Lettin It All Hang Out

by RuPaul

  They went on about photo shoots and my next music video, but I could tell there was something else. My album had finally just come out that week and I was waiting to hear what number it was on the chart. To tell you the truth, it’d seemed like so long since I’d touched American soil, I had stopped thinking about it.

  “I can’t believe I forgot,” I finally said, “did you get the chart numbers?” There was a pause on the other end.

  And then they told me.

  My album had debuted on the hot 100 at 109.

  109.

  Never in my worst nightmares did I think that it would debut below 50. I was shocked and amazed!

  This was a sad Supermodel moment.

  One oh nine.

  One hundred and nine.

  No, it didn’t matter how you said it, it was still dire.

  All I could do was keep chanting to myself, “109, 109, 109...”

  I was losing my M. I. N. D.

  I am a pro, but this time I thought, the show will not go on. I tell you I was at my wit’s end. My entire dressing ritual was disrupted. Not to mention the fact the record company people were sticklers for detail, and were not very understanding of the fact that Miss Charles was running behind schedule. They were pacing the halls, banging on the door, and did everything but call in Herr Fire Marshal to get me out of my room.

  Finally, I got myself together, got into their tiny BMW, and made it to the television studio where I was to do a press conference and a television appearance. They kept reminding me that this was not just any television appearance, that it was the German version of the Tonight Show. I wasn’t really listening to them. That terrible number 109 was still looping in my head as though I were having some kind of nightmare. Then they told me that one of the guests would be Karl Lagerfeld of the house of Chanel. After I had performed I was to join him on the panel of guests for conversation or “couch time,” as they call it in the biz. This might turn out okay after all, I thought.

  But first there was the press conference. It was surreal! There were maybe twenty journalists sitting round a circular table—very Dr. Strangelove. But not one of them asked a single question. I find that this happens quite often in foreign parts—the press just doesn’t know what to ask. Not even the simplest, tiniest question, like, oh, I don’t know, Are you having a nice day? In these situations there is only one thing to do: go on autopilot and ask the questions yourself: “You probably want to ask me if I am having a nice day, and I am having a lovely day because blah blah blah.” Sometimes I start speaking in tongues out of sheer frustration, although they seem to enjoy that just as much.

  From that scintillating experience it was off to the television studio for the taping. They had this giant hemispherical world that I was to stand in. It would turn and I would be revealed. But the mechanism was faulty, so it would stop-start, stop-start, and I had to hold onto the thing for dear life, otherwise I would be spun out onto the studio floor a dizzy mess.

  But that was just the tip of the iceberg. Because the television studio was union-organized—it was the most ancient studio on the planet and obviously had not been touched since the end of the Second World War—we had to be there three hours before the show started. And that was not all. Of course we had to do a rehearsal, but we had to do it in complete drag because they filmed it! Yikes! Moreover, they had all these lines taped on the studio floor, and I was given precise instructions NOT to go over them. So much as one toe out of place and I thought they would shoot me.

  And it got worse. I had left my hair in the car. For a minute I thought about going bald, and featuring a Fraulein from hell look. But I always, always carry some extra hair in my bag, for just such an emergency. However, this ratty old wig needed work and the German hairdresser, bless his gay heart, was completely crazy and spoke no English. I kept on waving my hands in the air and saying “Higher! higher!” but he just did not understand. In the end we made it work. Somehow.

  Every cloud has a silver lining, and in this case it was that fact I was going to be interviewed and meet the great Karl Lagerfeld, muse of Supermodels all over the world. If it weren’t for that I would have told them all that I loved them very much, but they could take the sauerkraut and stuff it. You can imagine my reaction when two minutes before I was due to go on they said, “We’re really sorry, but we have too many guests. We won’t have time to interview you.”

  Something inside of me snapped. 109 and then this. I knew what I was going to do. Funny enough, I did one of the best performances of “House of Love” I’ve ever done.

  RuPAUL’S FAVORITE CARS

  - 1966 Oldsmobile Toronado

  - 1969 Cadillac Eldorado

  - 1973 Buick Riviera

  - 1972 Mercedes Benz 280SL

  - 1994 Mercedes 500SL

  - 1968 Ferrari Daytona

  - 1994 Jeep Grand Cherokee 4x4

  - 1994 Ford Mustang Convertible

  - 1976 Corvette Stingray

  - 1970 Ford El Camino

  The producers were thrilled. Then I did “Supermodel.” I started out okay, never crossing the chalk lines the producers had drawn, but during the model rap part, I knew my time had come. I walked beyond the lines, forcing the camera crews, mouths gaping, to follow me. As I made my dash for freedom, I could see all the stagehands going mad in the shadows, waving their arms, frantically gesturing for me to go back. No way! I walked into the middle of the studio and right over to the table around which the panel, including Mr. Lagerfeld, was sitting. And I didn’t stop there. I climbed right up on that table and lay right across it, serenading Karl. He looked genuinely surprised and delighted. Swiveling round I blew him a kissy-face and returned to my spot where I completed the song.

  All was in an uproar when I got off stage, everyone going on about what I did on live television. I was ready to go home. But I was so exhilarated we took the car from the studio and went—in full drag—to the McDonald’s in Frankfurt, where I got two quarter-pounders with cheese. Then I went back to my hotel and slept for twenty-four hours.

  After Europe I set my sights on Hollywood. I was living for some couch time on national TV and finally the Arsenio Hall Show offered it, and this was to be a major turning point. In the meantime momentum had been building. Suddenly people in Peoria were talking about this seven-foot black blond drag queen who came from nowhere. Little did they know that it had been a lifetime’s work, because as far as the outside world was concerned it was just the last few months of hype and promotion. I didn’t mind, though. I just loved the idea of someone’s mom making their kid a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch and the kid yelling out, “You better work, Mom!”

  The day of the taping we arrived at Paramount studios at midday. I had not slept a wink the night before. I was scheduled to do a rehearsal with the band and then there was the three-hour transformation process. The record label people were pretty nervous about me performing with a live band and all, but frankly I was more anxious about the couch time.

  The entire staff at Arsenio was as sweet as could be and very accommodating. Soundcheck went fine, which I did working a preppy realness look: denim shirt, khaki pants, shaved head and, of course, five-inch pumps from Fredericks of Hollywood. I also practiced in my gorgeous white tulle supermodel cape. As usual I planned to walk out, twirl it around a few times, and then toss it, a la Miss Ross.

  We went back up to the dressing room and began on my face. Mathu came from New York to do my makeup and help with my Zaldy creation. He knew how nervous I was, so he just let me be as he painted away. Before long, it was time to go on. I was escorted from the makeup room to the backstage area. I looked great, I felt great, I was ready. Everyone who works on the show was hanging out at the backstage area ooohing and aaahing over me. It was kind of comforting. I just smiled and kept focusing on what I was gonna say, what I was gonna do. I was a nervous wreck, but I didn’t let a soul know.

  Finally, I was called on stage and Arsenio introduced me. I performed �
�Supermodel,” and the only thing I really remember from the performance was the twirl at the beginning. The rest was really all a blur—except the applause at the end!

  Thank God for commercial breaks. I had a few minutes to touch up my makeup, adjust my fierce ruling tuck, and then position myself on the couch for the chat. I don’t remember much about this either, it seemed to happen so quickly. Arsenio instantly made me feel at ease, and he also gave me the room to do my thing. It’s hard to describe what’s going on in one’s head at a moment like that. You know there are about five million things you want to say. Hundreds of jokes and gags you’ve saved for this very moment, and suddenly the lights are shining, the audience is watching, the clock is ticking, and you’re babbling away like you’ve never babbled before. And then, before you know it, it’s over.

  Still, I do remember one or two morsels. One was the line “I’m just a regular Joe [beat] with the unique ability to accessorize.” The other was Arsenio getting the signal from the floor manager to go to a commercial break—but he was having too much fun. In the end even I could see the guy motioning Arsenio to wrap it up. “One more minute, just get me one more minute,” Arsenio said. I was elated, because there’s no greater flattery in this world than to be able to hold up a commercial break—it feels like walking on air.

  It could not have gone any better. People got to understand my platform, which is about loving yourself, understanding who you are, and bringing your uniqueness to the party. He loved me enough to ask me back twice more that same year. And I got an Arsenio bathrobe in black terry cloth with the show’s logo embroidered on it!

  But it wasn’t over yet. CNN had a camera crew on the lot and wanted to do an interview. I did a quick costume change and we went down to a waiting golf cart to take me to another part of the Paramount lot for the interview. Now you can imagine me trying to fit my big, tall ass in a golf cart. The hair alone was too big for that sucker. I had to be positioned horizontally to fit into the golf cart, with one end of me sticking out one side and my legs hanging out the other end. Very glamourous. The interview was a breeze.

  I was so full of energy I think the interviewer didn’t really get a single question in. By the time that was done I ran off to the nearest bathroom and took off the dress, hair, corset, heels. What a relief! I slipped into my new Arsenio dressing gown and into the limo that was waiting outside.

  We still weren’t done. It was off to another photo shoot. This was for the L.A. Eyeworks advertising campaign. Driving to photographer Greg Gorman’s studio, we noticed that we were being trailed. At first we thought we were imagining it, so we asked the driver to step on it and make some tricky turns. Sure enough, the car behind us followed. Eventually we stopped and my manager got out and confronted the people behind us. It turned out to be a car full of fans, and the driver was a drag queen. Can you imagine? In full do. It was such a sight. I got out of the car and we all took pictures. They were very sweet. They even presented me with a gift of golden high heels. To this day I still hear from the driver of that car.

  Arsenio opened the floodgates, and after that I was invited on a number of television shows, becoming Miss Television. But no amount of appearances could prepare me for my date with Mr. Television...

  RuPAUL’S FAVORITE MOVIES - CONFLAMA (CONFLICT & DRAMA)

  - Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf: Martha drinks 26 cocktails in 2 hours

  - Night of the Iguana: The Blue Demon speech makes me cry

  - Another Woman: I love Gena Rowlands and Sandy Dennis

  - Network: Faye Dunaway pre-Joan

  - Chinatown: Faye! Faye! Faye!

  - Suddenly Last Summer: In some scenes, Monty can barely stand up.

  - Lady Sings the Blues: Diana—incredibly brilliant debut

  - A Streetcar Named Desire: This movie breaks my heart

  - Rear Window: Peeping Tom gets wise

  - Harriet Craig: Joan Crawford’s semi-autobiographical masterpiece

  - Trip to Bountiful: A sweet story with tears galore

  - La Dolce Vita: Wild, decadent fun

  - Jungle Fever: You are not who you think you are, but so much more

  - Law of Desire: Love is a drug

  - Star 80: Beautiful tragedy

  - Jaws: Great scary movie

  - Carrie: Beautifully filmed

  - The Color Purple: I love this movie—read the book!

  - Boyz N the Hood: Smart movie—great message

  - Blue Velvet: Middle America is a trip

  It was a funky, hot day. Baking. The kind you only get in L.A. I was putting the finishing touches to my do in the air-conditioned cool of the Universal Sheraton hotel. I was wearing a Pamela Dennis gown in ink black, bejeweled with a thousand diamantes. It was the night of a thousand stars—and I was wearing them all! It had been almost a year of going all over the States and all around the world flogging “Supermodel,” and after all that hard work this, I hoped, would be a day to savor.

  Supermodel, the video, had been nominated as best dance video, and I was greedy to hold one of those little silver moonwalker statuettes in my hand. I had no idea what I would say by way of an acceptance speech, but I knew that once I was holding one of those mothers I would rise to the occasion. Whether I won or lost, I thought that either way the day would be a winner, because I was also going to present an award for favorite rock thing, which Aerosmith ended up winning.

  Well, the Universe certainly has ways of surprising us.

  Two days before the awards, I was told that my co-presenter was to be Milton Berle. Dear old Uncle Miltie. A lot of the MTV kids are simply too young to have any idea who he is—but I know because I have my TV education. He was famous for dressing up in drag and making fun of women with a kind of jackass Borscht Belt schtick. His brand of humor is not my brand of humor, so I was not too thrilled about this. The brilliant minds at MTV thought that it would be a great idea: old drag queen, new drag queen, stick them together and present an award! Sounds good. On paper.

  The next day the script arrived—the script that Milton had written, and it was very unfunny. Very old TV. Not my thing at all. It made me realize that MTV didn’t get what I was doing at all. They didn’t get that my take on drag is all about love, saying that we are all drag queens. It’s certainly not about putting women down. And it’s not about being the butt of a bunch of cheap dick jokes.

  Still, I thought I could handle it.

  Gliding through the hotel lobby, I gave a cheery wave to Green Jelly, who were waiting for their ride, and I slipped into the limo feeling as cool, as crisp, and as full of expectation as an afterdinner mint.

  From the outset it was just going to be one of those roller-coaster days. MTV had hired every limousine driver in the city. Everywhere you looked there was a stretch limo. We must have drawn the short straw, because even though the Universal amphitheater was just a short drive away from the Universal hotel on the Universal lot, our driver got lost. We must have gone past the Jaws exhibit about half a dozen times before we finally were dumped on the tarmac a couple of hundred yards away from the entrance. Having run the press gauntlet, it was the hike of a lifetime up and down stairs and along corridors as we were taken to where Milton Berle was waiting to rehearse his material.

  When we arrived at his dressing room he had just finished eating a cheese cracker and was covered with crumbs. His wife was there too, applying mascara in the mirror, and a writer from MTV was also in the room. Uncle Miltie was having makeup applied from his waist up, and he had on a pair of boxer shorts. His pants were around his ankles. Immediately upon being introduced, he grabbed my fake breasts and honked them saying, “Hiya toots.” Then he ordered everyone out of the dressing room, including his wife—who left—and my manager, who declined to leave. Since he was a television veteran, and since I respect elderly people, I was determined to be cordial and try to laugh at his jokes. But I had not expected this. Obviously, he was just thinking, “Oh, drag queen, Ha! Ha! Ha!” and as we rehearsed it became cl
ear that he was just using me as a prop, as a piece of business. He had all the “funny” lines, and I was just there for him to wipe the floor with. He was a complete control freak about it too: “When you say this, say it like this ... No! do it again, like this ...” Even though I was in full makeup, he grabbed my face with his hand and moved my head around like I was some kind of mannequin or ventriloquist’s dummy. I tell you, my blood was boiling, but I thought, “Okay, I’ll go through this rehearsal, but when the time comes I’ll do my own thing.” It had worked in Germany.

  Meanwhile, he had his hands all over me—honking my foam rubber breasts, grabbing my crotch, putting his hands all over my bottom—and I was pushing them off, thinking, “What is this?” If I had been Cindy Crawford, there would have been lawsuits flying all over the place within five minutes, and the show would not have gone on. He was also trying to pull up his pants the whole time, but for some reason they kept on falling down. The grossness of the whole situation really upset me.

  As soon as it was over and as soon as I was out of the dressing room, I got mad at myself for letting him do that to me. All the time I kept thinking he’s an old man, he’s a show business legend, and I should show him respect even though he was showing me the greatest disrespect. I grew up with this mentality that you mustn’t grumble and must keep a stiff upper lip. Yet why is it that because I’m a drag queen I’m supposed to take all that shit in my stride?

  The next thing I knew I was rushed to my seat because they were about to start the show. I was still shaken up by what had just happened. I’m not a kitten, I’ve seen it all, but this really did shock me. Anyway, the show started, and I just hoped that I had an award to look forward to. When my category, best dance video, came up everyone in the audience screamed. But although I got the audience’s vote, I didn’t win. En Vogue won, with “Free Your Mind.” I love them and I love that video—and that’s all I am going to say. But by now I was stewing, and the thunder clouds gathered as it got nearer to having to do this thing with Milton Berle.