Lettin It All Hang Out

by RuPaul

  Dick, who has always been one of my greatest mentors, always encouraged me. "Just do it," he would always say. The point is, you don't think about waiting for Hollywood to come calling unless you're Meryl Streep ... and I'm not. You're young now, but this flesh is only flesh and there's an expiration date on it, so you've got to use it and work it and film it while it's young and firm. It's no good trying to be a sex goddess when you're an old and wrinkled prune. My message to all the kids out there is do it now, and then, if you want, you can have a whole lifetime in which to regret it. But I bet you won't. I don't. I am living proof that the do-it-yourself concept works for just about anything. It worked for me, and baby it can work for you too.

  Now when I did films with Jon Witherspoon, they premiered at video workshop art houses, and they were written about in art papers. But when I started doing films with Wayne, we had big lavish premieres at Club Rio (the club where Rob Lowe got waylaid by that underage girl). They'd pass out flyers and posters everywhere, "RuPaul is Mahogany II" or "RuPaul in Voyeur." On the big night I would arrive in a limousine and get out, and everybody would squeal and scream with flashbulbs popping. We would be whisked to the club's screening room, and afterwards there would be a reception. It was very grand, and I loved it.

  All this time—just so I didn't get completely carried away with illusions of grandeur—I was still working as a go-go dancer at Weekends. They also opened up the old movie theater that was adjacent to the club. On weekends they put on drag shows and lip-synching pageants. They made me the official emcee there. I really got to develop my host skills, and learned how to be deliberate. One secret I have learned is that you can never spell it out clear enough. Often I would watch tapes of my performance, and I could see the places where I needed to take more time. You can never overdo it no matter how slowly you spell out each word. There are all sorts of ways to punch up a situation. Night after night there I made all the mistakes I needed to make, so that later when I got the chance to really emcee in New York, I was already an old hat at it. Weekends was my college years. In fact all of Atlanta was college for me, but at Weekends I was getting paid for my education.

  With the harmonic convergence in August '87 things started changing, and I began to feel restless. I knew I had done Atlanta. I'd made a name for myself there, and New York was calling once again. So in the fall Larry Tee, Lahoma, and myself moved up to New York, driving in the Now Explosion's beaten up old van, which was loaded down with all of Lahoma's stuff—films, magazines, books, photography equipment, clothes, pornography ... There wasn't even room to breathe. All three of us were squeezed into the front seat of the van when suddenly the back tire blew. The van flipped over and spun around on its side. The back door burst open, emptying all Lahoma's belongings onto the highway. None of us were hurt, but we screamed, "Get out!" because we knew that any second an eighteen-wheeler might squish us like bugs. So, we got out and there was stuff everywhere. There were cars stopping and skidding. Dashing among them we gathered up as much stuff as we could, and then limped into a truck stop to calm down. We got towed to some mom-and-pop garage, where they fixed the van and we drove up to New York.

  When that van went over like that, I thought that was it. I thought that I, RuPaul, superstar, had come to the end of the road. On reflection, sitting on the side of the road—Alive!—I saw it as a sign that said, "Your life will never be the same again." We'd had it easy up until then, and this was a new beginning. Atlanta was very safe, and that's why we needed to leave. I knew that I could make money and a name for myself there, but I also knew it was time to go, time to move on. By tipping the van over, the Universe was saying, "Fasten your seat belts, the ride has just begun."

  Indeed it had. This was the beginning of a very tough period for me. I got to New York and had to start from the bottom again. We all did. We couldn't get arrested. That's what this business is all about, eating humble pie. It was struggle struggle struggle throughout the year. That Christmas was really hard. New Year's Eve of 1987 I was working coat check at a party at the Amazon Hotel down at Rivington. And I thought here I am, superstar RuPaul, working in coat check! Still, I made sixty dollars. When I did my show at Chameleon—on Sixth and A—I only made eighteen dollars. It was slim pickings for me, very slim.

  Disco 88 was sort of an audition so he could hire us to work for him. And he did hire them, but not me. Disco 88 led to the Celebrity Club at the Tunnel, which was a huge hit.

  Larry Tee and Lahoma had moved in with Nelson. I stayed there for a while and then became roommates with my old friend Jennifer, who was working as a go-go dancer and pretty much supporting me. Meanwhile Larry Tee, Lahoma, and I started a night called Disco 88 at the Pyramid. This was the first time I met Michael Alig, and he made my skin crawl. I couldn't believe that Larry Tee and Lahoma took so well to him But we had work for him.

  Some time later I worked for Michael Alig at the Limelight and I rue the day. I had to go to him to get paid, but when I asked for my money he said, "Okay, I'll pay you if you give me a kiss." I said, "Come on, Michael, please, just pay me my money." He said, "Give me a kiss." I couldn't stand him, but I needed to get paid so I said, "Okay, I'll kiss you." I kissed him, and he spat in my mouth. It was at that moment that I said to myself "I don't mind doing whatever it takes, but I will never do a fucking thing for you again. Ever. Never ever, ever." So that was that.

  In the spring of '88 I went back to Atlanta to act in a play called Shaggy Dog Animation by Lee Brewer, with music by Jimmy Harry, and by the same producers who staged The Rocky Horror Picture Show. It was quite a difficult stretch. It was about these dogs—actual bow wow wow dogs—who were writing these "Dear John" letters, and explored how men treat women. I got to play a dog. Hell, why not, I've done just about everything else. The show was not a big hit, but the songs were beautiful and I got to meet this fabulous guy called Jimmy. He later told me that he'd seen my posters in Atlanta and said to the director, "This is who you need for this play." I thought, "Hmmm—file him!" and told him if he ever came to New York to look me up so we could work together.

  When the summer was over I moved back to Manhattan. In the meantime Larry Tee and Lahoma had become stars downtown with Michael Alig. I saw that they were changing. The vulnerable part of Larry that I liked wasn't there anymore. You couldn't get through to him. They seemed to be taking on board this whole thing, taking it so seriously. Now I'd been popular before and I knew that ultimately it didn't mean a crock of shit. Not surprisingly, it just wasn't happening for me in New York.

  So I went out of the frying pan and into the fire. Scott Lifshutz, a friend, had this one-way ticket to London and asked me if I wanted it. "Sure," I said, thinking that I would go to London and try to make a go of it there. Little did I know what I was letting myself in for. When I get to the other side of the Atlantic, after this hellish overnight flight, they wouldn't let me into the country. They wouldn't let me in because I didn't have a return ticket, no U.K. address, and no money. All I had was Day-Glo nail polish and a Mohawk. And the customs people didn't like that. So they went through every piece of my luggage. Then they stripped me and searched every cavity of my body. Anus, the lot. The only thing they didn't do was spit in my mouth. I think they found one marijuana seed, but that was all they needed to put me back on the plane. I still get the creeps every time I go through customs, particularly in England.

  I went back to New York, in dire straits. I thought what I really needed to do was go back to San Diego and recharge my batteries. So I scraped enough money together for a plane ticket to Dallas. It was a flight that went on to San Diego and when it landed I went and hid in the plane's bathroom. Then, over the intercom, the pilot said, "For those of you who are continuing on from Dallas to Atlanta, keep your ticket stubs." I couldn't believe it! The last place I wanted to go was Atlanta. That's what all this was about, leaving Atlanta. So I called my mama from the airport and as luck would have it my sister Renae was in San Antonio, visiting her in-laws. I slept roug
h in a park in Dallas overnight, and the next day she picked me up. Renae was going back to San Diego, which was where I wanted to go, but first she was going to see my father in Mansfield, Louisiana, which was not where I wanted to go. He had moved back there and opened a beauty supply house. At this point I hadn't spoken to my father in seven years. I was angry with him. But he wasn't fazed. He was like, "Hey buddy," all that. We never dealt with anything. Still, at least I got to see my father's birthplace. Seeing where he came from, was also seeing where I came from ultimately, and so it was good for me.

  The next thing I did was move to L.A., to try and make a go of it there. Things were no better. In fact, they were worse. I couldn't get much work. Some people I ran into said The Gong Show was back in action, so I went and auditioned, and the next thing I knew I was on. My national television debut was on The Gong Show. Things could only go up. I sang "Follow Me" from the Starrbooty album. Salt and Pepa were the judges and at first they looked appalled, but then they got into it. It was quite an experience. I didn't get gonged, but I didn't win either. I lost to an Elvis impersonator.

  I stayed all around town. Eventually people got sick of me staying with them. So I went and stayed with my sister Rozy. She got sick of me staying with her too. She said, "Ru, you can't eat any more of the food from my refrigerator or my cupboard." I remember this distinctly because it was the same time that Oprah lost all that weight. She gave me until November 15—-just before my twenty-eighth birthday—to get out of the house. Fair enough.

  It was a rotten, really rotten time. Because Rozy would go to work at 8:00 A.M. every morning and come home at 5:00 P.M., I'd stay at her house during the day watching television. Then at 4:00 P.M. I would walk to the Beverly Center or Century City Mall and hang out there until she got home and went to bed. That way she wouldn't have to see me, and I wouldn't have to see her. I would sit by the fountains and read discarded newspapers, or spend hours browsing in bookstores. I didn't know anyone, I didn't talk to anyone, it was horrible. I would just wait for the time to pass, minute by minute, hour by hour, until I would walk home again. I've never had any problem daydreaming, going off into my imagination, but I did during that time. I felt so grounded. I had no car, no money, no friends, and worse than all these things, it seemed like no future. So it was hard just to hide out in myself and play in the realm of my imagination. I had been a star, and now I was on the skids. I'd been trying to make it for seven years and nothing was happening. I couldn't make it in New York, London, or even L.A., the city of the stars. I seriously thought of committing suicide.

  There were two things that stopped me. The first thing was knowing that it would hurt my mother, because her philosophy was "Everything will change, so pay it no mind." The other thing was Oprah. I would usually watch her show in one of the department stores at the Beverly Center. In my depths of despair, she was a shining beacon to me, and today I have an Oprah shrine in my home. For a start, she has a quality that can't be learned or knocked off by another person. It's totally her own. People love her because she is totally Oprah; she's herself, she's warm and wears her personality like an old worn coat. She's also someone who is the least likely, according to pop history, to succeed or become a superstar; she was overweight, she's black, and she's a woman with an uncertain background. My heroes are always the underdogs, the people who have made it through adversity to become super-heroes—people like Jesus, Buddha, and even Ronald Reagan. Who would have thought this old cowboy could become President once, let alone twice? I didn't agree with his politics for a second—they were appalling—but all the same I couldn't help thinking "That's fierce." I identified with the survivor in him, with the sheer stick-with-it-ness.

  Stick-with-it-ness, that's my mantra. And I think it's what got me through, stick-with-it-ness inspired by Oprah and, unlikely as it may sound, Ronald Reagan.

  RuPAUL'S FAVORITE BOOKS

  - Secrets of a Sparrow, Diana Ross—Now it can be told. The Diva speaks.

  - Dream Girls: My Life as a Supreme, Mary Wilson—I love Diana more after reading this book.

  - Call Her Miss Ross, J. Randy Traberelli—I love Diana even more after reading this book.

  - All That Glittered, Tony Turner—The Supremes behind the scenes, written by their dresser.

  - I, Tina, Tina Turner—I read this book when I was on the skids. It gave me strength.

  - Interview with the Vampire, Anne Rice—The first book I ever read twice. I fell in love with Louis.

  - A Return to Love, Marianne Williamson—The first book I ever read three times. Bought 50 copies for friends and family.

  - The Color Purple, Alice Walker—I cried, cried, cried.

  - Design Your Face, Way Bandy—This is how I learned to do makeup.

  - In Cold Blood, Truman Capote—Very scary, gave me the chills.

  - The Grass Harp, Truman Capote—Witness the genius of Truman Capote.

  - Maybe the Moon, Armistead Maupin—Sweet story of a freak. Boy, could I relate.

  - Hitmen, Fredric Dannen—The record industry inside and out. .

  - Curious George, H. A. Rey—My first literary obsession.

  When you turn twenty-eight Saturn returns to the place it was when you were born, which is why that time of life is such a painful experience. I equate it with Dorothy going all the way down the yellow brick road, looking behind the curtain, and going, "Is this what I dreamed of? Is that all there is?" You have this splendid vision of the Wiz, and that when you get there everything's going to be great. Then when you get to the Emerald City your life is not transformed, and you have to rethink your expectations and your dreams. That's what I was going through. I had to sit out a couple of years to rethink myself.

  But looking back, that period was invaluable because it gave me the strength to know I could go through anything. Once that period passes—as it will—you realize you have muscles of steel, and that nothing can touch you. It is a period that everyone has to go through in their lives, although sadly many people don't make it past that point. Call me a fool, but I really do believe that there is a divine order here, that even all the bad things that happen will have some meaning in the end. Today, when I stay at the penthouse of the Century City Hotel—Hello!—I can't look at the sidewalk without a bittersweet feeling. All that walking!

  So I turned twenty-eight and was back out on the street. This was when I finally caved in and surrendered. I decided to go home to Mama for the holidays and just chill out. I quit smoking, gained twenty-five pounds, and grew a beard for the first time in my life. I spent a lot of time with my niece Morgan, who was eleven years old and the only person I could really talk to.

  With the new year came new energy. From time to time while I was away I would talk to Larry Tee, who would say, "Ru, get on a plane and come back to New York. I'll give you the money whenever you want it. Just come back." Finally, I got over myself and decided that I would "do" New York just like I had "done" the Breakfast Club all those years ago. I said to myself, "I am going to work this motherfucker into a frenzy!" I took him up on his offer, told him I'd pay him back with three days of go-go dancing, and got a one-way ticket.

  When I came back to New York in January of' 89 the call was for drag queen realness—tits, the lot. Undeterred I said to myself, "I'm a fiercer drag queen than any of these queens, I'm a sexier drag queen than any of these queens, I'm a prettier drag queen than any of these queens, and I'm a better emcee than any of these queens." If that was what the children wanted, then that was what the monster would serve them.

  I moved in with Larry Tee and Lahoma at Nelson's house and started working it in a big way, really doing it right. I learned how to lip-synch—not just approximately, but with laser precision. I began buying wigs—I had never done that before—started sewing clothes, wearing tits, and shaving my legs. Instead of fright drag, I was going to look hot and sexy as a drag queen.

  Suzanne Bartsch started using me as a go-go dancer at Sauvage for fifty bucks a night. I was up to my ol
d tricks. I didn't just prance on a box, I was a show. She thought I was a new kid on the block and didn't know that I had go-go danced my way right out the womb. She came over later and said, "Girl you got it going on. You have the ability to be a real pop star, you have what it takes." Unlike some other club promoters, she always treated me with respect and always pushed me to do more, like emceeing.

  She didn't pay a lot of money, but she always respected my talent, and for that I will be forever grateful.

  That summer it was Love Machine that really put us over the top. After the success of the Celebrity Club this was Larry Tee's own operation in what had been the old Underground Club. Finally we—Lady Bunny, Floydd, Lahoma, and I—all had a home, and were back under one roof just like we were down South. We all had a place where we could all go to work, get drunk, and become stars. It was a really dark time in New York, and the Love Machine was just what people were looking for. What with the election of Bush, AIDS, and deepening recession, people had just about had it up to here with doom and gloom. We put life back into New York. We were the new drag queens—the Charlie's Angels of downtown—smart, sassy, cynical but loving, approachable, and with a sense of humor. If you asked a question, we weren't going to bite your head off like some of the other evil queens. It was, "Hey, come on down, y'all." As a Miss Black America finalist, I knew how to work that thing. I don't do bitchy. I do sassy. I had been doing "Everybody say love" since Lord knows when. So when I came on the scene with this love message coming from a drag queen that wasn't, "Bitch! You better get your ass outta my face—" it made an instant connection. Us southern belles were a breath of fresh air. We merged the southern realness thing with the ratty old wigs and social satire of the Pyramid. We brought a new freedom that totally liberated and reinvented drag.