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 eggy
Shaw and I have waved at each other at various queer conferences over the
years, and we once performed together at a benefit for Dixon Place in which
I appeared as Mary Lou, the Southern Belle in Stage Door (I had seven
lines), and Peggy essayed the role Adolph Menjou played in the movie (she
had thousands of lines); she was utterly truthful to the material, never
sending it up, and I found myself watching her and thinking how sexy she
was as a guy; now suddenly she was sitting across from me late one evening
at Café Loup; she was wearing her man’s jacket, and her magnificent
face and frame were comfortably ensconced in the banquette. Close-up, this
legendary cross-dresser and co-founder of Split Britches has soft features;
in her presence I again felt myself stirring in a sexual way which I almost
never do unless a man is talking to me and leaning in and looking at me
directly in the eye. She speaks in Southie-inflected, aggressive bursts
(she’s actually from Belmont, Massachusetts), and she frequently circles
back to correct an earlier phrase, building word upon word in a rhythmic
incantation like a preacher. Peggy’s supremely transgressive art explodes
every box which might be used in some vain attempt to contain her: language,
societal norms, sex, fashion, romance, art
—she breathes life into all
of them and there is nothing but surprise and pleasure in store for anyone
encountering her. Every mundane question I lobbed her way felt like a little
turd I was tossing out to a magician who instantly transformed it, mid-air,
into some miraculous fauna which she caught and sent scampering off to new
life of its own.
craig lucas
I was really turned on by Menopausal
Gentleman; I thought it was a play and not performance art. As a playwright
I have a slight allergy to the sort of piece where the performer comes
out and says, "And then I did this and my mother said this and .
. . Now I’m gonna take off all my clothes." (continue) |
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