Waiting for Gaga

When I’m finished getting gussied up, I always beam when I see Edna Jean’s reflection. She transforms me and makes my heart smile.
Edna Jean possesses so many qualities that Richard lacks — most are in the self-esteem department. Richard is insecure about his appearance. Edna Jean can’t pass a mirror without trying to seduce it. Singing in public terrifies Richard. Edna Jean belts out ditties louder than Ethel Merman. Richard’s comic timing can totally misfire. Everyone laughs at Edna Jean’s filthy punch lines.She confidently rubs her ugliness in everyone’s faces. Nothing gives Edna Jean pause — not her awkwardness, her social ineptness, nor her inability to ever win. She’s an unstoppable, over-polished turd.

Tonight, Edna Jean is an explosion of red. From her closet, she’s selected a form-fitting ruched vintage frock designed by Vanna White herself. Edna Jean’s greasy hair hangs to her upper-shoulder blades. Her temple is festooned with a cascade of red roses that match her lips, which are painted in a hue that’s best described as “dog-dick red.”

On her broken foot is a clunky protective boot that’s laced in black Velcro; on the other is a low-heeled red-jelly sandal. It takes a lot of work to look so wrong, and that’s why I refer to Edna Jean as “the unlikely victor in a world of goddesses.”
Speaking of unlikely victors in a world of goddesses … Lady Gaga graces the March 2011 cover of Vogue, and she’s scheduled to play Dallas’ American Airlines Center tomorrow night.

I’ve never been a Gaga fan nor a hater.

Sure, I’ve paid attention. And at times, I’ve even been dazzled by her hyper-stylized visual flair. But lately I’ve been wondering: Exactly how did Gaga get so damn famous — and so quickly?

I always assumed that she was in the right place at the right time. And I suspected — because her family’s wealthy — that her meteoric success has largely depended on being “daddy’s little silver-spooned girl.”

One thing’s for sure, Lady Gaga hasn’t skipped through life on her looks. Several years ago, that crooked nose and rabbit-like teeth would have landed her in every talent agent’s reject pile. However, somehow — something — has allowed her to now eclipse Madonna in the fame stratosphere.

“Hey, Edna!” an audience member screams. “What’s wrong with your foot?”

Pointing to the Velcro boot, I explain that Edna Jean wasn’t glamorously victimized by a tall pair of heels. Nor was she rescued in a blizzard by Kathy Bates only to be kidnapped and tortured. Edna Jean simply walked out on her patio and broke her foot after slipping on a patch of ice.

Because of the swelling and the fact that my toes are going numb, I’m only supposed to host the fundraiser and go home — letting the 11 p.m. cast perform without my supervision. But from stage left, I notice a finger beckoning me. It belongs to my fellow manager, Donald.

I wheel over to Donald, who whispers, “Lady Gaga’s people just called. She wants to perform at the Rose Room tonight. They want to know if we can accommodate her. You want her, don’t you?”

I can tell that Donald is serious. Normally, a visiting celebutard will phone the club to announce a visit in hopes of receiving VIP treatment. But then they never show up — like Toni Braxton.

However, something tells me that this call from “Gaga’s people” is for real. She’s been to the Rose Room before — back in 2007, when Gaga was just a pop princess hoping to catch a break by dotting the country and performing at clubs “one disco ball at a time.”

I quickly tell Donald, “Yes. Of course we can accommodate her.”

“She should be here right before midnight. We can tell the employees, but we shouldn’t announce it,” Donald advises.

Walking backstage, I think to myself, “She wants to perform?”

I enter the dressing room, and the Gaga rumor mill is already blazing.

All the girls — who are supposed to be getting ready for the 11 p.m. show — are desperate for information. They’re looking at me like starving pygmies, wanting to know, “Is it true?”

When it comes to the famous or near-famous, these fierce beauties normally behave as unimpressed as Meryl Streep being nominated for another Oscar. But this time, they’re all star struck.

Ebony goddess Asia O’Hara is such a bumbling mess, she can’t even maintain a grip on her cellphone. Severe perfectionist Jenna Skyy is smiling so excitedly, she’s looks as if she’s about to piss herself. Resident busybody Cassie Nova tells me she needs to know if Gaga is coming Right! Fucking! Now!
Just in case Gaga does show up, everyone begins tidying up: locker doors are neatly closed, roller-wheel suitcases are tucked beneath the Formica makeup counters. I even straighten my station by strategically placing a headshot on the corner of the mirror.

What’s gotten into them?

What’s gotten into me?

The 11 p.m. show begins, and Cassie Nova teases the audience — who are already Twittering and Facebooking for Gaga-in-Dallas updates — with statements, like, “Something great could happen tonight.”

At 11:20 p.m., someone arrives. Not Lady Gaga but her manager, Wendy, who checks out the deejay booth to ensure our compatibility with Gaga’s … iPod. (I guess the techno-goddess keeps things simple).

We pass the equipment sniff test. And continue to wait.

Excitement builds, but 11:45 p.m. comes and goes. After midnight, my anticipation turns to panic.

We maintain our game faces and try to keep everyone entertained. The girls start a new rotation of numbers. The drinks flow. And everything inside the club ticks away with precision.

After all, Lady Gaga is coming…. Or is she?

•••

12:30 a.m. rolls by, and the first show ends. The club is packed.

At 12:50 a.m., I crutch myself outside to the second-floor patio to scan the rear parking lot for any sign of her arrival. Suddenly, an ear-splitting “Crack!” roars overhead and a flashing bolt of lightning electrifies the black sky as sheets of rain begin pelting down.

“Oh, fuck!” I moan as raindrops stain my red dress. “Well, she’s certainly not coming now — not in a torrential rainstorm.”

I go back inside the club and put on my best poker face. But I’m worried, and I look it. If she doesn’t come, I fear the disappointment will explode into a riot — like the time Boy George performed. In 1993, “The Crying Game” was a hit, but fans started heckling a less-than-stellar Boy George. So he stormed off in mid-performance. People were pissed. A barback famously hid inside a beer cooler to avoid airborne glass drinks and bottles. That cannot happen again.

It’s 1:10 a.m. and the final drag performance is coming to a close. Still no word about Gaga’s arrival. Something has to be done. We need to make an announcement.

I take the microphone and crutch onto center stage: “Hello, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Edna Jean Robinson. This is the deal. We’re all waiting for the same thing, the same person. We’re all hoping for something spectacular. However, if she doesn’t arrive, we will all have egg on our faces. I just want to be honest and upfront and tell you that we’re not leading you on. The last thing we want to do is disappoint you. If you’d like to stay, the girls are going keep performing while we all wait. So ….Y’all want to see more drag?”

•••

Tommie Ross goes onstage and performs India.Arie’s “Video.”
While in the wings, my phone rings. Donald tells me, “She’s walking across the street and will be in the dressing room in less than five minutes.”
My watch reads 1:20 a.m.

Aside from Asia, Jenna, Krystal Summers, Valerie Lohr, Cassie and myself, I notice that even club employees are now squeezing themselves into the dressing room.
Within three minutes, our guests finally arrive: six backup dancers, manager Wendy, security personnel and a coterie of female attendants who are casually dressed in black jeans. From the cocoon of Team Gaga, she emerges — like a blinged-out dominatrix.

First of all, what’s up with her hair? Her pixie-length bangs are severely cut and dyed midnight-black, forming a triangle over her forehead. And a three-foot platinum ponytail extends just slightly off-center.

She wears gold-trimmed sunglasses with art-deco accents and black opaque lenses. Her eyes are thickly cat-eye lined in black. Rhinestone studs frost her motorcycle jacket covering a black bra, and her fingerless gloves match perfectly.

Black panty hose shroud her legs, which are thrust into patent leather spike-heeled boots. She wears simple earrings: a gold stud in one lobe, a safety pin in the other.
For a split second, we inhale her. Then over the breathless silence, Cassie Nova throws her hands in the air and calls out, “Welcome back, bitch!”

“Oh my God, I remember this place,” Lady Gaga shouts. “This is where the fierce drag queens are.”

Gaga instantly hugs Cassie. I get a hug, too. And then Gaga takes a minute to make the rounds with everyone in the room.

Suddenly, I see Tommie Ross — who abandons her performance — rushing into the room with camera in hand.

Lady Gaga crashes into Cassie’s Nova tackle box of makeup and squeals, “Can I use this red lipstick?”

A backup dancer, “Mike from Houston,” informs us, “We are exhausted, but Stef told us that we would be going out tonight. None of us want to be here. But she said we’re going, so here we are.”

•••

I observe Gaga from two feet away.

“Of course, I’ll take a picture with you,” she tells Josh, a straight employee who works at a bar down the street but still managed to squeeze his way into the drag queen’s lair.

“As long as someone wants a picture with me, then I want to take pictures,” Gaga continues.

And there she goes — happily serving ham-and-cheese smiles for every camera in the room.

How shrewd.

Even though Gaga’s an undeniable superstar, I don’t believe ego is her only driving force. Tomorrow night’s concert is sold-out. So on the night before, why does she even bother? It’s exhausting to get in full costume while traveling — not to mention hauling six dancers and then racing around to a gay club. And not to make a kiss-the-hem-of-my-gown appearance, she’s performing, too. And for free!

“I was told that tonight was college night?” Gaga asks me.

I nod in assent.

It’s true: Sundays lure underage disco bunnies who like to bounce to hip-hop.
“I’m here to worship those who can’t afford tickets to my concert. I thought I’d bring a little of my concert to them. I’m here to worship them,” Gaga says with a dramatic flourish, her arm extending like she’s unveiling a concept vehicle at an auto show.
Her “I’m thankful for my fans” shtick appears genuine.

Cheap seats for the “Monster Ball” tour start at $80. Tonight’s cover is $15 for the 18 to 20 year olds; $6 for those who are old enough to purchase alcohol.

•••

Money can be a rotten incentive for some. I remember Sandra Bernhard’s February 2009 gig at the Rose Room — a spectacularly boring disappointment, which only swindled her die-hards.

First of all, her backstage provisos were tailored for an exacting prima donna. She made the dressing room a restricted area, and her rider requested a detailed list from Whole Foods’ organic depot: dried fruit, raw almonds, gluten-free whey protein shakes and an assortment of cross-bred apples.

Originally, I was stoked about Bernhard’s performance. I expected her to light the room on fire with explosive politically charged monologues customized for Dubya’s new hometown. Instead, Bernhard sat on a chair and told the safest jokes about Laura Bush’s ass being too big for couture. And when she started reading from a Neiman Marcus Christmas catalogue, people were so bored that half the room ditched her for the tempting disco beats from the downstairs dance floor. She may as well have called in her routine via Skype.

What really pissed me off wasn’t that Bernhard gathered up the entire Whole Foods spread to take back to her hotel room. No, what bugged me was that a single Granny Smith was left behind. And with a black Sharpie, someone drew an arrow that pointed to the faintest bruise on the fruit. What a nasty memento. What a total-bitch move.

•••

Backstage at a drag show, Gaga’s in her element. She makes no displays of self-importance or grandeur. No intimidating force field of insecurity surrounds her. She’s having a blast. Even joking with Jenna Skyy — pulling off Jenna’s “Telephone” wig.

It’s almost 1:30 a.m., and time is steadily ticking away.

“Let’s do this,” manager Wendy says dashing off to the deejay booth.

Valerie Lohr goes onstage and — under strict orders from Team Gaga — simply announces, “We are born this way.”

Perched on a stool, I watch the performance from the wings.

Backup dancers take the stage and the crowd goes insane. Deafening screams overpower the “Born This Way” track. People climb on tables and on each other. A swarm of blue-screened camera phones fill the air.

Gaga and company grind and gyrate in precision. She violently swings her three-foot ponytail in a circular motion like her head is caught in a tornado. Hands stretch to touch her, which she allows.

Even if the people inside this room have tickets to tomorrow night’s show, this performance will be the one they’ll mention at cocktail parties for years to come.
The performance ends with Gaga leading the troupe in monster-paw pose, and they take two bows.

After bowing, Lady Gaga — sweating and out of breath — is the first person to exit the stage. Heading toward the wings, she looks at me. And with the most sincere look in her eye, she asks, “Was that okay?”

I shrug my shoulders and say, “Meh.” Then I groan, “It was all right….”

Her jaw drops.

Then she smiles and says, “You must be the funny one.”

Pointing my finger, I correct her,

 

“Um, no! I’m the pretty one.