The St. James Version

I pride myself on my celebrity radar. I can spot celebrities. Porn stars, soap stars, reality stars, has-beens. It's just a gift I have. Why, just the other week I spotted lusty lawnboy and manscaping enthusiast Jesse Metcalf from TV's Desperate Housewives. "That's not so surprising," you say. "He's on the number one show in the country! How hard could he be to recognize?" Well, I was across the street and a block away, it was at night, during the Halloween parade, and he was sitting down, in a fishing hat and glasses. And not one other person noticed him. I'm THAT good.

When it comes to celebrity spotting though, I bow to the master, RuPaul. And because she was just in town and gave a rare performance at G.A.Y – and DIDN'T INVITE ME – I thought I would pull this old story from the club kid vault in honor of her remarkable ability.

It was at a club called Quick!, which came and went very quickly, in or around 1991. It was in the old Area space, for those of you who care about such things, and was the dreary, ad hoc brainchild of club legend Rudolf, who just wanted to cash in and check out at that point. RuPaul was, I believe, the host of a weekly party there.

Now this was back in the day, when the bitch was a mess. And I say that with love. She has a sense of humor about it now (I hope), and is the first to admit that she was once a sloppy, drunken ho (ha ha). So I don't think she'd mind me telling you this story. About what a tawdry old bitch she was.

Anyway. I remember it well. It was the night Sister Dimension brought sugar cubes laced with liquid acid for her mad tea party, and the entire club was tripping balls. That would explain why Ru was face down in a mud puddle, speaking Elvish and licking the concrete. I mean she was REALLY OUT OF IT, poor thing. We were all poking her with sticks and trying to steal her pumps, being absolute monsters, and she didn't have a CLUE. Not a CLUE.

Good times.

Suddenly, though, she LEAPT UP, straightened her wig, wiped the vomit and ashes from her face, and gave that supernatural smile of hers. Suddenly, she was sober as a judge and sharp as a tack. Suddenly she was ready to sparkle, Neely, sparkle.

"I can't believe she's here!" she screamed, and pointed across the crowded club to a random group of people standing at the entrance, hidden in the shadows, with their backs completely turned to us. "Yes, by God, it's really her!" she announced, and – poof! – she was off. She navigated the dance floor in half a second, barreling through at top speed, pushing daintier queens to the floor, knocking off wigs and spilling drinks until there she was, at the side of this mysterious star, introducing herself and escorting her to the bar. In no time at all they were laughing and carrying on like old drinking buddies. YOU BETTER WORK!

And who was this super-famous celebrity who was so fabulous she could rouse a drooling ho from her stupor? What kind of woman would have RuPaul breathless with admiration? Why, it was Suzette Charles, the first runner-up in the 1984 Miss America pagent, of course. SILLY.

The whole episode had our heads spinning. We were all stunned. Stunned. I mean, the transformation was miraculous. From mess to consumate hostess in two minutes flat. AND HOW ON EARTH DID SHE SPOT HER? HOW COULD SHE SEE FROM THE BACK OF THE CLUB TO THE FRONT ENTRANCE, WHEN SHE WAS FACE DOWN AND HALLUCINATING? And then, how did she recognize her? I couldn't tell you the name of last year's Miss America, let alone the winner from seven years ago, let alone the first runner up from any year. But Ru knew. She's not human, I tell you. That Ru is a genius. It was the quickest spotting of the most obscure person I've ever seen. And it was the biggest reaction to the biggest non-star I've ever seen. And the fastest sobering up. And the schmooziest schmooze.

Of course, now that I think about it, I remembered Suzette's name without having to Google it. And I remember that she did have a moment in the sun, when Vanessa went Undressa and had to be replaced. So I give myself points here, too.

– James St. James

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