THE COCKETTE INVASION 
“The rumble of the subway train...the rattle of the taxis...”

“Fleet Week for Fags,” heralded the May23rd-June 3rd edition of The Village Voice.  Along with a few well-chosen paragraphs, the weekly periodical ran an early '70s photo underscored by the caption: “Twisted Sisters: The Cockettes”.  Yes, the glittered troupe of gender misfits who had bluffed their way into the upper echelon of New York fashion and theater circles was back.  Thirty-seven years after suffering the worst Off-Off-Broadway opening in the history of live theater, we were now returning to the scene of the crime. 

Practically booed out of town by mega stars Angela Lansbury, Tony Perkins and John Lennon (or so the legend goes) the tables had now turned and the Cockette archives were going to be included in the New York City Public Library for the Performing Arts, Billy Rose Theater Division at Lincoln Center.

“Yes they’re that important,” proclaimed the Voice.  It was startling to read, and long overdue.
 
(It’s funny that everyone mentions John Lennon attending the opening night performance, although, no one actually remembers seeing him.) At any rate, his attendance at our 1971 premier has been woven into the fabric of fact, in the way that history is often deduced or assumed. To imply that there were no additional revisions on this Cockette return to Oz would be a fallacy. 

Our benefactor and wizard behind this fabulous turn of events was Robert Croonquist, longtime companion of Cockette Martin Worman, who passed away in 1993.  During those heady days, Martin was known as “the Cockette who could read,” alluding to his academic origins and his talent for writing both book and lyrics for latter-day Cockette productions.  He also compiled an extraordinary amount of Cockette memorabilia, including 90 hours of taped interviews he conducted with the Cockettes during the 1980s.  After Martin’s death, his lover Robert, guarded and preserved this collection, and painstakingly transcribed hundreds of pages of Cockette quotes and quips, which he generously made available to me for inclusion in my book, Midnight at the Palace.

To celebrate the donation of the Martin Worman Cockette Gay Theater Archives, Robert emailed a note to each of us floating the idea of a week-long celebration in New York City.  Initially there was some disbelief, but I never doubted it for a minute.  This all-expense-paid trip (which Robert financed) would be a surreal appendix to my show biz career and it threw me into forward motion with a kick-start.  I was not about to be caught dead looking like a frumpy 58-year-old accountant.  (Thank God I had a chin lift just months ago.) Ready or not, I had to look incredible and somehow redefine Sweet Pam.  I tore the house apart, digging into discarded bales of fabric remnants, searching for the winning combo.  

As my collaborator on scores of costumes, my housemate Scrumbly, was now a musical director on a tight schedule.  He was opening three new shows back-to-back and wasn’t able to help actualize the construction of my grandiose designs.  I was allowed one minute per day, as he gulped down his breakfast, in which to obtain nuggets of precious stitching advice.

“French seams,” was all he said the first day when I presented him with three yards of cut-velvet fabric.  I fussed over a hot sewing machine for the next two afternoons as the garment shifted and puckered until I was nearly in tears.

“Tear it out,” was his curt advice the following day.  And so I ripped it out and started over. 

As an extended dysfunctional family, some problems with a group excursion of drama queens could have been scripted in advance.  We have done this before!  Rumors and musings hit the internet fan.  (One could, I suppose, attribute some of the disquiet to the planet Mercury which was now in retrograde.)  This ever-shrinking group of flamboyant out-livers thrived on the escalating fervor, sending our spiritually-sensitive benefactor, bouncing about on a neurotic tidal wave for weeks.  Meanwhile, Robert selflessly worked the phones, as well as his friends and acquaintances, teetering on the edge of his comfort zone, pulling strings, favors and magic out of thin air, to arrange venues, parties and a symposium for us while our looniest divas back on the West Coast fretted and complained, and at one point, actually refused to go at all.  Everyone weighed in on the controversy, spawning one mischievous prophesy: “If those two ever board the plane, it will never leave the ground.” 

But on the morning of May 31st, after a slight fracas at an airport security point where Jet was detained and scrutinized for transporting a suspicious-looking headdress, we actually took off for the Big Apple.  Immediately, an irrepressible, old geezer in a bow tie, seated directly behind me, declared his intentions and asked if I’d like to join the Mile High Club.   I was already familiar with the infamous sex initiation, which disappointed the old man as he now had no reason to explain it to me.  Rumi and I sat together on the plane and chatted excitedly.  After a few hours of watching MTV, our travel plans were dramatically altered, when a tremendous thunderstorm left us circling the airport until we ran out of gas.  With JFK Airport briefly closed, we were forced to land at an abandoned air force base some 200 miles north, in Newburg, New York, for refueling.  Once out of the queue, we lost our landing slot and were not allowed to take off again.  We sat on the tarmac for four tedious hours.
 
As the only person in our party with a brand new cell phone (which I had not yet learned how to use) I relayed messages back and forth between our friends at the airport, who were abandoning their posts and my companion hostages seated in the rear of the plane. The cabin soon got stuffy and with little water and fidgeting children squirming underfoot, Tahara, managed to fall asleep.  Jet, however, remained awake.  His ride to Brooklyn had left the airport when our flight dropped off the arrival board and his lodgings for the night were now up in the air.  He was even more alarmed over possible cardiac problems after consuming what he called “four bags of salt” when the airline ran low on its assortment of snacks and began distributing only bags of potato chips to the famished crowd. 

To ratchet up the tension level, I had arranged to meet Harlo at JFK so we could taxi to our hotel in Manhattan together.  Leaving San Diego had proved daunting for her--the entire airport had been evacuated and every passenger had to be re-screened before they were allowed to board their flights.  I heard this news from her in incremental messages, as voice mail.  I could not seem to find my phone and answer it in time to take any of these calls. Every time I pressed the “Send” button--as instructed in my Verizon Wireless booklet--I cut off my caller. I tried not to sweat in my travel ensemble, but that was not possible.  At one point someone changed a baby’s diaper in the cabin and with no air circulating, we put scarves over our noses to keep from gagging. I felt a tap on my shoulder from the passenger directly behind me, who was impervious to the odor. 

“You see there’s still plenty of time,” the old man said, as he winked at me and nodded in the direction of the tiny vacant bathroom in the front of the plane.

10 hours after boarding Flight100, we wandered limply through the concourse of a humid Kennedy Airport.  We joined the disgruntled throngs climbing onto shuttle busses, and jostling at the baggage carousels. I phoned Harlo and unexpectedly heard her voice over my shoulder.  Having arrived much earlier she’d perched herself on a bench and spent a couple of hours eating trail mix and ginger snaps.  With all of the food concessions at the airport now closed, the wholesome treats were a godsend.   Eventually hustling our gear curbside, we faced long lines that snaked to the street as mobs of other inconvenienced travelers waited for ground transportation into the city.   

At 2:00 AM taxis were as scarce as hen’s teeth.  We sat on our bulging luggage, too exhausted to move.  I tried repeatedly to obtain a town car for three of us.  (Jet and Tahara had decided to take a shuttle bus into the city.) Fifteen minutes later, I spotted our transportation, a hundred yards up the road, parked outside the airport terminal waiting for us.  A well-heeled, suburban couple was trying to hijack our ride and I took off running down the center of the street, in my high heels, yelling and waving my arms in the air.  Rumi and Harlo regarded each other in disbelief.   I was obviously out of control.  No one said a word to me as the driver crammed our bags into the trunk of his vehicle; I wondered what I’d done wrong.  I’d gotten the cab, hadn’t I?

As the driver stepped on the gas, the van careened in and out of traffic, on and off freeway entrances and exits so quickly that I feared we might tip over.
 
“I want it noted here and now that I’m not the fastest or the craziest driver,” I whispered to Harlo and Rumi, who responded weakly.  

“The only reason I thought I was going to throw up in your car was because I’d just eaten,” Harlo finally offered, bringing up a recent incident in Oakland. 

The Sohotel on Broome Street had no elevator and we faced a mountain of stairs rising straight up from the street level to the hotel lobby.  As there was no tow rope I trudged up the steps--a bleary-eyed advance party of one--to see if I could scare up any help.  Blanche DuBois smiled down on us and a young European guest at the hotel waltzed through the outside doors and toted our suitcases up to the lobby.  

The room was tiny but welcoming.  After consuming a knock-out drop, we still only managed three hours of sleep due to the heat in the room. (Harlo and I were in opposing camps vis-à-vis the air conditioning.)  In addition, the overhead skylight let in a shaft of sunlight bright enough to annihilate a vampire.  I looked in the bathroom mirror at the bags under my eyes. Thank God the east coast humidity hadn’t frizzed my hair.  I checked my cell phone and as expected there were three missed calls.  The first was from Scrumbly, who was still in San Francisco.   What luck!  I immediately returned the call.

“I forgot my floor-length velvet cape.  It’s hanging on my closet door—can you squeeze it into your bags?” I asked him.  Next I heard a message from Fayette who had left a roster of celebrity names with whom she was lunching that day.  As there was no invitation attached, I proceeded to the next. 

Tip-toeing out, I skipped down the four flights of stairs to the street to get a newspaper from a 24-hour grocery several blocks away. I thrive at this pace and love Manhattan living!  The noise level, however, could leave you with middle ear damage.  Having now mastered the rudimentary operating instructions for my phone, I was still getting missed calls—I couldn’t hear the damn thing ring.  There was an incessant clamor of delivery trucks along with police and ambulance sirens that crisscrossed the city like a road map.   Heading back to the hotel lobby for a cup of tea, I bumped into a pair of women struggling with their bags at the front door.  I heard one ask the other:

“If this is the hotel, then where are the bellhops?”

Once back upstairs, I returned punk rock photographer Roberta Bayley’s phone call from the confines of our marble bathroom.  We arranged to meet after breakfast.  Staying at a hotel on the edge of Little Italy guaranteed never having to eat a bad meal.  I found myself devouring foods I fastidiously avoid--like red peppers.  Out, was my Atkins low-carb diet.  In, was everything Italian, including a new-found addiction to pistachio Gelato and a rediscovered habit (after a 14year hiatus) of coffee drinking.  Fortunately, I walked as much as I ate and it somehow evened out.
 
Sunday was our “free" day and the shopping trip with Roberta turned into a walking tour that proved beyond any doubts that there is no recession in New York!  The New Museum (of contemporary art) at 235 Bowery is a prime example of the NCY post 9-11 mood.  The seven-story, strikingly Tetris-shaped, grey monolith is offset with huge rainbow block letters that spell out its defiant message:  HELL YES!     

We strolled to CBGB’s (now a clothing store) on the Bowery, abutted by photographer Bob Gruen’s photo gallery called The Morrison Hotel. After pouring over pictures of old friends, we continued the R. Bayley West Side Fashion Crawl which took us across town through the West Village.

“Where are all the gay men?” I asked.

“They all moved to Chelsea,” Roberta informed me. 

After we passed 7th Avenue and Sheridan Square, Greenwich Village became Marc Jacob Land.  Like shopping at Prada, we were greeted at the portals of high-end apparel establishments, where doors were held open by store employees.

While the West Coast press droned on daily about the sub-prime mortgage crisis dragging the building trade--as well as the U.S. economy--into recession, there was no such bad news here. Construction sites abounded.  All over lower Manhattan, girders and rebar sprouted from vacant lots like weeds. Luxury apartments were being erected by the thousands, fueled by newly enacted tax advantages and foreign dollars.  I saw no negativity, no slow-down and no one complained--except the occasional cab driver. 

New York seemed full of excess, not to mention, tanning salons.  The City seemed to thumb its nose at west coast taboos as clerks gave out plastic grocery bags (which are banned in SF) by the dozen  Here merchants hosed down sidewalks and streets in front of their shops completely oblivious to the draught we’re being forced to endure in California.  (We can’t even wash our cars without incurring the wrath of neighbors who now report us to the authorities on a dedicated hot line.)  While life in California is becoming more and more stringent, life in Manhattan seems to be expanding.

Every weekend Little Italy hosts a street fair on Mulberry Street.  Outdoor cafés with large red umbrellas dot the numerous Ristorantes lining the crowded thoroughfare.  Waiters, in black shirts and pants wearing white aprons engage passersby in appetizing seductions, eventually handing them a menu and ushering them to unoccupied tables.  Sandwiched in between these eateries are tee-shirt and souvenir shops.  Like a Hollywood set, Little Italy is fast becoming a parody of its ethnic origins.  Yet, men still stand on street corners in cut-away tee shirts-- Italians, Jews—masculine and urbane.  When an attractive woman walks by, they don’t look away.  It made for a pleasant change from San Francisco.  Left alone for a week or two I certainly would have scored.

To compensate for our own lack of action, Harlo and I managed to get tickets to the hottest movie opening that weekend:  Sex in the City showing at the Village VII on 3rd Avenue.  Afterward, I had a 2:45 rehearsal at the Theatre for the New City on 1st Avenue for Monday night's all-star benefit for Faerie Camp Destiny.  The Harris Family (Hibiscus’ relatives) were slated to appear as special guest stars along with the Pixie Harlots, Justin Bond (Kiki & Herb) and a host of others.  Scrumbly and I decided, at the last minute, to patch together a number from Journey to the Center of Uranus, called “The Divorcee’s Lament” and Dolores Deluxe sang and danced to “Tapping in a Varicose Vein”.

The theater was unseasonably hot and packed with people in elaborate attire providing a visual feast. We were warmly welcomed by a sea of Radical Faeries, exotic Minotaurs and even a pink satin starfish.  Cockettes and friends milled around in the lobby heat, which drove several of us backstage to stand in front of an open exit door for some air, thereby missing an interview with Gay City News.  Activist and Hawaiian Princess Lee Mentley strolled behind the scenes passing out oriental fans from the 99 cent store to grateful and sweaty performers.  Pianist Peter Mintun and choreographer Teddy “Toots” Taraval appeared and turned the event into a family party.  When Hibiscus’ mother, Anne Harris hugged me, all of the Angels of Light/Cockette discord melted away.  We had come full-circle. 

In keeping with a well-worn Cockette tradition, German documentary filmmaker Jurgen Schindler, with Fayette Hauser on his arm (who looked fabulous featuring a flashy queen of the gypsies ensemble) missed the Cockette introduction and segment of the performance, when they assumed the show would go on late and turned up at the theater accordingly.
 
Tuesday afternoon, Robert Croonquist threw a 60th birthday champagne cruise for himself and his friends on an 82-foot schooner called The Shearwater.  Feminist, sensual pioneer and ex-porn queen, Candida Royale, met us at the dock for an unexpected reunion.   Scrambling onboard, we were all eager to see the Statue of Liberty and the Manhattan skyline.  For Harlo, the blue waters of New York Harbor were seen only through the porthole windows as she spent the entire cruise in the loo trying unsuccessfully to keep down a turkey sandwich.  The rest of the gang enjoyed the rocky waves and hazy sunshine. 
 
A surprise guest had us all atwitter: Marge Champion.  Once referred to as the Vernon & Irene Castle of the 1950s, Marge and her husband Gower, took the Broadway stage by storm, had their own television show, and made a memorable dance team in numerous MGM musicals.  She shared several stories with us starting with her first job at 14 years of age, when she was hired as a dancer by Disney Studios.  She was paid $10.00 per week and her dance movements were the basis for the title character in the animated motion picture Snow White.  Later her dancing was used as a template for the Blue Fairy in Pinocchio, and her choreography was used for the dancing elephants in Fantasia.

During the telling of one of these engrossing tales, she admonished a dancer for turning up at a rehearsal in flip-flops--then she noticed I was wearing a pair on my feet.  She stopped her tale long enough to deliver a stern lecture to me on the hazards of dog feces and general dirtiness of New York streets.  I took it to heart, knowing that I was speaking to a foot specialist of the highest order.

Dashing home to change our clothes (and wash my feet) for a dinner party in the West Village at Café Loup, Harlo and I arrived late, but just in time to order our entrees, which in my case was a Neiman Ranch Burger the size of four hockey pucks.  We toasted a beaming Robert, and shared our stories of him.  Afterward, I joined Fayette and Scrumbly for a late night soiree at film set designer, Ford Wheeler’s loft. 

Wednesday night a group of Cockettes performed in Brooklyn at a nightclub called Monkeytown.  Rumi organized the 8:00 PM show and featured his slides.  He billed it as A Cocktail of Glamour and Anarchy.  It lived up to its name, as even a young Robert Opel appeared to promote a film called Uncle Bob (his namesake who streaked the Academy Awards in 1974) wearing nothing but snake tattoos and an American flag as a cape.  Fayette showed a fascinating series of early Cockette slides that she’d taken and Jet produced some beguiling visions with a reel of unedited film of The Angels of Light.  Rumi also played emcee and hosted an auction of Cockette memorabilia.

The nightclub was more of a theater in the round with no actual stage, or stage lights.  I read excerpts from the New York chapter of Midnight at the Palace (by penlight) to an amused Danny Fields, who sat on the carpeted floor, in what was now the front row.  As promised, Mink Stole (star of John Waters' films) came up from Baltimore for this event as well as the symposium the following night.  We were thrilled to see her again.  Russell and Jim, from the San Francisco Hypnodrome (new haunts for the Cockettes & Co.) also made the trip and were dressed to the nines.  Ready to perform, their script never materialized so they substituted a Sweeney Todd Grand Guignol documentary in its place. The crowd was enthusiastic and as seating was limited, there was a decent overspill of anxious attendees who sat patiently at the bar waiting for the second show. 

The only unscripted event of the evening involved a gorgeously outfitted Miss Harlo, who repeated her illness of the previous day, only this time in a skin-tight gold lame gown and wrap.  Luckily, medical practitioner Steven Palmer and his partner David were there to assist her and yank a urinating man from a lavatory so that our girl could hit the target, and not her gown.  After they escorted her home in a taxi, they propped her up in bed and waited until she was lucid to take their leave.  It was my good fortune, as I returned home to find Harlo still awake.  I was unable to extricate myself from my drag and I couldn’t bear the thought of going downstairs to the lobby to ask the night clerk to unzip me.  The next day, before rumors started to sprout, we circulated the story that Harlo was in her first trimester of pregnancy.  It was an alien insemination, and we were very happy--and hoping for a droid.
  
In between Cockette appearances, Harlo and I took every opportunity to comb the streets for items.  The entire island was a merchandising emporium.  Like magpies spying shiny jewelry from great heights, we swooped down on bargains everywhere, from Times Square to Canal Street.  Sidewalk pitchmen touted knock-off merchandise to curious tourists, whispering designer labels: Armani, Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana.  In a cupped palm they held out photographs of luggage and handbags on adverts the size of a playing card.  No plastic, no sales tax, no receipts--no problem.

In Times Square, a number of blocks off the beaten track, we spotted a “We Buy & Sell Jewelry” sign and walked up the yellow-painted cement stairs to the 3rd floor.  Disappointed at first, we thought they’d gone out of business. There was not an item in sight.  Motioning through a thick glass, a man and his wife surreptitiously drew our attention to an inner room where, from underneath a counter, they produced trays of gold and silver chokers, bracelets, and Art Deco marquisette rings and pendants.  Harlo and I gasped and pawed away at the jewelry trays until we were satisfied we’d culled everything of interest.  
  
In an odd side-bar development, this city, known for its laissez-faire attitude, seemed to be having the opposite effect on several of my well-meaning friends.  Known for being a life-long risk taker, I now found myself flanked by nannies, and being nettled about all aspects of my behavior--from my speed demon equilibrium to the risky business of getting a tan on Robert’s birthday harbor cruise.  I was told emphatically that I was going to drop dead because I chased taxi cabs and couldn’t sit still.  Another old friend insisted that I was going to get melanoma because I refused to buy a #45 sun block to keep from losing the tan I already got in Florida.  In the first case, I was nearly dragged off to a gypsy fortune teller so I could hear the warning first-hand from a “spiritual” source and in the second, I nearly ended up in a row at a pharmacy checkout counter on 2nd Avenue.  If I survived my youthful follies of alcohol and heroin, I’m not too worried about plastic leaching into my system from Mountain Spring Water bottles. 

Thursday evening we were invited to a buffet at Robert’s apartment.  The week was starting to wind down and so were we.  After dinner we walked over to the Symposium at the LGBT Center on West 13th Street. Tahara looked exquisite in his Chinese Opera-style ensemble.  I wore a black and white op-art, beaded shift (courtesy of Harlo) straight out of the 1960s show Shindig, topped off with gigantic white earrings and fish net hose.  Jet, danced to his own tune, in a bright red fright wig with spangles stuck here and there.  We received a warm reception as we entered the auditorium and took seats onstage in a forum setting.  

Steve Watson, author of Factory Made: Warhol and the Sixties, acted as narrator.  Unfortunately, some of the Cockettes were underutilized and barely got a chance to speak, while others digressed indiscreetly into odd and outrageous monologues, as if at a pot party.  Fayette and I sat together and clicked our tongues at one point, when one such soliloquy painted a post-Angels of Light Hibiscus as a "cocaine-snorting rent boy".  

Despite the verbal jousts, the audience was gracious and somewhat awed, although there seemed to be as many personalities in the crowd as on the stage.  One such character was longtime friend, Arturo Vega, artistic director for The Ramones and creator of those Ramones tee shirts that show up everywhere (even on the chest of John Cusak on the big screen).  Time ran out before we ever got to the heart of the matter, but a number of interesting questions were posed and answered.  Jet was succinct when he summed up the Cockette contribution to the gay theater movement. 

“We’re your ancestors,” he said.

A candlelit soiree at Café Loup rounded out the evening and the marvelous trip. I looked across the tables--it felt like home, although there were many faces missing.  If we could do it all over again, would I pick the same family of people?
 
HELL YES!