Octopodial Chrome

A decade ago today I was a contestant in a mock male beauty pageant put on by the Thetas (a sorority with which I had a slight connection). The girl I’d been chasing was good friends with many of the Thetas as well, and persuaded me that it’d be a good idea to enter; thus I did.

It was actually pretty fun. There was a J. Crew bit, where one was supposed to look as though one had stepped out of a J. Crew catalogue; I think I just wore khakis and a white shirt with a coat slung over my shoulder. There was the stupid human trick; for mine I lit & smoked a pipe (I even had a cool little Zippo pipe lighter). Then there was the underwear bit; I wore silk long-johns over boxers & an undershirt.

My favourite was the lip-syncing contest. There were a lot of funny songs I thought of doing, but I eventually settled on Monty Python’s Bruce’s Philosophers Song. I strode on stage in the remnants of a three piece suit: bow tie unstrung, vest undone, one shirt cuff opened, hair mussed and a Pilsener glass full of non-beer in my hand, and proceeded to sing:

Immanuel Kant was a real pissant who was very rarely stable.
Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar who could think you under the table.
David Hume could out-consume Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel,
And Wittgenstein was a beery swine who was just as schloshed as Schlegel.
There’s nothing Nietzsche couldn’t teach ya ’bout the raising of the wrist.
Socrates, himself, was permanently pissed.

John Stuart Mill, of his own free will, on half a pint of shandy was particularly ill.
Plato, they say, could stick it away—half a crate of whisky every day.
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle. Hobbes was fond of his dram,
And René Descartes was a drunken fart. I drink, therefore I am.
Yes, Socrates, himself, is particularly missed,
A lovely little thinker, but a bugger when he’s pissed.

It was a hit; the entire audience was rolling in the aisles. The judges (two or perhaps all three were professors) loved it (although they did send for my glass to assure themselves that it wasn’t real beer). It was perfect, perhaps my greatest moment on campus.

The finale was an evening dress competition—really, all of us were supposed to be in drag. Well, I’ve never worn women’s clothing in my life and don’t plan ever to, so I was in a bind. I finally hit on a clever solution: I had the MC do a special intro:

When the occasion calls for jeans & a t-shirt he shows up in a coat and tie; when the occasion calls for a swimsuit he shows up in a coat and tie; when the occasion calls for evening wear he shows up in…a coat and tie!

And then I came out wearing a coat and tie. It at least got a laugh out of the audience, and managed to preserve at least a portion of my dignity.

I didn’t win, but I believe I placed. Given the reception of my song, I think I could have won had I done the drag bit, but some things aren’t worth winning. As it was, it was a blast. Even backstage it was fun.

The one annoying thing was that the girl who’d suggested I compete didn’t show up. I’d thought she’d be there, so was more than a little pissed. But all my friends who did attend had a great time.