Food is dramatic – Life is delicious.
Episode 247: There’s No Party Like a Buca di Beppo Party
Not to get too Dickensian on your asses, but it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of be-wigged men, it was the age of facial-haired ladies. It was the epoch of recreational alcoholism, it was the epoch of colon-cleansing for sexual purposes. We were all going directly to Club Columbus, we were all going directly home. In short, it was a gay old time, and the gayest time in town was the annual meeting of Columbus’ Drag Queens, held in secrecy in the immaculate party facilities of Buca di Beppo, in the Arena District.
It was a Bilderberg group of female illusionists. The Bohemian Grove of cross-dressers. The Trilateral Commission of those who used their genitals to play an elaborate game of hide-and-seek. Once a year, Columbus’ shaved, tucked and wigged gathered to discuss the state of affairs in the drag community, debate matters of shade and shading, and try desperately to intelligently, and once-and-for-all, find an answer to the question of Maria Garrison’s racial and ethnic background.
Myself, Foxy Bagels, and Jean Skort arrived slightly early, hoping to get seats near the a-list girls, and as far from Hellin Bedd’s ham wallet as possible. As we entered, Andria Michaels, the head of security for the event, patted us down thoroughly, spending several minutes checking Foxy’s tape-job.
“Puerto Rican girls can be shiesty. Never know when a bitch is going to try to hide a razor-blade in her foreskin” said Andria, offering no additional explanation as she waved us through. As we walked away, Foxy adjusted herself and cursed unintelligibly. Jean was far too star struck to notice; she was too busy taking note of all of the girls present, milling about in the bar area, munching on plates of moist and tender Fried Calamari, fresh and milky Mozzarella Caprese, and drinking small glasses of delicious and dangerous house-made Limoncello. Everyone who wasn’t anyone was there. There were girls from the far south end, whose homespun orthodontia and incessant clogging made them immediately recognizable. Girls from the far northern regions of Delaware County, who followed the strange custom of walking about shoeless in dirty pantyhose. There were tire belt girls riding around on lighting bolts. There were the werewolf girls from the warehouse district, glitzy-ditzy girls from the Short North, and even the swamp drag queens of Obetz, who wore thick layers of swamp grass in place of hair. You had your Brandts, your Punastis and your Peni Trations. Your Virginias, your Vaginas, and your Vivian von Brokenhymens. Your Sandys, your Sables, and your ‘Lexis Stevens. Your Gypsies, your Caines and National Holidays. It was everyone, and there wasn’t an unworn sequin, or inch of glitter-dot in a tri-state area.
“No need to get crunchy on ‘dem appeteasers, ladies,” said Vee Love, the designated hostess for the evening, standing near the front, peacock feathers in her hair. “This isn’t the soup kitchen, you dirty bitches,” she paused as a small CCAD Queen passed her a note. Vee took, it and cast a withering look at the young draggling, who mouthed an apology, then whispered in her ear. Vee nodded vigorously and then cleared her throat
“Queens, soup is on. Please follow the stripper in the sleeping bag to your tables.”
As if by magic, Rocco, dressed as a snake, appeared and ushered us into the dining rooms, as the song “Endangered Species” played over the muzak. Snickering to myself, I considered that the song sound should have been called “Engendered Species.” We took our seats, about twenty feet from the head table, and waiters began to circle the room, placing napkins on the laps of all of the ladies. Jean was in heaven, as she had been seated next to Beverly Ford, and Foxy was equally pleased to be next in-between Noka Davers and the rubber-faced Georgia Jackson. I was seated next to someone named Cassandra, who appeared to have a razor-covered tire strapped to her head.
Ginger Manchester, the chair of the event for the year rose, and began beating a bejeweled red high heel on the head table. “Shims and Gentlemen, this meeting of the International Brotherhood of Dillusionment Workers, Ohio Chapter, is called to order. We will begin by receiving the blessing from the chair of our car maintenance committee, Janet Garrison.”
Janet, wearing a sequined burlap sack, rose and began speaking. “Gurrrrl, one time Iwasha goin to eat that and den we left to go there and made it happen. It was rough, gurrrl. We tried though, gurrrl, we tried.” She abruptly stopped speaking and began laughing, repeating “you know what I’m saying?”
After a moment, Ginger returned, looking drunk and slightly confused. “Thank you, Janet, for your moving words. Now, our wait staff will begin serving dinner, and once we are finished we will discuss the topic that is on everyone’s mind. What’s more profitable, Inn Rehab, or staying home?”
Ginger sat, and immediately the waiters began to serve. There were large and fragrant bowls of Linguine Frutti Di Mare, made with shrimp, baby clams, mussels and calamari tossed in a spicy red clam sauce with imported Italian linguine. I turned to me left and saw the ever lady-like Foxy had her nose is some fork-tender Chianti Braised Short Ribs, smothered with a tomato-based reduction made with Buca label Chianti. Jean, had of course discovered some manner of Chicken Cannelloni, and was shoving the rich blend of ricotta, mozzarella and Parmesan cheeses, topped with creamy Alfredo into her mouth at an alarming rate.
Suddenly, as I bit into my chicken saltimbocca made with fresh sage, proscuitto and topped with artichokes, something changed in the room. The wait-staff seemed to have disappeared, and the lights seemed to be eerily dim. I knew we were in trouble when a weird dance remix of “Welcome to the Jungle” replaced the haunting sound of “That’s Amore.”
Others sensed it too. The strange music, the sudden smell of musk and beer, the weird lighting.
Suddenly, there was a loud noise coming from the front of the room, and then the distant sound of Andria Michaels yelling “Bitches, every whoa-man for itself!”
Within moment, all of the drag queens were on their feet, staring the intruders in the eye.
It was the Bears. Hundreds of them. Kyle Kline, Steven Clark, Josh Brown. Someone had even managed to find Kirk Manson, and glue what looked like hair clippings to his face. Courtney Baxter had clearly, fully transitioned and was going back “Court”
Candi Panties looked around for a moment, unsure of which side to be on. She began to remove her wig, but was stopped by the firm hand of Virginia West. “No Candi, don’t. Get your Gnocchi Al Telefono in a light garlic, marinara and cream sauce to go, and leave. There’s nothing for you here but heartache.”
Candi, looking solemn, nodded, and disappeared to find a box.
“All your ridiculous performing has left us too drunk to hibernate,” said Derek Nuemann, as he ripped his John Deer shirt off, and threw it on the ground, roaring.
“Yeah!” yelled Greggles, who was now very strangely sporting a beard.
“Bears. Grrr” said Gabe Mastin, quietly and demurely, as he took off his bespoke jacket, hung it on a hanger, placed the hanger on a nearby chair, and assumed an old-fashioned boxing position.
Bear’s eat fish for dinner,” said Josh Brown, his right hand holding a board with a nail in it. “And these bears are mother-fucking hungry!” piped in Derek Schulte, who seemed to be sitting on a road-cone.
The room was silent. The only sound was the noise made by Anisa, Andria, and Vee applying Vaseline to their faces.
Suddenly, DJ Chuck Arida appeared in the Pope Room, wearing a Bishops Mitre and his portable DJ equipment that hung in front of him like a set of quads in a marching band. Biting into a piece of lasagna, he hit a button on his mixing board and an electronic voice said “Let’s get ready to rumbbbbbllleee!”
To Be Continued….
