Praise the Lord and Pass the Liquid Liner!

Friends, I have seen the Promised Land, and her name is Dragstrip 66.

But before I let loose with that torrent of testimony, I feel a responsibility to warn you about the downside of the high life. Loved ones have long warned me about burning the candle at both ends, and alas, the giddy gallivanting of December's first fortnight cut me down in the prime of the season. The New Year's Eve celebration about which I promised to tell all somehow transpired without me. I spent the evening with my beloved Alexander watching classic monster movies and sipping champagne. We inaugurated the new millennium by rolling around on the couch like a couple of teenagers. It was wonderful, but not much of a story. Je regrette.

This story rises like Brigadoon the second Saturday of each month at a nightspot called Rudolpho's in Silverlake, an arty eastern section of L.A. The pansexual discotheque-cum-drag queen court known as Dragstrip 66 recently celebrated its seventh anniversary. Seven years is an eternity for LA clubs, and DJ Paul V. and musical director/performer Gina Lotriman (aka Mr. Dan) have ensured the extravaganza's longevity by carefully maintaining its low profile. The real accomplishment, though, is how they've managed to provide the warmest vibe I've ever felt in public--this amid L.A.'s nipple-stiffening club milieu.

Speaking of nipples--O the profusion of ladies! Warned by Dragstrip regulars not to arrive late if we weren't keen on standing in line, we pulled up to the $2.50 valet (such a deal) promptly at 10:00. Just ahead of us in the virtually nonexistent queue were three visions whom I can only hope are professional female impersonators--truly, they put La Carla to shame; never have I felt so butch. One sported a platinum bob and an impeccable, silver-and-white golden-age-of-Hollywood ensemble (the evening's theme--and Dragstrip 66 is famous for its monthly inducement to fantasy--was Seventh Heaven, its mantra "Silver and white, drag queens' delight"). One of her girlfriends also adhered to the theme, though she took a more post-modern tack (funkier style, brazenly bald head). The last of the triumvirate was resplendent in an Edwardian-style suit she'd made herself (the long skirt began life as a pair of trousers, as she told me when I had the pleasure of meeting her in the ladies' room) and a giant hat topped by a majestic white dove.

Your Editors. Note the bulge.

I must tip my own hat to the club's admirably affable door staff. MASH Senior Editor J. joined us that evening, and as those decked out as the opposite sex gain admittance to Dragstrip 66 at a discount, J. chose to preserve a few ducats. Sporting a baseball cap (mid-length locks tucked behind her ears), goatee (theatrical hair and spirit gum), bound breasts (ace bandage) beneath a white V-neck tee, silver pants and prosthetic penis, she managed to swing the tricky double discount (and attract a lot of attention--some of the fellas thought she was a cute rocker boy, until she opened her mouth). J. had previously arranged for a press pass with a plus-one, so that was our entrée. Her drag discount, meanwhile, covered MASH editor-in-chief K. When Alexander approached to pay his full fee, the delightful duo at the door asked if he was with our party. His affirmative response inspired them to admit him gratis. That never happens (but he did look awfully pretty in his smudgy black eyeliner and subtly shimmering lips).

"I love mean girls."

We entered through the large patio, where people were already gathering to smoke. A large bar occupied one side of the space, and an older, somewhat rumpled man tended to a grill bearing all manner of savory snacks. Sallying forth, I promptly fell in love with a towering gal wearing only high heels and silver hotpants. Her long blonde mane was cut in layers and some giant drop earrings dangled from her lobes. At her midriff was a tattoo proclaiming "Fuck." But the eyes were the thing. I approached her later and introduced myself. Our very brief encounter allowed me a glimpse into the most impossibly hazel eyes I'd ever see. I was truly smitten, but her arch attitude (I love mean girls) and my woeful lack of a cock-and-balls unit kept her at arm's length. Oh well--easy come, easy go.

Off the patio was a roomy lounge with tables and chairs and a fireplace in the corner. Beyond it was the ample dance floor, which was bordered on one side by a wall-size mirror (really, is there anyone more fun to dance with than oneself?), the other by a long bar (despite the impressive crowd that night, there were never long bar lines) and the third by a draped-in-black stage, compact but well maintained. A bold, white number 7 was projected onto the curtain, with heavenly white clouds wafting along behind it. Likewise, a cornucopia of lively video images (edited by Paul V.) provoked thought from atop the mirrored wall. We assembled at a little table immediately in front of the DJ booth (another benefit of coming early; by 11:00 the joint was jumping and by midnight, it was packed).

The beautiful (lousy picture) Paul V. and busty Musty Chiffon.

As you know from a previous column, I am not a fan of the dance music played at most clubs in L.A.--it's too heavy on anonymous beats (I amuse myself no end when some utterly undistinguished techno rubbish is charging out of the speakers by remarking "I love this song") and too light on the funk (hang the DJs whose playlists lean aggressively white). This is decidedly not the case at Dragstrip 66. I can only imagine the V. in Paul V. stands for "variety."

Aside from being utterly unruffled by frequent appearances of my head above his partition--I had to ask him what was playing several times--the depth and breadth of his offerings should elevate him to the DJ Hall of Fame. He gained my trust early on with "Do It 'Til You're Satisfied," "Rollercoaster of Love" and "Cream." As the evening progressed he mixed the brew with Fatboy Slim ("Gangster Trippin'"), Human Sexual Response ("Jackie Onassis"), Old Dirty Bastard ("Got Your Money"), Groove Armada ("I See You Baby") and representatives of countless dance forms. One particularly dizzying sequence spanned Basement Jaxx ("Rendezvous"), The Sex Pistols("EMI"), Apollo 440 ("Stop the Rock") and Nancy Sinatra.

(A young man asked me to dance to "These Boots Were Made For Walking," and I rarely decline a polite request. But he was all roamin' hands and rushin' fingers and I begged off a second dance. The poor dear then hovered intermittently for the next hour. At one point, that cheeky Alex said to him, "I see you've met Carla," to which my hapless suitor replied, "I'm interested in her, but I don't think she's interested in me." If only he'd been HOT [and less stalkery]--I would have invited him to join us. And by the way, what kind of guy goes to a drag club to pick up chicks?)

The A-Queens

Paul V. also led us in a few singalongs--AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long," which drove the crowd absolutely nuts, and The Human League's "Don't You Want Me," during which Paul dropped the chorus out and let us take it away. Something about him reminded me of Dusty Springfield as he took the stage briefly during the show to thank the audience for going along with him on this musical adventure (props also went to associate DJ Tom Walker, a key component of the evening's flow). I kid you not, the man is a shaman, a high priest of the communal groove, consecrated crafter of the collective consciousness.

But enough about him--on to the show! The revue kicked off with a performance by The A-Queens (hostess Gina Lotriman and a sweet young thing named Gender in feathered headdresses and capes) singing "Dragstrip Queen" (music by Abba, lyrics by Gina)--"Dragstrip queen, not so lean, she's size 17/Dragstrip queen, Lean Cuisine, too much Maybelline"). I was dumbfounded with delight, as was the humanity flocking to flank the stage. Gina quickly demonstrated her facility with schtick, commenting that seven years ago, she and Paul chose to mount Dragstrip 66 the second Saturday of the month because the first Saturday they were broke, the third Saturday she was gettin' it regular from some guy stationed in San Diego and the fourth Saturday she was still recovering from the third Saturday.

The darling Tina

Sharayne

After the A-Queens' throng-thrilling turn, Tina Darling (who recalled Ann-Margret) popped onstage to regale the crowd with some rapid-fire Latina locution (a club regular, as many of the patrons are, Tina may be best known as the first Miss Dragstrip--she competed as Miss NAFTA). You could hear the crowd's collective breath swept away when Sharayne burst onto the stage. This girl is a knockout, her angular features recalling a young Diana Ross. In spectacular voice that eve, she sang Madonna's "You're an Angel" (it's important to note here that the Dragstrip performers do not lip-sync; they sing to fully produced tracks custom-fashioned by Mr. Dan). Sharayne yielded the stage to Simmone, who, coincidentally, reminded me of later-period Diana Ross (think Central Park concert). This vixen assayed Mariah Carey's "Rain on Me" (I daresay better than Miss Carey). The air was electric with spines tingling.

Next came Sabrah Summers (along with Lars Killian, promoter of a club called Cheese) singing Donna Summer's "Heaven Knows," though her interpretation was called "Sabrah Knows." And then Musty Chiffon seized the boards. Dressed as a nurse, she gently wiped the mist from her prop mirror and gazed forlornly at her reflected image. It took me a moment to recognize the opening strains of Aerosmith's "Dream On," which Musty then tackled as a torchy piano ballad. I will never hear that song the same way again (after all, Stephen Tyler wrote "Dream On" as a teen--hard to believe him singing "All these lines in my face getting clearer"). The seventh anniversary show concluded appropriately with The Dolly Sisters' enthusiastic rendering of Cole Porter's classic "Cheek to Cheek" ("Heaven, I'm in heaven ...").

Simone

And then it was back to shakin' booty and making friends. There was the French girl in the ladies' room lining her eyes in permanent magic marker, the American girl in the men's room shaving, her face covered in shaving cream, to whom Alex said, "If there's a competition for the smoothest shave, you'll definitely win." Her retort: "It's not a competition--it's an exhibition." There was the gal all in pink who informed, "Pink is the new black." There were the superpretty boys snogging in corners. There was the young man in the furry Gilligan hat who squeezed my hand after I apologized profusely for stumbling all over him, at which he remarked, "Most people would have just kept walking." There were girls in wings and horns and mink and rubber and leather and silver sequin lamé. There was the guy who told Alex he had a tight ass and the actual girl who offered him $30.00 for his groovy blue neon star pendant (by the light of which I had taken notes much of the night)--Alex insisted she accept it as a gift. And then there was the stunning beauty in the fanciful hairdo (long, cherry-red tresses topped by a jaunty conical formation) and sumptuous red sheath who stole my heart. She was sweet, too, graciously accepting my fevered compliments and chatting us up with apparent interest, smiling that beguiling smile all the while. Sigh.

"Sigh..."

And there was the quiet moment with myself. Resting in the restroom, I glanced down at the floor and saw that it was covered with beads and sequins. A trifle, to be sure, but somehow it looked like poetry.

All should walk on this wild side. Angelenos--hope to see you at Dragstrip 66 on Saturday, Feb. 12 (e-mail Paul V. to add yourselves to Dragstrip's address book: LastLaugh1@aol.com; the club's most excellent website is at www.dragstrip.com). Those of you who reside elsewhere, plan your next trip around this unparalleled event. If you really want to know the meaning of joie de vivre, this is the place.

Still feeling the fabulousness,

Carla