STARTS WITH T AND RHYMES WITH MAGIC

Yep, tragic! That’s how I describe The Comedy Store.

I was asked to perform at this hellhole by a “friend” of mine who hosts a show there on Fridays. Like most stand-up clubs, the gig didn’t pay so I had politely declined this tempting invitation explaining that I simply cannot get into drag for free. “But perhaps I could do it some time when I am performing elsewhere on a Friday.” Nice save, right? Well, curse my online schedule, this “friend” read on my Web site that I was doing a midnight show at Miss Kitty’s on an upcoming Friday and called me to commit finally. And I did.

Big mistake.

Without going into too much detail, let me just say that the other comics were less-than embracing of me and one idiot in the audience felt the need to yell, “Get off the stage!” in the middle of my set.

Big mistake.

I called him a fucking asshole. I also told him yelling that was about as funny as me taking one look at him and saying, “Please don’t blow up the plane!” which actually turned out to be pretty funny considering he looked like a terrorist—disguised as a tacky Eurotrash extra from the movie A Night at the Roxbury.

My friend Lambert told me that the host of the show was freaking out backstage muttering, “We had a great audience and he’s ruining it!” What? Am I supposed to ignore the person heckling me? I’m a fucking drag queen—not the tenor in the barbershop quartet performing at Disneyland. That hairy-knuckled motherfucker in the audience is lucky I didn’t kick his nicotine-stained teeth down his oh-so-heterosexual throat.

I walked offstage—ironically past framed pictures of groundbreaking, rule-ignoring comics like Sandra Bernhard and Roseanne Barr—to the backstage area where all the hack comics who just want to be on a sitcom were milling about. You could cut the desperation with a knife. They all want to be the next Tim Allen. Pathetic.

Fast forward 10 days and I am walking into The Magic Castle in full drag. If you do not live in Los Angeles, let me explain that The Magic Castle in an ultra-exclusive, members-only club where the crème de la crème of the magic world and their lucky friends gather to sip and sup. You can see everyone from Siegfried & Roy to Penn & Teller hanging out at The Magic Castle. It’s simultaneously fun and freaky, cool and creepy.

I had been hired (that means paid, thank you very much!) to sing a very special birthday song to a one-time magician’s assistant, the still quite lovely Irene.

The paneled room was full of people in their 60s and 70s, dressed to the nines in fancy outfits featuring satin lapels, bejeweled stick-pins, silk scarves and glittering brooches—and that was just the men! The women were serving up more false eyelashes and sequins than a Liza Minnelli-impersonators’ convention. I was home.

During my song—get this!— people actually paid attention. And afterwards, they applauded and cheered. Then smiling, appreciative audience members approached me, going out of their way to warmly and enthusiastically express how much they enjoyed my performance: “What a great voice!” “You’re very funny, I loved it!” “Wow, now that’s some makeup!”

I posed for pictures with magicians, illusionists, their showgirl assistants, the cocktail waitress. I chatted with the legendary Carl Ballantine (Google him!) and composer Richard Sherman, who wrote music for The Jungle Book, The AristoCats, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang and Mary Poppins! He liked my song! Wow.

And, as if that weren’t enough, I met the glamorous Tippi Hedren! Yes, the iconic star of Hitchcock’s The Birds was there and I couldn’t hide my excitement. She was so beautiful and so sweet! We talked for 20 minutes and I told her about a recent dream in which a kitten sang the Sonny & Cher song “I Got You Babe” to me. I thought this was particularly appropriate since Ms. Hedren runs a wild cat sanctuary called Shambala!

I left the party feeling like part of the magic community. And you know what? That makes perfect sense! After all, I am an illusionist of sorts. I am more vaudeville than VH-1. I am proud to be a good old-fashioned “show pony,” whose job it is to make people happy, instead of just some paint-by-numbers stand-up comedian who wants to be the next Jim Belushi. I prefer the music of Mary Poppins to that of Paris Hilton.

Yes, I believe in Magic. It is very much alive and well, trust me. I saw it in the twinkling eyes of the show business veterans who know a good clown when they see one.

Illustration by www.glenhanson.com.