A Fat Purple Fig

After a bagel breakfast with the Aussies staying in the room beside us, and a side of Allen and Ann, we venture out. I am keen to show off Brooklyn, and the discoveries I have made. On the way down to the piers, Kitty keeps up a steady stream of canine compliments;

‘Aren’t you gorgeous?‘
‘Oh, what a cutie!‘
‘Someone’s enjoying his walk.‘

She’s a bona fide dog fan, is our Kitty.

Done with the flea market, and not keen on walking the bridge, I rattle off some options; the High Line? the East Village? the Met?, but Kitty is nonplussed. We eventually settle on Central Park, and ride the subway uptown. Kitty is good at directions, so we generally emerge where we are supposed to – a far cry from the marathons I walked on my last visit, all as a result of not being able to figure out what the ‘NW corner’ meant.

Central Park is as lovely as ever. And as busy as ever. We admire a row of sunning turtles, and watch the fallout over a child’s rainbow snow cone, as they melt in unison on the pavement. There are children everywhere, giggling at a juggler (whose people skills are far superior to his juggling skills – or was he pretending?), and buying two-for-forty-dollar plushies at the Central Park Zoo.

We follow the sound of music to a wall running alongside Fifth Avenue, and peer over to find it closed off, playing host to a boisterous street parade. Kitty flicks through maps on her phone; ‘Bolivia!‘ she announces, triumphantly. We have happened upon the 60th annual Hispanic Day Parade, a celebration of the cultures of 21 Spanish-speaking countries.

It is an explosion of colour and sound. Utes precede each group of marchers, with speakers stacked and strapped on their trays, blasting Latin music. There are ruffles, and llama-hats, and feathers, and stacked heels.

‘Not too far different from where we are headed,‘ I say.

Just as we are starting to feel concerned, we manage to cross Fifth Avenue via a designated break, and follow the directions to our destination, namely ‘Ginger Snap’s Broadway Drag Brunch’, at Lips New York City. An eclectic queue is already in place when we arrive; tourist couples, bachelorette parties, groups of friends, and an elderly woman wearing a tiara and walking with a frame. She is accompanied by her daughter, who we later learn has planned the event to celebrate her mother’s 82nd birthday.

We are led to high table at the back of the space, and greeted by Shiny Penny, who puts us down for a birthday. Here is Kitty, filled with growing concern about her impending moment in the spotlight:

Kitty orders ‘Miss Saigon Chicken & Waffles’ and ‘Chicago Chicken Penne A La Vodka’, and switches between the two. My plan is to abstain, but it’s tough, given both are bloody delicious. The waffle, chicken and maple syrup combo, in particular, is strangely enticing, and I keep going back in for more. Shiny Penny performs sleight of hand when refilling our bottomless mimosas, and I note how easily they are going down. They must be weak, I reason.

(They aren’t weak.)

The website description of Lips’ interior, ‘Ken and Barbies dreamhouse on acid’, is on the money. It’s like being in a sparkly, chandeliered womb, where time has no meaning. We swap out some cash for paper-clipped bundles of $1 bills, ready to tip the showgirls. I snap a photo of the bar attendant, when I overhear them saying, ‘Do I LOOK like someone who doesn’t want to be noticed?‘

When our host, Ginger Snap, arrives, it is immediately apparent that we are in the hands of a pro.

That’s what’s so clever about drag – the wit.

Improvisational comedy is an impressive skill…as is making audience members feel special by taking pot shots at them;

‘Ah, you’re from New Jersey…that explains the dress.‘
‘Look at you eating that chicken like it isn’t from Costco.‘
‘Ohh, he’s your ‘straight’ friend…riiiiight…’

The lip syncs are loads of fun. We are treated to a never-before-seen rendition of ‘Tomorrow’, from a jaded (and suspiciously-tall) Annie, and I sing heartily along to ‘Memory’ from Cats, before it morphs into ‘My Neck, My Back (Lick It)’, that is.

That’s what’s so much fun about drag – the innuendo.

Each of the showgirls doubles as server to a group of tables, so we feel a special loyalty to Shiny Penny, and cheer her rendition of ‘All That Jazz’ extra loudly, waving dollar bills above our heads. After collecting handfuls, she throws them in the air, like confetti. Later, Kitty spies a woman sneaking them from the ground.

‘You take that dollar, lady,’ she whispers.

They call up the members of the birthday royal family. Kitty is reluctant, until our neighbour, John, who is visiting from Hawaii with his partner and a friend, is warmly encouraging. The line moves slowly, and I can feel Kitty’s regret emanating from across the room.

She is a star, naturally, receiving the second-biggest cheer of the day (there’s no outdoing an 82-year-old in a tiara).

As the performances draw to a close, Ginger implores us all to be kind, and to love and support one another, before the showgirls join together on stage and lead us in a rendition of ‘Seasons of Love’ from Rent. We’re pretty tipsy, so are quick to stand and sway with a room full of new friends.

That’s what’s so special about drag – the way it spits you out onto the sidewalk, drunk and messy, blinded by the light, and wearing a crown, to muddle your way home.

Uh-huh.