High Heels. High Hair. The Gay High Holy Day: Halloween

Norma Rae stood up. Rosa Parks sat down. Sylvia Rivera, a hero at Stonewall broke her fingernail. And a few skulls.

Our transgendered heroine was joined by a bar full of drag queens and together they played deviant little Davids to Gotham’s Goliath. The Stonewall Riots in June of 1969 began the movement. The gay community put its stiletto down and it’s chin up. Gay pride has been celebrated the third week of June ever since.

But everyone who’s anyone knows that a wig and a full face of makeup in June is positively ghastly. Unless you live in Antarctica—or are named Tammy Faye—you’re not likely in the mood for pancake and a bubble beehive in that kind of weather.

And that’s why Mother Nature sends the cool breezes of October to bring with it fresh fields of harvest, fall foliage and the incredible urge to wear hooker boots. God bless Mother Nature. She’s a single woman too. The celebration is always the last Saturday of the month so you even get an extra hour of "fall back" time to take off your makeup. (The piper must be paid.)

Why drag? Why bend the gend? It’s sort of what we’re about—isn’t it? Remember when you were a kid and you were choosing between being a pirate and a ghost? Well now you’re just choosing between being a Hooters Waitress or Cher. Simple, see. (I’ll get to women choosing between Warren Beatty and Elvis later—so don’t start the misogynist thing with ME while I’m minimizing my pores and girding my loins).

Okay, boys, all you need is a wig and some basic foundation.

And a pore minimizer.

And lip liner.

Mascara.

Blush.

Oh hell, call Bad Hair Day and ask for Darlene.

Then get a girdle. And hose. And really high heels. And birdseed. And Charlie perfume. Buckets of it.

Because you certainly can…can-can. I have pumped pancake into a five o’clock shadow that makes Fred Flintstone’s look like peach fuzz. We tease him (because we love him) that distance and darkness are his two best friends—but he gets in the spirit, not to mention a girdle and half slip.

Shopping is more fun than dressing up. You’ll turn more heads wearing heels in Target at two o’clock in the afternoon than at Aqua at midnight. I swear. But if you see them head toward the baseball bats…RUN! Last year our whole neighborhood went out together and we shopped for size 12 shoes all day—and finally got everyone outfitted in FABULOUS pumps.

The first party we stopped at had a sign on the porch—"Please Remove Your Shoes." We thought surely they were kidding. A flat footed drag queen? Deliver me. They were doing a little geisha theme. So we took off our shoes and went into the kitchen. There we were. From the ankles up we looked like young Weisman Girls. From the ankles down — Roseanne Barr. (Not on the list of drag icons.)

But, we just kept thinking of that goddess Chris Peterson.

Oh yes. If you’re wearing drag, you have to have the proper drag name. Sheeletah Corndog: best drag name on the planet.

You gotta kiss a lot of Hedda Lettuce’s to get to Sheeletah Corndog. A good drag name is so hard to come by. Don’t you find Will and Grace did us a huge disservice by teaching ALL OF AMERICA how to arrive at their drag name. (Name of first pet. Name of first street.) In my case, it’s Tammy Gallier. But they’re not ready for this in the fly over states. Besides which, with that formula, I end up with the same drag name as my two sister’s. EEEEEW. All three "Tammy Galliers" go running in different directions. With scissors.

On one Rehoboth street (which shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) we have one basement dedicated to drag. The dresses range from size 6 to size 26. Some things are universal. Everyone hates the guy who can wear a size 6. (I tried putting him on a bacon grease drip when he falls asleep, but he’s still a freakin 6 when he wakes up) And yes, the 26 is jolly. We have women just like the Kennedys. They happen to be married to each other—but they do play touch football. That counts, doesn’t it? And they choose between Elvis and Warren Beatty every year. Enough said. Sorry girls. Drag is for boys.

Speaking of which, the year we got our straight neighbor into drag, the inevitable "is he gay?" question came up at every bar we frequented. And we’d say in unison, "No he’s just having fun." And he was, if you consider a 7’ tall Peg Bundy with crooked breasts fun. We convinced him to do it with the standard "Milton Berle does it" story. Works like a charm bracelet.

Anyway, he trudged the streets with us until the wee hours of the morning and the next day we were all lying around hung over and the phone rings. It’s our buddy Milton. He says, "Hey, I just wanted to tell you how much fun I had last night. I washed everything early this a.m. and folded it. It’s on the front porch."

And in unison, the entire room said, "He’s gay."