Hilton Als

RUPAUL, THE UBIQUITOUS STAR of “Supermodel (You Better Work)” and author of such statements as “When I went to Japan and saw Mt. Fuji and saw that it was love, I said to myself, ‘Ru, you are Mt. Fuji,’” was, at one point, the ubiquitous leading lady of such films as Terror, in which she played an undercover blaxploitation detective named StarBooty. As StarBooty, Ru said things like “Don’t let your mouth write checks your ass can’t cash” and promised a series of autobiographies, one titled New York Is a Big Fat Greasy Ho.

Now that RuPaul, doyenne of Lower East Side performance/drag society, has crossed over to Joan Rivers, been profiled in The New Yorker by Guy Trebay, and has a new record slated for release, the ho, apparently, is on the other mule, which is exactly how I feel about the 1993 Biennial Exhibition at New York’s Whitney Museum of American Art. Or to restate, more or less: you

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