Glamour Queen Hurricane


Billie Black, Photographed by Michel Mersereau

This is what I see as I sit in bed, breaking my own no-laptop-in-bed rule, surveying The Fortress.
It’s almost show time, and my apartment is a sea of feathers, and sequins, and silky drawers. There are rhinestone encrusted shoes, wigs, boas, tiaras, scarves, and tassels as far as the eye can see.

Tomorrow night I have cleared my schedule so that I can meticulously work through the set list and put together each outfit for each number. This is one of the show elements I most enjoy.

If you walked into my apartment, and didn’t realize it was mine, you would think someone’s grandmother lived here. The majority of my furniture was made well before I was a zygote, and I have so many old things. In many ways, I really have created my own little world up here.

I have visions sometimes of becoming a gin-swilling Auntie Mame; growing old, and pickled, and still traipsing around in the same flowing robes and perfumed feathers. In this fantasy, I have a grizzled but distinguished cat who follows me everywhere, punctuating my worldly pronouncements with a throaty “Meowrrr”. There is of course a young ward in my charge, perched on the brink of his burgeoning sexuality, to whom I wholeheartedly endorse any and all misadventures. (For the sake of having great stories when your sexy bits have become withered and pendulous)

Until then, I remain Schnoo. I am out of place in these times, yet completely at ease in them. I can smell the need for nostalgia, and communion, and personal interaction with strangers. I and my fierce posse of fabulous females endeavour to bring you slowly, and lovingly into our world where we are all friends. Where we are all celebrating the ability gasp breath. Where we are all beautiful, and tragic, and fragile, and free to explore. Where we are sacred and holy in our humanity.

All set to a jazzy tempo, of course.