“God dammit I wish someone had taught me how to put on eyeliner correctly.”
This is a thought I have a lot while putting on makeup, but drag makeup especially. While I looked up youtube videos of 13 year olds who could teach me how to do a perfect “boy brow” I pondered the conversation that had gotten me into this precarious position. My new friend Heather was the biggest Hype Dyke in all 5 boroughs and the monthly lesbian party she threw at a cabaret bar on the lower east side was NYC’s newest queer attraction. These parties were a blast. Every party started with an extravagant drag show and after a tipsy late-night conversation with Heather, I had convinced her I should host it. I had never done drag in my life but I had been doing stand up for about 3 years at that point and was determined to try.
As the night of the show got closer and closer I became more terrified of the slippery situation my loud, overly confident mouth had put me in. I was going to host an entire drag show, IN DRAG after a lifetime of never performing in drag. After a short breakdown at my friend Phoebe’s apartment she helped me get ready. It was on St. Patrick’s Day which definitely made me feel a little bit better. My slightly-red, short hair and freckles made me a perfect little boy leprechaun. Phoebe let me borrow a very expensive, chorduroy green two-piece suit and kindly said, “Just...be careful with it.” I could tell she was trying to be as gentle as possible because I had definitely destroyed ‘borrowed clothing’ from her before.
I tried as hard as I could to not get there extremely early. As a midwestern transplant, this is one of my ultimate New Yorker downfalls. The words “Fashionably Late” have never even been in my vocabulary. When I arrived the bar was totally empty. I had been foiled again by my dangerously visible midwestern-ness. Heather appeared out of the bathroom. She had already been there for an hour already (god, I love geminis). We both took a shot together and I prepared for the biggest bullshitting job of my life.
My dad has always been good at bullshitting. At the time I didn’t know it was bullshitting, I just thought my dad knew literally everything. I know everyone thinks their dad is a superhero but my dad was a fucking superhero. He’s a rather quiet guy, I think that’s what made him so intimidating. While my neurotic mother said whatever worry or criticism popped into her head, my dad would sit there waiting...learning. I was living in the scariest Alien Vs. Predator movie except the Alien is actually just an overbearing midwestern mom which I think we can all agree, is much scarier. We all knew that my dad ran the show. His blind confidence possessed him to do all kinds of wacky shit. Sometimes I’ll be mindlessly moving about my day and suddenly be struck with memories of my dad’s “Greg-isms”. What are Greg-isms? They’re things that I had thought were completely normal while being raised by Greg Lonning but as I got older realized were totally absurd. For example, my dad built a batting cage in our front yard. I’m cracking up just thinking about it. He literally woke up one day and thought “I should build a batting cage” and then he did it. The batting cage was almost as big as our house and I think we actually used it for batting practice a total of 5 times. He would do anything for us. So many days and nights that started off boring and mundane ended with some made up “Greg” game that I won’t realize is made up until I’m at a party and randomly ask a group of people if they have ever played the game “Steamroller”.
“You know, Steamroller! It’s that game where your dad pretends to be a giant Steam Roller and rolls over you with his full body weight and if you don’t tap him at least three- this is a made up game isn’t it?”
Unfortunately, I don’t think any of Greg’s bullshitting super powers were passed down to me. Most of my school years were spent actively bullshitting but... not very well. School was difficult for me. My high school was a bizzaro Disney Channel Original Movie complete with kids breaking out into song and Nordic Dancing Football Players (c’mon, this movie writes itself). Our school had an epidemic of “Overachievers”. My grade had 10 valedictorians, they were all girls and they were in the same friend group. I was pretty content with just being average at school. I was bitten by the acting bug when I was very young and spent most nights presenting powerpoints to my parents titled “Why you should let me drop out of school and move to LA”. They never bought it. I guess we can’t all be Emma Stone.
When teachers weren’t begging me to pay attention, they were listening to my outlandish excuses as to why my homework wasn’t done. “You know I would have finished it but...you know my mom barely comes home and my dad is working all the time...it’s really very sad actually.” Crying was my greatest skill growing up. Crying got me out of everything. This wore off pretty fast as I got older. I think it was the time I told my senior year math teacher 5 bananas exploded in my bag and destroyed my homework. To be fair 5 bananas did really explode in my bag and I couldn’t eat a banana for 3 years after that.
The dressing room in the basement of Club Cumming looks exactly like you think it would (I really debated saying the name of the bar but I thought it was too good not to share.) The new, old cabaret bar had just been bought and renamed by, who else, Alan Cumming. To get the dressing room you had to go outside to the residential Lower East Side street, open steel doors in the sidewalk and walk down some considerably risky concrete steps. Both Heather and I quickly nailed our heads on a metal pipe.
“Watch your heads, girls. There is a metal pipe poking out.”
Noted.
After a short walk past boxes of Absolut Vodka and stacks of red martini napkins we made it to the “Famous Club Cumming Dressing Room”. I say famous because apparently the night before Adele and Jennifer Lawrence hung out in it while drunkenly waiting out the paparazzi. Heather had stockpiled the tiny, mirrored closet with snacks and bottled water. After a few moments the performers started to show up, all announcing themselves with a loud “OW!” after hitting their heads on the metal pipe.
“Watch your heads, babes! Metal pipe!”
“Noted.”
We all made small talk. I tried to avoid any questions about how long I had been doing drag. Though, after a while it seemed like no one really cared. Drag performers were not at all like comedians. Comedians before a show wanted to know how long you had been doing comedy, where your first spot was, what your biggest weakness is and if they could sign you up for their email list. Drag performers were very supportive. They gave encouragement, they offered tips and they laughed at jokes.
When it was finally time for me to announce the show, I walked upstairs, hit my head on the evil metal pipe for a second time and was met by a line of queers all ready to gas me up.
“Oh my god are you a leprechaun?! So cute!!!!”
“Damn, okay hottie!!!!”
“Omg kiss me Irish, babe!!!!”
Wow I love queer people.
As I walked inside I had a newfound confidence. I was a sexy drag leprechaun. I posed for pictures, took shots with new friends and walked around Club Cumming like I was tipsy Adele. When it was finally time to announce the show I was properly baptised as a Drag boy. Before I brought up the first performer, a sweet lesbian in the front row handed me a dollar bill.
“You’re giving me a dollar!?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
“Damn guys… I love drag!”
Everyone cheered.
The night went off without a hitch. I was so high off of the other performances, I had almost forgotten that I was headlining the show. As my turn approached, my imposter syndrome returned. Hosting was the easy part. I host comedy shows all the time. The real test was my performance. In the theme of Ireland and small children I had decided to do my lip sync to Billy Elliot’s “Electricity” that quickly turned into DJ Kool’s “Let Me Clear My Throat.” A very confusing choice I know.
Heather took over as host as I got ready for my act. I was feeling a little queasy so I figured I would try and eat a bag of cheetos from the makeshift kraft services. I was so distracted with my own nerves that I barely heard Heather start to announce, “They were your host this whole night and now they’re gonna close out our show. Please welcome...Billy the Kid!”
I had come up with Billy the Kid after my first vodka shot with Heather and now after hitting my head a third time on that fucking pipe I was beginning to doubt the name choice. I ran upstairs, pushed through the crowd of eager queers and climbed onstage. I could hear whispers about “Billy Elliott” as my music began. As I settled into a dance that I had choreographed the night before, I began to relax. I laughed to myself as I imagined my parents knowing that all of the money spent on ballet classes were being used to dance half naked to broadway showtunes in a gay bar on the lower east side. Just as I was starting to feel comfortable in my new Drag body...the unthinkable happened.
My music stopped.
I immediately looked up at Heather for silent support though she was already sprinting toward the DJ booth. I stared blankly at the crowd. Cheering had turned to confusion and confusion had turned into whispering. What the hell am I going to do? I thought desperately. Just as I was about to walk off the stage, I quickly realized I’m a comedian! I’m going to talk!
I grabbed the mic and started into a tight 5. I began yelling at the crowd, “I took 15 years of ballet for this!!!” They were eating it up. I started to show them different ballet moves.
“My parents spent their good, hard earned money for me to do port de bras in Drag for you gays!”
People began to heckle me with encouragement.
“Do first position!”
“Oh first position? You wanna see fucking first posistion?! I did ballet for 15 years!!!!”
By the end of the set I had already established my own queer version of “I get no respect.”
It felt like I had done an entire HBO half hour before they got the music back on but I’m sure less than 5 minutes. Finally when the music started over I was properly warmed up and I had the audience’s full attention.
I was running on pure adrenaline. I hadn’t done most of these moves for 3 years and I was pushing my freshly 22 year old body to insane limits. When the music finally switched to “Let Me Clear My Throat” the whole place was shaking. I felt like I was floating on air.
When it was over the cheer was colossal. Though I was already halfway out the door when the song ended. I ran downstairs to the “Adele/Jennifer Lawrence Dressing Room”, nailed my head a ceremonious 4th time, opened the half finished bag of Cheetos I ate earlier and puked my guts out.
After I was done I grabbed my things, walked up to the cold Avenue A, threw the bag in a random trash bin and headed home.
Gara