The paths to greatness are varied and many. Some risk assassination and torture to uplift the downtrodden masses. Others hone their acting skills by faking ecstasy on casting couches and feigning interest in the vacuous blather of powerful people.
Me? I took a short-cut. I simply declared myself to be superlative.  “Candida Byrnes,” as I billed myself on the bar and party circuits, had no special talents other than exuberance. But that did not stop her from snatching the spotlight. Brassy, bold and bodacious, she radiated the essence of the Divine Miss Midler, Auntie Mame, Pippi Longstocking, Queen Latifah, Jack from Will and Grace, the Absolutely Fabulous broads and the drag queens on Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.
The public bought it. In my glory [bachelorette] days, karaoke hosts fanfared my arrival. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Divine Ms. Candida has entered the bar,” T. Roth (now Zipster08 on YouTube) would announce.  I would graciously place my foot on a bar table, and my fans would applaud my stiletto, platform or cha cha heels of the day.
You too deserve this adulation! And if anyone can get you there, it is Auntie Jen. I cannot help you to earn legitimate fame from talent or ability. But I know mojo, and Baby, yours is dying to go go. I have spent years Creating the Divine, and neither wrinkle nor cellulite nor imperfect pitch has burst my bubble. At least not permanently.  Lord knows I won’t be passing my wisdom to any rug rats.  Instead, in my RevitaLift years, I shall pass my secrets to aspiring Divas.

Flaunt your flaws
“But Jen,” you may say. “I can’t be a Legend. I’m too fat, old, tone-deaf, fill in the blanks.”
And I would say, “Your point?” There’s no need for voice lessons – just look at Sandra Bernhard.  That comedian has been trying to pass herself off as a singer, and we let her get away with it because we love her brattitude and we love her lips. What’s a few weak notes when she has enough sass and brass to upstage Mariah Carey’s annoying vocal gymnastics?
There’s no need to liposuck yourself down to Calista Flockhart emaciation. Look at Divine! He was bald, and he was fat, and he was Fine. He had verve! He had moxie! He was a reckless explosion of joyful decadence. His adoring director John Waters has told The New York Times, “Every one of my movies is about someone who takes what society says is a disadvantage and turns it into a style and wins.”
So true. Exaggerating so-called “defects” is good campy fun. Drag Artiste Justin Bond created Kiki (of the Broadway/lounge act “Kiki and Herb”) specifically so she “didn’t need to be pretty.” Kiki is a boozy broad who has seen better days. Middle age has passed her by and washed her up in seedy bars, mumbling devastating tales of her sordid life, yelling at audience members and swilling their drinks. She’s inappropriate, she’s irritable, and she’s irresistible!
Mainstream women spend way too much time and magazine space trying to hide their blemishes, lose weight, and dress to impress. It’s liberating to flagrantly flaunt flaws. Forget etiquette. After the work day’s over, you can be as tacky, vulgar, bizarre or bitchy as you wanna be.

Concoct a stage name
The purpose for a stage name is threefold. For one, it creates a buzz. Consider a karaoke emcee announcing “Jasmine the Mysterious Enchantress.” Consider the same emcee announcing “Mary.” Compare and contrast.
Secondly, creating an alter ego encourages a sense of playacting. It’s as though you’re stepping outside your everyday identity and creating a fantasy persona far from the demands of rationalism. As though Jen is the wage slave who pays her bills and thinks responsible thoughts, and Candida Byrnes is the ravishing sex kitten who does whatever the fuck she wants.
Three: Stage names can help protect the responsible rep. Not many people know this, but the reason Clark Kent concealed Superman’s identity is that after saving the world, major babe action became available. He’d pick up two, three, four at a time – gotta remember, super powers and tights. Great for S-man, but not exactly conducive to mild mannered reporter status, let alone scoring with Lois. I have a similar deal, except instead of wearing a cape, I might prefer a Carmen Miranda hat and marabou trim.
You may consider a drag queen name, which generally relies on puns, satire and bad taste. Internet sites, such as Gaymart.com, can get you started. Some of my favorites: Miss Carriage; Anita Mann; Amanda Feelgood; Patti O’Furniture; Natalie Drest; Devoi DeTaste; Barb Wire; Scarlett Fever; Brandy Alexander; Maxi Shield; Flo Hymen; Delirium Tremens; Clams Casino.
I chose “Candida Byrnes” for several reasons: “Candida” sounds exotic and mysterious, and thus works for belly dancing gigs. Because “Candida Albicans” is a scientific name for a yeast infection, the name is simultaneously offensive and gross. The nickname, “Candi” with an “I” sounds cheap and tawdry.

Tell the World Wide Web
I launched a “Candida Byrnes Fan Club” My Space to promote this exaggerated self-image. Motto: “It’s Not Narcissism – It’s Realism.”  I promised “EXCLUSIVE interviews with Candida’s adoring fans, with inspiring anecdotes illustrating how her presence is a glittering star in their otherwise bleak lives! FASHION layouts of the Divine One’s couture and party appearances. Previews and reviews of Ms. C’s performances – comedy, karaoke, lip sync and burlesque. And more!”
Hey, the press made a celebrity out of a bland model who turns letters on The Wheel of Fortune and Nicole Richie – what did she really do anyway? Imagine what hype can do for someone who has true personality.

Form mutual admiration societies
Once I established the fan club, I needed fans. An “I stroke your ego, you stroke mine” approach got me started. I honed in on Peaches DelMonte, a polyester drag queen who looked like she could be kicked out of a John Waters for being too filthy. S/he had it – flamboyance! Pizzazz! So I let her know we were equally exalted.
“See those hot guys? They want us,” I’d astutely observe.
“How true. Everyone wants a piece of us,” she’d agree.
Or “Those girlies drinking up that Bud Lite crap? They’d kill to be us. They’re so jealous it’s pathetic,” I’d point out.
“The Little People can be so petty,” he’d reply.
Other fans are quick to jump on the bandwagon, especially when the ride is so much fun!

Cruise gay bars
As a bisexual, I showcased my creation at both gay and straight bars.  Needless to say, gay bars provided the far superior hotbed of followers. Straight guys don’t know from fabulous. Oh, they’ll fuck you. But they don’t care whether you’re wearing silver platforms or Keds, as long as you’ve got bodacious ta tas (and I do).
This is all very well and good, but certain outfits are not just meant to be removed – they must be adored. Straight women notice how lovely you look, but they’ll hate you for it.  In fact, a snub may be your highest compliment.  If someone starts a rumor that you’re the skankiest of hos, you are having a fabulous hair day, girlfriend!
Gay guys, by contrast, “got” the Glam persona.  I’m not sure why, but I have a theory. Being in the closet, whether for being gay or just for being weird, creates the need for flamboyance. Imagine a Jack-in-the-box, cooped up in its own little world, where it fills up with dreams of a better life. When he finally gets his ya yas out, you bet he’ll flounce about.

Haunt karaokes
Karaoke bars are the ideal setting for the egomaniac whose only qualification is that she wrote the name of a song on a slip of paper.
I do harbor delusions of grandeur – it’s just that these delusions do not include the quality of my singing voice. But what I lack in perfect pitch, I make up for in footwear. When I wore the Polynesian platforms with grass huts hand-carved and hand-painted on the wooden base, and flowers embroidered onto the black velvet tops, I didn’t need to sing like Judy Garland. The shoes got enough applause to warrant equal billing – I was “The Divine Ms. Candi and her Fabulous Shoes.” Outrageous outfits, a saucy attitude and dramatic delivery sealed the deal, and before I knew it, I was part of the emcee’s stable of stars.
Other forms of karaoke compensation for the voice impaired: Sing something atonal, such as “Wild Thing” (by the Troggs) or “Take a Walk on the Wild Side” (by Lou Reed), anything by Bob Dylan or a rap song. Sing-talk any song, in the manner of William Shatner in Golden Throats. Do a duet, so you can blame the foul notes on your friend. Find a song with limited range, such as “Sweet Dreams are Made of These” (by the Eurythmics).
And sing with gusto. There’s this guy, Shel, who belts, or rather belches “Play that Funky Music White Boy” every week at Sneaky Pete’s – down on Ridge Road by the trailer park. He’s a guy you might not even notice at Bingo night.  But he sings that song with such relish, he brings the house down. I’d rather hear someone sing their heart out off-key than to sing the right notes apologetically.

Beware the downfall
I’ll never forget the day I wore my red pumps to gay karaoke night. Anywhere else, those shoes would have been fabulous. But when the host called me up to the spotlight, he introduced me as “The Divine Ms. Candi and her Not-so-Fabulous Shoes.”
Could it be? I could not fit into my own shoes! I lost in a competition with myself, where I was only as good as my last outfit. It’s like this: the life span of fashion items has an inverse relationship to their level of magnificence. Jeans and sneakers? You can wear them forever. But that one-of-a-kind rhinestone-studded pump? People will remember a shoe like that, and after subsequent wears, it becomes tres “Been there, done that.” The very definition of fabulous involves the words “exceptional” and “unusual.” Once something has been seen again and again, it becomes usual.
You see it in Behind the Legend all the time. Every diva meets her demise. Yet she usually crawls her way back – if not to the top, at least to the point there VH1 will do a special on her. How do celebrities revive their sagging images? I scoured the tabloids for clues, and I shall share.

Reinvent yourself
Madonna eternally reinvents herself. She makes a fashion statement until it evolves to the bargain bin at Fashion Bug. So out with the thrift store chic, in with that weird Clockwork Orange cabaret thingy she did. Then onto the poke-your-eyes-out Gaultier bra.
Problem is, this Material Girl doesn’t have the budget to restock her wardrobe like that. Ebay to the rescue! Sell the babelicious outfit that everyone has seen, and that’ll pay for the next one-of-a-kind treasure. The following terms will present foxy creations: “femme fatale,” “sex kitten,” “show girl,” “bombshell,” “vamp,” “vixen,” “va va voom,” “trashy,” “wiggle dress,” “sexpot,” and “feather.”  But you may have to bid against me.

Add a dash of self dep
An ironic indication that you know you’re only a legend in your own mind can stave off Sunset Boulevard syndrome. You know Norma Desmond, that aging has-been who intimidated her servants into blowing up her overly inflated ego? Her butler sent her fake fan mail to prevent drama queen theatrics. Her desperate boyfriend had the nerve to break up with her, and he ended up floating in the swimming pool in a puddle of blood. That Dame was high maintenance.
A healthy dose of self-deprecation helps keep Divine ego in check. Better to join in on the laughter when I spill yet another drink with my extravagant gestures. I think that’s what George had in mind when he used to rant about what a strumpet his alter egomaniac Peaches is. He’d speculate on what grotesque sex act she might be performing at this very moment and … Okay, so maybe he was advertising. But the point is that failures to live up to one’s own exalted standards can be tragic or funny – you take your pick!

Budget the divine
Dress-down days further immunized me from the tyranny of the Divine. Oh, the fans, they protested my jeans and t-shirt. But I explained, “This is the matte finish against which my fabulous nature will shine all the brighter.”
Once the fans get hooked on a certain level of glitz, they develop a tolerance and demand more and more. Withhold it strategically, I say. Build anticipation by announcing special engagements ahead of time. Distribute invitations. Make the public yearn for special appearances. Always leave them wanting more.
If you were always in Special mode, it wouldn’t be so special anymore, now would it? Superman would be less super if he had to go to the Laundromat or clean the cat litter, just as unmitigated Clark Kent is boring. They need each other.  It’s a delicate balance and don’t let anybody sway you with their pleas for more.

Pass the torch
Remember Snow White’s evil stepmother? She wasn’t satisfied to rest on her laurels as the fairest of them all. No, she had to poison young vixens to raise her self esteem. Bad idea. A bunch of midgets foiled her plan, and Snow White kept on looking fantastic.
A better idea: pass the torch to the fair vixens. They’ve got the smooth bodies, but you know how to work it – now that you’ve read this article. Together, you can be treacherous. I bet if that Stepmother played her cards right, she could have had top billing. It would have been “Snow White and her Sugar Mama.”
Listen – leave the catty competition for the Joan Crawford-Bette Davis routines. It’s more fun to embrace youth as well as age; lithe bodies as well as flab.  Fabulosity is everywhere.  Find it and embrace it!

END