Convocation of Drama Queens

“To become the observer of one’s life is to escape the suffering of like,” Mr. Wilde once said. Me, I put it simpler: “Be a big fat f*cking drama queen.”

For instance, I had a sad, ill-starred romance a few years ago. I was heartbroken and demoralized and knew my last chance for love had flown. But did that stop me from posing by the darkened window in a flowing chiffon like Susan Hayward in Back Street? Hell, no–you’re not really suffering unless you’re doing it in soft-focus and a Jean-Louis frock!

Just now I am going through horrendous drawn-out tragedy in my private life, which I’d prefer not to discuss, but thanks in advance for the flowers and sympathy. Not having any other “higher source” to draw upon, I look at my “What Would Ina Claire Do?” bracelet, or “What Would Claudette Colbert Do?” I channel my inner Charlotte Vale or Lady Marjorie or Hildy Johnson, and rise to the occasion. OK, sometimes my inner Norma Desmond or Helen Lawson, but only in very dire circumstances.

I know there are other big fat drama queens here–role call?

Do you drape yourself across a chaise longue in a satin dressing gown, weeping like the crushed and delicate flower you are? Does a single tear track gracefully down your glowing cheek? Does one stiletto-heeled slipper dangle precariously from your foot, symbolizing your own tenuous grasp on life, while your carefully misplaced gown flashes an expanse of silken thigh?

Uh, if so, pictures?

For several years I sorta channeled Joan Fontaine whenever I was down and out, alternating between Joan’s “Rebecca” self and her “Jane Eyre” self. This was at a time in my life when the worst troubles that I had were romantic ones in which I was a co-conspirator in my misery.

Genuine misfortunes later befell me, and somehow the more real and irrevocable the trouble was, the less Joanish I became. Sometimes I miss my inner drama queen. She emoted so much over so little. And she wore such beautiful clothes while doing so.

Damn right it does, till Miss Otis realizes that her plans with the man who had led her so far stray ahave gone away. Then I sweep my lily-white arm along the vanity shelf, and send countless shards of broken perfume bottles and hair-rat holders scattering across the room with a satisfying crash. That’s when LuLu Belle puts St. Louis Blues on the Victorola and I have to go into my oldest gold-chain purse to see if there’s any laudanum left . . .

Yeah?

Hot. I still need pictures for verification.

In all seriousness, sorry you’re going through some shit. Me, too. My e-mail’s in the profile if you ever want to rant at a stranger who admires you quite a bit. Hang tight, it all passes. And, yes, I know you hate hearing this kind of hippie bullshit. Offer stands regardless.

When you descend into true grim cold tragedy, you have to recast: Joan Fointaine and evebn sister Livvy won’t cut it. We’re in the big leagues now: Joan Crawford. Bette Davis. Lana Turner. Kay Francis. Do you have your background music, your choice of ineffectual self-destruction? Fabulous wardrobe to be found in, or hauled off in a Paddy wagon in?

Well, I have an approximation of Joan Crawford’s eyebrows, but no Bette Davis Eyes. Lana Turner? Maybe I look a bit like Lana, around the shoulderpads anyway. Kay Francis is an interesting option, but I think I may go for Ingrid Bergman, if I can summon the cheekbones.

Hey, the only old movie star I look like is Margaret Hamilton! Think that stops me?Lighting, music, wardrobe, makeup and attitude are everything! Thelma Ritter can become Audrey Hepburn.

Is there a specifically male version of this. I know there have been times in my life where I’ve just stared sadly out at rain or snow, and even occasionally narrated my sadness outloud (but only when alone).

Or Marie Dressler can become… um… well… maybe Marjorie Main or Jane Darwell?

I believe a good example of the male version would be Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire.

As for you, you should be sitting on a fire escape in the late evening, pensively smoking a nonfiltered camel and brooding.

No, there’s no male version. Have you ever heard of a Drama King?

It’s not pretty having a Norma Desmond interior and a Dennis Franz exterior. But I try to do the best with what I’ve got.

Maybe if I had a fainting couch . . .

You don’t know any men who are big ol’ Drama Queens? You gotta expand the circle of your relationships, and pronto!

Wrong genre entirely. If you’re a guy and you’re feeling this way you’re supposed to model your life on a country & western song not a movie.

Oh, I thought you meant **straight **men. Come to think of it, I did know one once. His inner self was Betty Page.

My dad’s a drama queen giggle

He’s like…55, worked in a factory all his life, a veteran, a real “man’s man” and somewhat shy to boot!

But I swear to Og that man can out-drama me any day. Not all Olde Timey Movie Star like Eve talks about but he can really put on a show.

Me, I’m so un-dramatic I make myself bored :slight_smile:

I’m more of an alarmist than a drama queen. In times of crisis, I channel Don Knotts.

I’m the younger-generation drama queen. When I get angsty, I channel Tori Amos and Mylene Farmer.

Stop it, people. I’m getting all John Garfield just reading this.

Is it bad that I don’t even recognize the names?

I’m going to go brood a bit. Birthday in 34 minutes, and… Well… Honestly not sure I can face the day.