*
Last night, we went with friends to see David Cerda’s camp version of (the making of) The Birds, performed by Hell in a Handbag Productions. Even the venue, the coach house at one of Chicago’s lakefront public parks was a little nutty. In the car, heading home, we all agreed how wonderful it was that a bunch of grownups had an hilarious and delightful time romping around a stage in over-the-top costumes, delivering naughty lines, and singing sassy show tunes. And watching it in a cozy old coach house was like watching it in your dad’s garage, with curtains that your mom made, and costumes found in your grandmother’s attic.
I got to thinking about camp. I think we need more of it.
A few years ago, I was in New York on an overnight business trip with my friend and colleague Brigette the Man Magnet. (She is a people magnet, to be honest, but her label of flirting is legendary among those who know and love her.) Anyway, she and I had an early dinner — very early, by New York standards — and so we perched ourselves on a couple of stools in a lovely, spacious bar near our hotel. My, we thought, there sure are a lot of cute bartenders tonight. And here we are, the only ones in here. Well, it is early….
Some time between our second and third Cosmopolitans, a gorgeous older gentleman with exquisite silver hair and wearing a tuxedo, sparkling bling in his lapel, and a red rose tucked behind one ear, walked through the front door. I kicked Brigette to turn around and look. Gorgeous caught me and grinned. He walked over to us and confided, “If you think I’m something, just wait. In about 10 minutes there’ll be about 200 more here, just like me. We’re the New York City Gay Men’s Chorus, and we’ve just played Carnegie Hall!”
Indeed, for the rest of the evening (ours, not theirs), Brigette and I kept our premium spots at the bar, and enjoyed one of the most memorable shows of our lives. At one point, Harvey Fierstein, in a mile-high sprayed-n-stayed coif, twirled Brigette around on her bar stool. (Told ya. No one is immune.) He was a guest for their homage to Hairspray . She tried to talk a couple of cuties out of their flamboyant signature rhinestone lapel pins, with no luck, but lots of good nature. These boys, young and old, were so full of song and dance and joy and pride. Such a great way to be.
I kinda wish Bette Midler ran a summer camp, don’t you?
*I snagged this photo from TimeOut Chicago. The handsome guy behind the counter is my friend Michael S. Miller.
ginnygram 