San Francisco Sentinel
February 16, 1990
Street Talk
Meanwhile, on the Other Side of the Planet
By Doris Fish
In the land of Oz, in sunny Sydney, it’s Mardi Gras time. Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras, that is. The whole city goes almost gay for a month-long celebration with art showings, cultural events, entertainment of every kind, sports, flower arranging, picnics, fairs and lots fucking and sucking culminating in an all-night parade and party. The sleazy newspapers love it, and every other day they run some ludicrous “gay scandal”, never letting the truth ruin a good story.
One year the parade was held on a wet night, but miraculously the skies cleared for the two hours it took the fifty floats to dance their way through the famed streets of Darlinghurst, the antipodean version of the Castro, to the Showground where the party was happening. Looking like Esther Williams in “Million Dollar Mermaid” in a solid god bodysuit, I elatedly leapt to the ground from my tiny ski platform behind the huge Haley’s Comet to join my friends inside the giant Godzilla to celebrate our fabulosity, when the skies once again opened. The straight press claimed we’d been rained out and gave credit for the downpour to the archenemies of fun, Rev. Fred Nile and his Festival of Light loonies, who had prayed all day for rain to stop the parade. The torrential rain didn’t dampen the party, but it did cause extensive property damage on the other side of town for which several homeowners threatened to sue the rotten Reverend.
February is high summer in Sydney and never were so many men covered by so little clothing. Evening wear is often just a pair of “Speedo” swimmers! The most popular bars have no dress code. And somebody’s having tons of sex or at least discarding tons of happy used condoms. I remember leaving the big Showground party at 8 a.m. one year, and in the alley, it looked like it had snowed; the ground was almost totally covered by pastel rubber. A lovely sight.
Sex is in, but so is Drag. Sydney has long been the Drag capital of the world. In all my travels I’ve never seen such a preponderance of fabulous Queens as Sydney produces and attracts. Drags come from all over Australia and the South Pacific; the Crown Prince of Tonga is reputedly living as a woman in an inner-city suburb. And of course, at Mardi Gras they come from all over the world. I was thrilled and proud to represent San Francisco last year at the party during the incredible “I Am What I Am” number. There were 15 lead lip-synchers down front and close to 75 of us back-up synchers and dancers cascading out of the ceiling down an enormous stairway to the screams of over 12,000 people. It’s not just ego, but I’m certain the decibels rose as I made my entrance. I was wearing a deceptively simple sixties halter-neck, solid-gold, sequined slacksuit (yes, of course it was flared) with a Statue of Liberty headdress. My skin was bright blue, and my makeup was radiant (from a distance!). Why wouldn’t they love me? Anyway, the number was transcendent and for those few brief shiny moments it seemed like the whole world was deliriously in love with itself.
We were certainly in love with ourselves. Even my eyes were moist as we came offstage to gather our breath in a giant tent. Queens were hugging and crying when for years they’d been scratching each others’ eyes out! It was as if we’d just descended from the Himalayas after experiencing the meaning of all life! Even Queens who I knew hated me were hugging and kissing me, so I got out of there quick smart, before all that energy could go sour!
The Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras Association has grown from an unstructured, hand-made, spontaneous, grass roots, Gay-Lib hippies’ non-organization into a committee-heavy business complete with accountants and secretaries, fax machines and computers. The artists work set hours and pay taxes. At the risk of sounding as old as Herb Caen, I really miss the old days of 1985. We worked out of an abandoned warehouse in a ghetto, paid no rent but managed to have the phone and electricity connected; the artists controlled the budget — $500 in a jar on a cluttered desk. We worked till past midnight on beloved projects, sending out for food and camping on the floor so we wouldn’t waste time going home every night. Now a lot of the founding members have left town, living on farms or in foreign lands. The Mardi Gras outgrew them. The artists wanted someone to answer the phone, to handle the money, to talk to the City Council and keep it going.
The Gay Mardi Gras will keep going, and it will be fabulous. The committees and bullshit will disappear as the parade starts each year ??? enjoy the fruits of labor with gay abandon.
