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S K I P T O M Y L O O
It looks as if the "Papal Envy" show has already begun when Kito and I enter Confession Booth, the hottest new club in Carroll Gardens. On stage, twelve drag queens dressed as beauty pageant contestants from Third World, predominantly Catholic countries Lambada with men in penis costumes. As we take a table in the back and order Cuban Breezes, the queens begin to roll giant condoms on their partners. This endeavor is cut short when a sassy voice from an overhead speaker chides "Uh-uh-uh!!!" The lights go out, and the salsa is replaced by the sound of monks chanting over jungle-techno-whatever music. A spotlight points to the stage's center. From the parting curtains emerge two young boys scantily clad in red leather S&M outfits, each wearing ceremonial Cardinal head gear. They stare into space vacuously as a pink Popemobile rolls into view. It is driven by none other than John Paul II himself. "Fab entrance," coos Kito. When he steps out of his ride, his Holiness is met with whoops and hollers from the audience. Or maybe they're applauding his ceremonial gown, a long, flowing number of green and pink sequins with a Pope-o-centric hat to match. His makeup is immaculate. He slaps the boys' rears as they back the car offstage, then surveys the scene with a wry smile. The queens and penises shriek and shrink away from him. "Hey, no birth control on the dance floor!" he barks, winking to the crowd. He makes a few lewd gestures with a scepter in his hand and shouts something campy in Latin. The stage darkens again and clouds of smoke billow forth. When light returns, the penis dancers lie sprawled on the floor, flaccid. The queens sit huddled together, crying melodramatically and rubbing bellies that have become full with pregnancy. "Get over it!" screeches J.P., giggling as he takes a swig from a Communion chalice. Holy tequila dribbles down his chin. A group of modern dancers dressed in colorful leotards enter from the wings, each twisting and twirling in his or her unique way. As they pass by the Pope, he angrily waves the scepter in the air. His stage-darkening magic once again goes into effect, and when light returns, the dancers are kneeling and supplicating in unison at his feet. Their leotards have been replaced with drab, gray jumpsuits. "I like it like that!" croaks his Papacy. In the corner, oblivious to this action, a group of men wearing priest collars and three-piece business suits murmur in tones of corporate hubris. They call the Pope over to their circle and ask him to sign some papers. "Hello darlings!" he purrs. "Pray tell, what am I signing?" "Oh, the usual," says one of the cronies. "A multi-billion dollar contract with Disney and Microsoft, the deeds to most of Ohio, and your favorite: the prospectus on this year's most distinguished altar boys. "Save that for later!" He places large Xs on the papers with a feathered ink pen. "Right now, I wanna sing!" And so he does, breaking into a lip-sync medley of Madonna's greatest hits. The audience is charmed and riveted, particularly Kito and myself.
-- Graydon Kosner |