Like Vivian Maier’s collection of photography, another stash of historically important images have recently surfaced. The bulk of this cache consists of posed portraits and candid shots from ‘private parties’ of drag queens at “The Colony”, a Kansas City night club during the pre-Stonewall era of the late 1950s and 1960s. The images exist in slide form and were recovered in two separate incidents by Robert Chase Heishman and Michael Boles. Heishman discovered a slide carousel – labeled “Jack’s Slides: Chicago and Kansas City” in 2006 amongst the rubble of a salvage yard in Kansas City. Two years later, while helping a friend move, Boles discovered a shoe box of slides as well as some letters from the same ‘Jack’ identified on the carousel.
In 2012 the two men learned of each other’s discovery and realized their finds were by the same photographer. Heishman and Boles pooled their collection of over 150 images and created the Private Birthday Party collection.
(Originally blogged June 11, 2010)
I read the following poem a few years ago and thought it very funny and then I ran across this c. 1903 Buster Brown cartoon, so naturally I thought to myself – BLOG ENTRY! From Come Into My Parlour, Cautionary verses and instructive tales for the new millennium by Bill Richardson:
Nothing Like a Dame
The story I’ll tell you is all about Al,
A mountainous man who had mountainous pals,
With gym-sculpted bodies unsullied by toxins;
Their calves hard as granite and necks thick as oxen,
With hillocks for chests and with statuesque shoulders
And biceps the size of conventional boulders,
With tummies that rippled and thighs made of thunder,
And as for the rest — well, I’ll leave you to wonder.
They all had Cameros emblazoned with dragons,
And brows anthropoligists might call Cro-Magnon,
In every way masculine in their deportment;
Oh, never was seen such a macho assortment.
Hallowe’en night was again on the verge
And Al and his pals had the fun-loving urge
To deck themselves out and do something inane.
“I got it,” Al ventured. “Let’s go out as dames!”
“Yeah! Dames!” said his buddies. “Va va va va voom!”
One snickered, “Hooters!” One chuckled, “Bazooms!”
They drove to the thrift store and swiftly took stock,
They bought hideous wigs and rebarbative frocks,
They tried on the shoes and like madmen careened
From pillar to post in their pumps, size 16.
They dashed to the cash and unloaded their carts,
Then went home to practice the womanly arts.
Big Al, on arrival, made haste to put on
His black crepe de Chine and his hot pink chiffon.
He looked in the mirror and liked what he saw:
His nice way with scarves, his complexion sans flaw.
He was big, he was butch, and devotedly hetero…
But still he was thrilled to be sporting stilettos.
He felt like a diva: Tebaldi or Callas.
Thus Al was transformed, and before him stood Alice.
He stood breathing heavily, misting the mirror,
He lurched back a step, teetered nearer and nearer,
And then just as surely as push leads to shove
Allan and Alice fell deeply in love.
Yes, surely as borrowers look for a lender
Al was enmeshed in confusion of gender,
And surely as knickknacks belitter a shelf
Big Al, at a glance, fell in love with himself.
Hallowe’en came, they all had a great time,
And when it was over his buddies consigned
Their dresses and girdles, their borroweds and blues
To attics and basements and Sally Anns, too.
Al though, was different. His buddies were stumped
To see him keep purchasing boas and pumps.
His father was puzzled, his mother depressed,
But Al wanted Alice dependably dressed.
Psychologists doubtless could try to explain,
And give Al’s condition a clinical name.
Reveal how his fondness for ladies’ emporia
Signals some kind of a gender dysphoria,
Call him regressive, or else narcissistic.
Labels, however, are simply simplistic.
Al thinks his life has been latterly great,
He never again needs to look for a date.
A touch of mascara, a girdle and bra,
A dress, matching pumps with a clutch and voila!
In just half an hour he’s changed and he’s ready,
Alice and Al, quite content going steady.
Perhaps you will think this is simply absurd,
Dismiss as apocryphal what you have heard.
All fellows, at some point, on some Hallowe’en
Will smear up their faces with mom’s Maybelline.
Will put on her shoes, even colour their hair
And next day are nothing the worse for the wear.
So why then should Al, quintessentially normal,
Now go out to restaurants bedecked in a formal?
He just knows for certain that self-dating’s fun,
He’s Al and he’s Alice, a couple in one.
The moral is simple. I close with this lone word.
Dateless this weekend? Then Angel, look homeward.