I Love My Queer Ears

What's with me and the Divas?

“Dear Dad, I have some startling news: Your eldest son is gay.” That was my lead in the first draft of a Celine Dion concert review for the Statesman in April ‘99. The show was a schmaltzy smorgasbord of bombastic ballads, over-the-top production numbers and more costume changes than Isaac Mizrahi getting dressed to meet David Beckham . . . and I just ate it up.

It didn’t seem possible that I could be heterosexual and at the same time get goosebumps when Celine did a video duet with Barbra Streisand on “Tell Him.” At the end of the song, Ms. Dion kissed two fingers and placed them on Barbra’s lips. “Cleanup in the mezzanine! There’s a puddle where the Statesman critic was sitting.”

I’m not attracted to men (except for that goddamn sexy hunk Michael Rappaport), but that didn’t seem possible when I wept like a little bitch during the encore of “My Heart Will Go On.” Later that night, typing away at a San Antonio motel, I was ready to emerge from the closet of denial.

The next morning, however, I chickened out and gave the delete key a workout, sending in a more standard review. (My catty comment that La Celine could be dubbed “Edith Pilaf” for a French number that was as bland as rice flew in under the gaydar.) I headed home with thoughts of chicks and Budweiser and AC/DC. Never liked show tunes or Kathy Griffin, I rationalized. Mommie Dearest was the worst piece of shit I ever sat through.

But on the drive back, I traced my affinity for gay musical icons, now commonly called divas, and wondered if maybe I had hit a suppressed nerve. I go way back with the boys, even before seeing Bette Midler in 1973, when I was a senior at the same Radford High School Miss M had graduated from 10 years earlier. I’ve been one of those people, people who need Barbra, since the late ’60s, and, of course, there was sweet, tragic Judy Garland pandering for my love and devotion before that. I’ve bought scalper tickets to see daughter Liza Minnelli, for godsakes!

Straight people sometimes do gay stuff when they’re drunk, like the time I woke up from a blackout and found Tapestry in the CD player. I had no idea how I got there. You should see my Spotify numbers: I’ve listened to Madonna more than the Clash!

Could it be that only my ears are queer? Why was I so into Cyndi Lauper, who turned local gay bars into ghost town saloons- I’ve heard- whenever she played Austin? Tina Turner was an incredible singer — of course, I loved her. But Debbie Reynolds? Eartha Kitt? Tallulah Fucking Bankhead? I’ve loved all the gals in the Oilcan Harry’s Hall of Fame.

Cher’s different, OK? I’ve been hot for that Armenian belly button queen forever, so when I went to review Cher’s show at the Erwin Center in 2002, I had no idea she had such a gay following. At least 80 percent of the audience that night would’ve rather dressed Cher than undressed her.

But then I started thinking: “Of course!” Cher meets the three main criteria to be a queer icon.

No 1: She’s what many of the gay men I’ve known aspire to be: a strong woman. She’s tough, but not hardened. She’s not afraid to cry (witness the Sonny Bono funeral), but fuck around with her, son, and you will find out.

No. 2.: Cher uses bawdy language and makes randy analogies. If gay goldfish could name themselves, Bawdy and Randy would be leading monikers. Midler’s not a big star because of her singing voice. There are women doing Wal-Mart commercials who could bury Bette vocally. But nobody’s naughtier, nobody’s more outrageous onstage. “I put my tits on a postage scale once,” she said in one of her shows. “I won’t tell you how much they weighed, but they would’ve cost $145 to mail to Brazil.” That’s the kind of humor that makes you headline over Gloria Gaynor.

No. 3: The third major component of being put on that feather-and-rhinestone-covered pedestal is that you have to be easy to impersonate in drag shows. Here’s where Dolly Parton got in. And Josephine Baker. And Grace Jones. Barbara Mandrell will never be a character in one of those “Boys Will Be Girls” revues because she doesn’t have an instantly recognizable look. Diana Ross is a gay icon. Martha Reeves isn’t. Courtney Love: gay icon. Courtney Cox: not so much.

Of the newer artists, Miley Cyrus is in like Paul Lynde. Beyonce and Adele and Cardi B and Ariana are no brainers. On the fence you’ve got Olivia Rodrigo, who could soon be soundscanning some big numbers in Provincetown if she follows some or all of these steps:

• Marry badly and often, at least once to a gay man who’s fooling no one.

• Make a wigged out talk show appearance. Get drunk and try to flip Anderson Cooper on live TV. Forget that you’re not wearing panties when you get into a car surrounded by paparazzi.

But most of all, spread the love, baby. Give the audience everything you’ve got and look absolutely fabulous doing so.

Did I just write “absolutely fabulous”?

“Dear Dad…”