Dear Mr. Diva,
Who is the greatest drag queen of all time?
—Cyndi
Dahling
Cyndi,
Martha Stewart. Without question.
Think about it. Who else can you think of who knows her way
around a tool belt, a sewing machine, a kitchen, every kind of craft emporium from discount house to chandelier supplier, and every kind of garden from Traditional English to succulent? Can elegantly arrange every kind of blossom in any kind of vessel? Can hostess any event from a birthday party (with pony rides and a homemade ferris wheel) to a state dinner for 800? Can decorate and maintain homes in Maine, the Hamptons, Connecticut, and Fifth Avenue? Can find the time to restring a Steinway, visit the Yale Alley Cats, and take a plate of homemade treats to the beasties at the Bronx Zoo—and not forget to have expensive facials and shop at J. Crew and Yves St. Laurent? All while exerting a more powerful cultural influence than any governmental entity in Washington, DC? True, Mama Diva would qualify if the above were the only criteria. But Mr. Diva is an only child, whereas the Mother of the House of Stewart helms a bizillion-dollar-a-day business, payrolls an army of queens and fag-hags, and funnels the fascism of Good Things to a public in desperate need. She does all this while looking remarkably lifelike. Pepper LaBeija, eat your heart out.
Still not convinced? Open your copy of Martha Stewart Living (oh, yes, you do) to the "Sources" section in the back. Notice how two out of every three businesses are located in Chelsea or the West Village?
Mr. Diva rests his case.
—Mr. Diva
Dear Mr. Diva,
Thank you for your discussion on groups of the 1990s and the "Backdoor Boys." In your musical opinion and wisdom, are there any real groups left out there? I am concerned that artistry has been taken over by the benjamins. Also, what is your take on En Vogue—musical or marketing dynasty?
Looking for some worthy opinion,
Chiagi
Dahling Chiagi,
Look no further. Ask and ye shall receive. Seek and ye shall find. But ye may not find what thee thought thou was't seeking.
It will not boost Mr. Diva's Q Rating to state this, but the fact is that marketing genius and musical genius are not necessarily separate entities. Pop music is, by definition, a consumer product. A new pop act is subjected to the same intense conceptualization, packaging, promotion, and focus-group scrutiny as a new shampoo. Sad, appalling, heartbreaking, immoral, but true. Today's pop artist is not measured by the evolvement of their chord progressions but by the number of CDs remaindered to the $3.99 bin. As Mr. Diva has said before (and expects to repeat again), divas define their times and are defined by their times. This is a sophisticated extension of the basic truth that, as in every other era in music history, the 1990s have summoned exactly the kinds of "real groups" the decade deserves. Society, right now, could not birth, say, the Rolling Stones (though it can drag them down). As Mr. Diva says about certain of his exes: It's not pretty, but there it is.
Nonetheless, Virginia, there are "real groups" out there. These are holdovers from earlier eras. This explains why Mr. Diva, who takes his fiduciary responsibilities very seriously, often discovers that his opinions point backward in time. Some artists transcend the bean counters' viselike grip on the gonads of record company executives. These artists are allowed to make albums whether anyone buys them or not. When that happens, nine times out of ten, you've got a diva. (The tenth time, you've got a solvent and well-organized fan network, a situation with which no one, not even Mr. Diva, is going to argue.)
So: En
Vogue. Funky divas or Wharton MBA student's wet dream? The
answer, Alex, for the win, is: both of the above. En Vogue
managed to scale the mountain of pop divahood without actually
achieving the peak, fueled by the same church-inspired aspirations
as Janet Jackson
but without the PR advantages of Janet's dysfunctional childhood.
As we all know, Janet forsook her flirtation with divahood by
discovering nautilus, cosmetic
surgery, and that poo-poo makes interesting play-doh (please,
dahling, the story is all over uptown). She and Jocelyn
Wildenstein remain poster women for the sad but necessary
Diva-Pretender's Network, by proving that you can indeed be too
rich, too thin, and too surgically altered. Being skull-bendingly
crazy and blood-chillingly wealthy are simply not enough.
Where was Mr. Diva? Oh, yes, En Vogue. Their brilliant "Funky Divas" album blasted the tepid world of early '90s pop out of the dreary self-service of Mariahzebub (see below) and the infirm rage of the Future Widder Cobain and her ilk. In the grand tradition of pop music, Dawn, Maxine, Terry, and Cindy were courted by producers Thomas McElroy and Denzil Foster. In the mortar and pestle of the mixboard, En Vogue wrapped their honey-rich harmonies around such instant classics as the kickass "Free Your Mind" and the irresistible "My Lovin' (Never Gonna Get It)." En Vogue was mmmbopping when Hanson were too young to experience the joys of enforced truancy and circle-jerking in hotel rooms during a sold-out world tour. En Vogue wore fierce outfits, harmonized like the angels on either side of God's throne, and knew how fortunate they were to be so positioned. This is borne out by their effusive gratitude to the Deity on the "Funky Divas" liner notes. Not since Donna Summer HerSelf have born-again Christians had such good publicity.
It only follows, then, that the next few years would find Ruth, Anita, Bonnie, and June breaking up the act. (What? Oh. Sorry.) The reception for 1997's follow-up, "EV3," was lukewarm at best. It's still unclear whether we should blame Dawn Robinson's departure from the group or the remaining members' badly realized retro-'70s look. Mr. Diva is inclined to go with the latter, for the harmonies on "EV3" were no less sweeter and the hooks no less memorable. Mr. Diva is certain that had the lasses not gone for a better-conceived madcap "Charlie's Angels" style, this would only have reinforced the revolving-door philosophy inherent in the freewheeling world of prefab pop. Mr. Diva regrets that he did not get to the girls in time to nullify the worst of the wreckage, but he was trying to resuscitate Dusty Springfield at the time and was somewhat preoccupied. In general, that was just a bad year for Mr. Diva.
Mr. Diva also notes that timing, the most crucial element for making a pop music splash, was now at odds with the funky divas' blend of double-soul. Madonna, the standard-bearer for modern pop divahood, had merged music and business so seamlessly that she had subjected the world to the carcinogenic menace that is Alanis Morisette! And has yet to express regret! Even Crystal Waters was collecting enough spirit-numbing beats-per-minute to eventually generate a greatest hits compilation. The lyrical depths of Waters sum up the mid-1990s: la da dee, la dee dah.
Dahling Chiagi, there is light at the end of the tunnel. If Taylor Dayne can dare show her face in public after all these years, then En Vogue, if they apply themselves and their lipstick skillfully, should have no trouble recapturing the near-glory of their early days. Let us all pray.
—Mr. Diva
Dear Mr. Diva,
I hate to be one of those people who write in and say, "Please settle an argument that is brewing between my boyfriend and me," a la "Dear Abby," but please settle an argument that is brewing between my boyfriend and me. He refers to Mariah Carey as one of the greatest divas of modern times, while I refer to her more informally as "that screaming bitch." He actually will play Mariah Carey CDs when he wants some whoopee. Please, Mr. Diva, enlighten my boyfriend, restore our harmony, and fix my sex life.
Anxiously awaiting your pronouncement,
Loretta
P.S. Why don't they print your picture like they do Abby's? Surely you have several glamour shots to choose from!
Dahling Loretta,,
Some decorum, please. Let's not call Mariah Carey a screaming bitch. She's simply the best-trained dog act in the biz.
Mr. Diva has been informed of an inconvenient concept called "libel." Therefore he must limit his discussion to the behavior of your boyfriend, without mentioning the migraine he gets upon sight, not to mention sound, of Ms. Carey. It is also time to emphatically deny that Mr. Diva has ever said, "If Kool-Aid could sing, it would sound like Mariah Carey."
The germane problem here is your boyfriend's skewed vision
of love. Mr. Diva almost can't blame him, for if your boyfriend
is 25 years or younger, it's tragically conceivable that he's
had no exposure to great mood-makers. Your boyfriend may actually
think Mariah
and her ilk have the right to breathe the same air as some of
the legends we will touch upon momentarily. First, though, allow
Mr. Diva to salute you. Here you are with a gentleman caller who
actually thinks you could be seduced by the sounds of a chihuahua
being fed through a meat grinder against a backdrop of hurdy-gurdy
and calliope, and you don't dump him on the spot. The generosity
of women never ceases to amaze Mr. Diva.
Mr. Diva suggests a heartfelt demonstration for your boyfriend
of the erotic possibilities inherent in, say, an Aretha
Franklin record. Other possibilities include Gladys
Knight, Ruth
Brown, Patti
LaBelle, or Nina
Simone. If this boyfriend is being
auditioned for mate potential, you could go for the heavy
artillery of Tammy
Wynette, Wanda
Jackson, or Patsy
Cline HerSelf. (WARNING: These last three are championship
maneuvers and not for the uninitiated.) Initially, your boyfriend
may demur, for if he thinks Mariah can or should be allowed to
sing, he is either significantly developmentally delayed or gay.
(Gay men who like Mariahzebub are the great puzzle of Mr. Diva's
life. Can anybody out there explain this to him? Please respond
here.)
There is, of course, a second, more insidious reason that your boyfriend may be making the moves to Mariah's soundtrack. Certain males, while pupating, are fragile when faced with the spectre of a robust, fully-realized female. In such a circumstance, the pupating male will go for the easy kill that any anthropologist or advice columnist will recognize as the first-strike capability of timid prey. Of course he does not acknowledge this bottomless pit of terror, especially not to himself. But you sense it, don't you?
Dahling, Mr. Diva will bet even money that your boyfriend is comfortable with a two-dimensional facial-peeled honey and terrified by a natural woman. How you play this situation determines where you fit within that continuum. Mr. Diva is certain that you are well-equipped to pinpoint the situation, and resolve accordingly. For courage and/or assistance, refer to the same divas to whom you would hope to introduce your boyfriend. With any luck, it will become one of the great menages-a-trois of all time.
—Mr. Diva
P.S. Mr. Diva is told that certain of the art staff were somewhat
intimidated by Mr. Diva's glamour shots, as there are so many
of them. These poor creatures were admitted to the Jean
Harlow wing of the International Diva Trauma Center, where,
with the help of their highly trained (and very attractive) staff,
they were soon able to face Mr. Diva's "Dear
Abby" pix. Thanks, dahlings!
P.P.S. Incidentally, there is no truth to any rumors you may have heard concerning a slight contretemps involving Mr. Diva not being consulted on a certain cable network's "Divas Live" broadcast. This oversight resulted in an unfortunate programming faux-pas. Mr. Diva emphatically denies that he was restrained from storming the stage with a flea collar and muzzle during a certain soprano's set. Nonetheless, Mr. Diva's dahling attorneys have confiscated all Mr. Diva's weaponry except his Attitude and his nail file, apparently in response to directives from the dahling FBI.
Darling Mr. Diva,
Having benefited lavishly from your sage advice in times past, I lay my head upon your bosom with full confidence that you will be able to put my troubled mind to rest once again. The query is one of language: pronouns, to be precise. Which would be the proper wording of this statement: "Lady Bunny is sooooo tired and she really just needs to STOP" or "Lady Bunny is sooooo tired and he really just needs to STOP"? When, exactly, does a queen relinquish her right to the feminine, if ever?
With baited breath and gorgeously glossed lips I await your answer,
Kat
Dear Kat,
Mama Diva enjoyed hostessing our luncheon. She so appreciates the steady stream of insightful questions with which you contribute to rendering Mr. Diva, at long last, employable.
The correct wording of your question won't answer your query. Your important plea should be issued thus: "Lady Bunny, in the name of all that is holy, please cease!" In dire situations, Mr. Diva isn't too proud to beg, and you shouldn't be either.
Dragsters, whether artist or poseur, never forfeit their right to contradiction. The grammar of mixed signage is as follows: A drag queen is "she" in female persona and "he" during those infrequent appearances in male persona. The obverse applies to drag kings.
More convoluted are the guidelines in referring to those whose drag is not gender-oriented but species-oriented. For example, Mr. Diva would refer to Misstress Formika as "she" but to ffloyd as "he" or even "it." Mr. Diva would look to the dragster's plumage for signals of the appropriate pronoun. Standard drags indicate the opposing pronoun as described above. Extraterrestrial drags indicate the dragster's intention to be especially confusing. In those instances, err on the side of conventional wisdom. If you are mistaken, the dragster will inform you in no uncertain terms. If this language becomes too colorful, you have Mr. Diva's permission—and example—to respond in kind.
—Mr. Diva
You Too Can Ask Mr. Diva!
Whether you have an existential concept that must be fully explained or a fine point that needs clarification, Mr. Diva can help. Feel free to submit any and all questions to us, and they will be answered by Mr. Diva as soon as his nails dry.
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