Common Sense	Common Sense Archive

I was having a cocktail with a friend. I mentioned that A Different Light Bookstore in New York was hosting an event with Lorna Luft, in promotion of her new book title, Me and My Shadows. Luft, is, of course, the second daughter of Judy Garland, Liza's kid sis, and a show business legend, sort of, in her own right. She was married to Jake Hooker once and was, thus, Mrs. Lorna Hooker. I sighed and said: "I wish we could host Lorna Luft at the gay bookshop I run." My friend, 14 years younger than I am (I'm 50), said: "It doesn't matter. Even if you did snag Lorna, no one would come." "What do you mean?" I asked; I envisioned throngs. He said: "All those Judy queans are dead!"

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I was deeply shocked upon hearing this. Is this something my friend wished true? Or was it in fact true: all the Judy queans dead and gone? What had happened to them? Who had replaced them? A gay world without Judy and her queans seemed unimaginable. My friend, rubbing salt in the wound, said: "My gay identity formation is quite complete and it had nothing to do with Judy Garland-- or Maria Callas for that matter." Gay men growing up without a particular love/fascination/obsession with show business legends? Adelina Patti (to whom Oscar Wilde was particularly devoted). Grace Moore (the gay guy's fave of the 20s and 30s). Alida Valli. Even-- and I know I once asked in this column whether there was such a thing as a Arlene Francis quean-- but the peculiarities of Gay World have convinced me, even though I have yet to meet one, though I know he's Out There-- Yes! Arlene Francis Queans!

These are our goddesses, grease-paint covered though they be. Has success in gay liberation and gay assimilation slammed the door on this distinctive gay pathology? Little straight boys grow up with their sports heroes and what not. Little gay boys grow up and many can do a dynamite Diana Ross by 5th Grade. Maybe the gay scouts can even have a Lypskinka Merit badge for fabulous mime.

And straight men have their idols too. My dearest friend had his lover die on him not long back. Gordon, the deceased, had been married three times, fathered five children, and then went gay and lived with my friend for 30 years. Gordon was devoted to the life, talent, and career of the late Totie Fields. La Fields was pretty low on the celebrity food chain, but she did her daily guest spots on the afternoon TV shows with Merv Griffin. Gordon collected artifacts from La Fields-- X-mas cards, celebrity gee-gaws and whatnots. After Gordon's death, I was given a package containing his Totie Fields Collection, which I have here before me now. I'm sure Gordon's appreciation of Miss Fields was genuine and heart-felt. It's just that-- well-- you know.

Is it possible that the decline in the quality of Devoted Queans is a symptom of the Dead Judy Queans theory? When gay men can't even pick the right, best star as their vehicle, can we say normalcy has taken its price? Would Billie Holiday be around today without the love and support of queans? Would Bette Midler? Liza? Lorna? Judy herself? The only Judy quean I know to be dead is Peter Allen, Liza's first gay husband-- haven't all of them been gay? We can't let this story go down! We can't let them hijack our gay heritage.

That has sort of happened with the movie version of Stephen McCauley's Object of My Affection, which, over ten years, got completely rescripted. It is now a story about a bright, attractive woman who is in love with a gay man. And the phrase "fag hag" doesn't come up once! Like Liz Taylor, she gets knocked up by a butch straight guy, but for fun, companionship, and giggly-girl good times, it's Have The Gay Guy as Best Friend. McCauley has moved the dialogue downtown, from the Judys and Marias and Bettes to just the gal in the other bedroom.

Critic Reed Woodhouse notes that it is untrue to call Affection a closet novel, but adds: the "premise is, of course, that homosexuality needs to be redeemed," an idea the movie takes even further. Is it this which is killing off the Judy queans-- the culture queans are being suffocated by the stale air of the mass culture? Age, fatigue, and diseases obviously take their tolls. But dullness and stupidity and assimilation brew their own toxins, with similar effects. I would do a Lorna event for just one or two devotees-- the slimness of attendance making the event even more special, like early Christians in their dark catacombs working it out.

But La Luft will not be on my dance card at work. Instead I had this scenario recently: a leather-clad couple, a he and a she, came in. She with elegant tattoos on her ear lobes, he with chains and accessories. They were middle-aged. They came across the new book by George Plimpton about Truman Capote. They both picked up the book from its display and handled it and looked all about it. She to He (with, I must add, a completely blank look): "Jeez, was Truman Capote gay?" I heard this, rolled my eyes, and, you know, wherever it is that those dead Judy queans have gone, some mad land across the gay river Styx, absent the disco, I hope, it is to those fields (not Totie) I am going. Better dead Judy queans than live zombies, by the yardful.

Author Profile:  Mitzel
	Mitzel was a founding member of the Fag Rag collective, and has been a Guide columnist since 1986. He manages Calamus Books near Boston's South Station.
	Email:	mitzel@calamusbooks.com
	Website:	calamusbooks.com