, Michael Kors, Bob Mackie, etc., plus two respected AIDS charities I support, Acria and Bailey House.
I flung the invitation to my friend Susan Murphy (who really does all the legwork for this column) and said, “Let’s mark this one down.”
“Idiot,” she sweetly replied, “it’s tonight.”Luckily, one of the new fancy names of co-chairs on the invitation was People magazine empress Martha Nelson, so after a series of rudely timed phone begs, tickets emerged, and into the Beemer we went, with feathers, top hat, and dog. (Yes, we brought the dog.)
Dinner, long passed, waited on the tables for us like two matronly aluminum hospital bed pans. We traded them with a savvy waiter (plus a twenty) for wine, and in minutes we had caught up with the rest of the crowd.
(Note: It’s taken a while, but I’ve finally gotten used to the Marriott Marquis as a venue. Some tips: Have a driver drop you off under the porte-cochere, but hoof it to an avenue for a faster taxi getaway. Don’t let event organizers sell you on the escalators; take the ‘vator to the sixth floor. Leave early.)
I can’t really tell you exactly how this imperial court works, but let’s try. Apparently every town in the state that can support a drag community furnishes a royal court that schleps it on down to Manhattan once a year, hoping to win a set of crowns and other bedazzlement.
I met the king of Buffalo, who seemed annoyed when I kept introducing him as the king of Albany; apparently, in the drag hierarchy, Buffalo way outpaces the Empire State’s capital. Maybe this year’s set of super-shagging govs might loosen things up a bit.
So each court has a jester/announcer, who does a spoken bit, then the costumed court marches on down a good old runway, and then there’s applause and judging.
It is wild, wild, fun.
Since Ms. Nelson’s table is befitting her status and therefore right next to the stage entrance, I got to interview some of the royalty at their most nervous moment. One gent, a duke or something, told me he couldn’t talk to me just then because the lady he escorts “can get quite upset if I miss my mark.” Another lady, after I complimented her on her dress and jewelry, in earnest, seemed to take an interest in me. For a second there I had visions of being chloroformed in a lace hanky, dragged to a purple minivan, and ending up in Schenectady for an evening of unplanned debauchery. That’s the fun of nights like this.
The silent auction must be mentioned, because it was dominated by autographed items from Cher. Oh, if only she was on hand. Maybe next year.
One of the evening's costumes
Photo: Ted Kruckel
A guest showed off one of the night's more elaborate costumes for my camera phone.
Photo: Ted Kruckel
Costumed courts from each New York town paraded down the dramatically lit runway.
Photo: Ted Kruckel
The stage, as captured by my oh-so-professional camera phone.
Photo: Ted Kruckel
