didn’t show after the first day. Rumor is she knew she hadn’t added anything to her act this year, couldn’t afford a hot new outfit, and didn’t have the club support. Rather than risk her title, Maria dropped out. Now she can still call herself 1995 Second Runner-Up, rather than 1996 loser.”
“Does dropping out midpageant happen often?”
“All the time. On Tuesday, the Shady Lady left in a snit after she told the judge to stuff himselfduring the poise and presentation competition. She figured she couldn’t win after that, and she was right. The Sue Warrior, who dresses like a lawyer and strips to her briefs for her talent competition, left after her boy friend punched her in the face and broke her nose. No way those bruises could be mistaken for war paint.”
Jimbo had been taking pictures, but Ralph and I hadn’t been paying much attention to the stage. Now, we sat up and noticed. Chocolate Suicide appeared, and it was like the room had a jolt of electricity. The audience was cheering and chanting, “Chocolate! Chocolate! Sweet baby girl!”
Semisweet, actually. Six studs in black leather carried her out in a sedan chair. She stepped out on their heads, then dismissed them with the flick of a whip. The music started, Tina Turner at her wildest. Chocolate was at her wildest, too, all fire and energy. Her rhinestones shimmered, her feathers shook. So did the rest of her. She strutted and high-stepped and practically turned herself inside out as she danced. The crowd cheered and showered her with money. She wiped her sweating face with a handful of bills. No doubt about it. She had style.
She was the last act in the talent section. Now it was time for the worst test a man can face: the evening gown competition. Wobbly high heels and heavy beaded gowns have dethroned many an aspiring drag queen. The judges were merciless. Careers were ruined by the slightest slip.
“You have to be able to walk naturally,” Ralphsaid. “The winners will be dragged around to all the talk shows. These are our movie stars, our society. They raise money for charity.” Also, for themselves. I couldn’t forget the ten- and twenty-dollar bills shoved at the contestants for tips. Tipping is an innovation female beauty queens should consider. The retiring queen and the new title holder parade on the runway, while the audience hands them money. Serious money. At this pageant, a winner might make one thousand dollars in tips, plus five thousand in prize money.
Who would wear the nine-inch-tall rhinestone crown this year?
It was down to three contestants, and just as in female beauty pageants, they were all Southerners. The judges made their choices, and I thought they were good ones. The bland, tuxedoed announcer called them out:
“Miss Florida!” She wore a stunning green sequin number that showed off her sleek, dark red hair. She was a sensational Third Place.
“Miss Lou-ee-zee-ana!” Her gown shimmered in gold. With her blond hair, it was a blinding combination.
“She’ll probably get the crown next year,” whispered Ralph.
But it was clear who the winner was: “Miss Texas!”
It was Chocolate Suicide, in a cocoa-brown gown to die for. I knew it looked like money, but I didn’t know how much. Ralph did. “I heardthat gown cost thirteen thousand dollars,” he said.
The crowd chanted her name: “Chocolate Suicide! Chocolate Suicide!” and pressed forward to give her money. I saw men waving tens and twenties, crawling over each other to hand her the money. They were practically rioting to make her rich. Trust men to add this moneymaking innovation to a pageant. It sure beat Bert Parks singing “Here she comes, Miss America.”
Chocolate graciously grabbed it all. “Get used to this, girl,” said the announcer. “It’s going to be like this for the next twelve months.”
More cheers. The pageant was over. It was after midnight.
Jimbo the photographer packed up to go home to the burbs. I told him I
“Does dropping out midpageant happen often?”
“All the time. On Tuesday, the Shady Lady left in a snit after she told the judge to stuff himselfduring the poise and presentation competition. She figured she couldn’t win after that, and she was right. The Sue Warrior, who dresses like a lawyer and strips to her briefs for her talent competition, left after her boy friend punched her in the face and broke her nose. No way those bruises could be mistaken for war paint.”
Jimbo had been taking pictures, but Ralph and I hadn’t been paying much attention to the stage. Now, we sat up and noticed. Chocolate Suicide appeared, and it was like the room had a jolt of electricity. The audience was cheering and chanting, “Chocolate! Chocolate! Sweet baby girl!”
Semisweet, actually. Six studs in black leather carried her out in a sedan chair. She stepped out on their heads, then dismissed them with the flick of a whip. The music started, Tina Turner at her wildest. Chocolate was at her wildest, too, all fire and energy. Her rhinestones shimmered, her feathers shook. So did the rest of her. She strutted and high-stepped and practically turned herself inside out as she danced. The crowd cheered and showered her with money. She wiped her sweating face with a handful of bills. No doubt about it. She had style.
She was the last act in the talent section. Now it was time for the worst test a man can face: the evening gown competition. Wobbly high heels and heavy beaded gowns have dethroned many an aspiring drag queen. The judges were merciless. Careers were ruined by the slightest slip.
“You have to be able to walk naturally,” Ralphsaid. “The winners will be dragged around to all the talk shows. These are our movie stars, our society. They raise money for charity.” Also, for themselves. I couldn’t forget the ten- and twenty-dollar bills shoved at the contestants for tips. Tipping is an innovation female beauty queens should consider. The retiring queen and the new title holder parade on the runway, while the audience hands them money. Serious money. At this pageant, a winner might make one thousand dollars in tips, plus five thousand in prize money.
Who would wear the nine-inch-tall rhinestone crown this year?
It was down to three contestants, and just as in female beauty pageants, they were all Southerners. The judges made their choices, and I thought they were good ones. The bland, tuxedoed announcer called them out:
“Miss Florida!” She wore a stunning green sequin number that showed off her sleek, dark red hair. She was a sensational Third Place.
“Miss Lou-ee-zee-ana!” Her gown shimmered in gold. With her blond hair, it was a blinding combination.
“She’ll probably get the crown next year,” whispered Ralph.
But it was clear who the winner was: “Miss Texas!”
It was Chocolate Suicide, in a cocoa-brown gown to die for. I knew it looked like money, but I didn’t know how much. Ralph did. “I heardthat gown cost thirteen thousand dollars,” he said.
The crowd chanted her name: “Chocolate Suicide! Chocolate Suicide!” and pressed forward to give her money. I saw men waving tens and twenties, crawling over each other to hand her the money. They were practically rioting to make her rich. Trust men to add this moneymaking innovation to a pageant. It sure beat Bert Parks singing “Here she comes, Miss America.”
Chocolate graciously grabbed it all. “Get used to this, girl,” said the announcer. “It’s going to be like this for the next twelve months.”
More cheers. The pageant was over. It was after midnight.
Jimbo the photographer packed up to go home to the burbs. I told him I
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