The debate among the media and (GLAAD) Gay and Lesbian Alliance Against Danny (Zucco, I mean, or John Travolta as the case may be) playing Edna Turnblad in the film Hairspray came to a halt the moment the movie started. Wild horses couldn’t keep this homo away from Hairspray, hon.

No one savors the scent of Scientology, especially when "conversion therapy" rears it’s ugly head—and I join the community in assuming that we gay people should have a lock on performing artists—let the other side have the Pope and the dopes. We deserve the artists, from Streisand on down, and it’s sure messy when those very artists stray into cults. But, for Pete’s sake…homos boycotting film maker John Waters is tantamount to anti-gay politician Gary Bauer boycotting Branson, Missouri.

So, I held my nose and booked 10 tickets for the family. Result? The film is an easy eight. Maybe a nine.

Besides which, my DNA has the EDNA footprint. Stick with me here. The story ends with closing the Renegade (for good) and winning their Halloween drag show as Edna and Tracy on that fateful Halloween long ago.

Flashback a few years to the BROADWAY show. Our Rehoboth family saw it that August. What a spectacle from the start—immeasurably better than the movie—because of "Saint Harvey," Fierstein as Edna.

What a freaking show!!! Unbelievable energy. So at the point when Edna (Harvey) and Tracy (her pudgy daughter) emerge from Mr. Pinky’s fashion makeover, we all gasped. It was phenomenally staged and literally breathtaking. My friend Richard leaned over during the sustained applause and said, "That’s it!! That’s our Halloween costume!"

It’s important to understand that 1) I usually have to coax Richard into doing drag at Halloween and 2) Richard resembles Tracy in both his size and his indomitable spirit. So how could I say no? Who am I to crush the spirit of a cross-dressed wannabe Tracy Turnblad?

So Richard found bolts of hideous polyester fabric that very next Monday and we took them to Scott Spahr on Rehoboth Avenue for his dressmaking expertise. This was haute Hairspray couture, hon, and we wanted to support the local economy!

The much anticipated Saturday in late October finally came. The compound was full of family and guests—and our resident artiste and arbiter of taste and refinement, Bobby was in charge of wigs and accessories.

Richard and I ran out to Route 1 for pink lipstick and hair bows. Upon our return, about two blocks away from the compound, we noticed a green cloud hovering above the car roof. We turned the corner to find Bobby in the front yard with two cans of Aqua Net. He had teased our wigs higher than the crepe myrtle and there he was, cementing them in place. ("Hair’s getting higher. Mine feels like barbed wire.")

Now, while it’s true that Richard is Tracy-cute and has indomitable spirit, he also has Fred Flintstone’s five o’clock shadow. So, pumping pancake onto his mug is a two hour ordeal. But we got the beard covered and our loins laced with the festive—if a bit itchy—party frocks.

When friends arrived at 9 p.m. with bowling ball purses as gifts, we were beside our selves with glee (and gin). All along, the intent was to arrive at the Renegade for the judging of best costume. The first on the bar-hopping tour was the "old" Purple Parrot.

So we stopped there and found we also stopped traffic. Big girls with big hair wrapped in 20 yards of polyester will definitely stop traffic.

At the Renegade, the first festive creatures we saw looked like Cirque de Soleil performers. They were on stilts. They had been gluing sequins to themselves since noon and they literally towered over us by 8 feet. They were too-too and very-very fabulous and—on any other night—probably would have won. Because of the stir we caused, they hated us as much as Velma and Amber Von Tussle would have (see Hairspray plot). And in our tacky party frocks, we took first prize—a claim to fame in the halls of Renegade history.

Now to truly create a more positive Rehoboth, you gotta have friends. Straight ones. And ones from Baltimore really make this story work. We are so lucky to have met these Breeders from Baltimore—artsy fartsy—and everso edgy and eclectic. So sitting with our friend Kate, looking at the photos, she tells us how she’s worked with "Mr. Waters" on occasion and she’d be happy to have him sign one of the 1,098 photos we had taken. Two months later, Kate calls and invites me to lunch to pick up the autographed photo. I hung up and said "We’re being invited places by straight people!! It’s so hip!!!"

Sure enough, there it was: "Waters" signature sits on the picture right over Tracy’s platinum blonde bouffant.

The parallels of prejudice are too stark not to notice… and I’m struck by how hard it was growing up gay in the 70s and 80s. After all, the 70s were still the stone age and then Ron and Nancy Reagan certainly didn’t sing "Wel-come to the 80s" to us gay folk.

So how could Edna possibly turn glad?

By harkening back to "the many Tracys" in my life: those brave women back at school, who stood tall for me in ways both large and small —taking up for me with the jocks, the frat boys and their own boyfriends. Those gals never stopped the beat.

And, like the song from Hairspray, they’re timeless to me.