Bling Dynasty


In getting ready for the Dynasty-themed shindig at Ron Megee’s loft, the Night Ranger went for a suitably Joan Collins-ish look, with a full-length bridesmaid dress that was periwinkle-colored, crystal-bead-encrusted and topped with a white fur shrug. However, we’re sure that Joan wouldn’t approve of adding white Converse low-tops, glasses and nonlacquered hair. Not that it mattered — despite our efforts, the guys dressed as women at Megee’s party were far more spectacular than the actual ladies.

The Sunday night party was a debt-relief fund-raiser for Ron’s now-defunct Late Night Theatre. Research Assistants Laura, Julianne and Nathan accompanied us to Ron’s West Bottoms abode, which he calls the Student Union. We’d never been to one of Megee’s legendary parties before; we’d heard his revelry was usually themed and fantabulous. For a recent Velvet Goldmine night, he installed a swing.

We didn’t have his exact address, so we slowly drove through the labyrinthine West Bottoms streets, on the lookout for a trail of his troupe’s sequined regalia. Thankfully, we encountered a thin guy in turquoise stretch pants who looked like a Balinese dancer. He was walking with a guy in a poncho who was carrying bongos. They pointed us in the right direction.

After ascending a flight of stairs, we made the suggested $5 donation and marveled at the space, which takes up an entire floor in the former Fahrenheit Gallery. Comfortable sofas and plush chairs were grouped by the front wall of windows, and folding chairs were aligned in rows to face the small, multitiered stage area in the middle of the room. Vintage décor decked out the sitting areas and the bedroom in the back. Larger-than-life images of Dynasty characters Krystle and Blake loomed over us from the giant movie screen by the stairwell, which showed episodes throughout the night.

We made our way to the kitchen’s fantastic semicircular bar, made from a slab of concrete. Our cranberry and vodka came with a heavy Smirnoff pour. Miraculously, we found seats at the bar with a prime view of the stage.

The crowd was a visual delight. We spotted a couple of guys dressed as tennis instructors, with terrycloth headbands, floofy wigs and tube socks. A trio of women painted tribal marks around their eyes and looked like forest fairies; another chick accessorized her turquoise minidress with a head of big, blond, wavy hair. Her look was very troubled-teen-years-of-Drew Barrymore, and not just because of the split ends.

Wigged men in sequined dresses appeared onstage for the floor show, which turned out to be a bat mitzvah roast for drag queen De De DeVille’s birthday. De De wore a platinum-blond wig and a pale-pink dress with massively frilly, puffy sleeves. She sat in a red semicircular booth and took her hazing with considerable aplomb. The insidery nature of the roast was interspersed with humorous toasts by David Wayne Reed and Rex Hobart and some great acts. Jon Piggy Cupit dressed as Sonny Bono and lip-synched “I Got You, Babe” with a lizardlike puppet that resembled Cher. The stretch-pantsed Balinese dancer we had met on the street earlier turned out to be a member of the Ssion, which performed a song that was jangly and popish and very cool.

The spectacle ended with all the performers onstage again, this time with white tapered candles. As they sang “Sunrise, Sunset,” one of the tennis instructors brought out a cake, and De De blew out the candles. Then the folding chairs got stacked, DJ Alan played his amazing medley of mixes, and everyone danced and mingled. Another tennis instructor got onstage and pulled down his shorts during a Madonna medley, exposing a bit of boxer-brief-clad butt. A guy in hot pants, suspenders, a Henley shirt and a fedora danced maniacally. A woman with asymmetrical hair and a ball gown did a windmill-like move. Weaving through all of this was Ron’s adorable wire fox terrier, Atticus.

We caught up with RA Julianne, who was talking to a guy in a blond-bob wig and a black dress. He had just given her a drag queen name, but she had immediately forgotten it.

“Let’s pummel her breasts until she remembers,” said Blond Wig. That threat was enough to spark her memory. “Uh, I think it’s Lolita Lover,” Julianne said. Our new friend dubbed the NR something equally odd, which kind of sounded like “La Petite C’est Chic.”

Speaking of chic, we encountered Gunter, a figure in a short blond wig and a gold lamé minidress. It turned out that we had met female-based Gunter before at Glow.

“This is the best and brightest of the gender-fuck community,” Gunter proclaimed. Gunter and mutual friend Mercury — formerly of Vibralux — started talking about a T-shirt company they wanted to start. Their shirts would sport such sayings as “Crayons are the new cocaine” and “Bitch is the new black.”

Before taking off to flit about the room, Gunter leaned over and pointed out a guy dressed in a furry white jacket. “I shot and killed that myself on the Jim Henson ranch,” she said. Put this on a T-shirt: Pelts are the new Kermit.

We ran into De De in a back room. She told us that about six months of planning had gone into the bat mitzvah. She then pulled out a bottle of Forever Krystle and sprayed some on her wrists. We took our own spritz of the cloying fragrance. To paraphrase Ralph Wiggum, it smelled like burning.

The crowd started clearing out around midnight, and we left a trail of Forever Krystle in our wake. Later, we found out that the next loft event is RA Julianne’s fourth-annual Festivus Fundraiser to benefit the AIDS walk. Grievances will be aired, and feats of strength will include thumb-wrestling with little costumes for the thumbs. So far, our only grievance is that April 21 can’t get here soon enough.

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