Can't you just taste it? Floating on the breeze? Like a combination of MAC products, padding, perfume, tension, and shade? A measly few weeks is all that stands between you, me, and the thrills and wonders of the Gay Super Bowl, also fondly known as RuPaul's Drag Race. The an-ti-ci-pa-tion is crushing—I'm piddling myself on the daily. (I usually save that for special occasions!) Of course, I've got fingers, toes, legs, eyelashes, and testes crossed for our dear BenDeLaCreme (it's terribly uncomfortable), but frankly? I'm not so sure my selfish little heart is prepared to share her with the world. I mean, we've become basically an occasional whistle stop for Jinkx as she flutters off to everywhere else, and I sorely miss the days when one had to step over her lithe and lovely passed-out frame just to get to the urinals. And even if Ben goes down in flames in the first three seconds (perish, evil thought—die, die, die!), she'll still be rushing off to do the millions of reunions and drag cruises and all the other required appearances of a RPDR gurl, so we better become accustomed to a little less DeLaCreme in our lives. (It's happening already—you've noticed that we haven't even had a decent Tuck in ages?)

Le sniffle. Le sigh...

But before we really have to start worrying about all that, we have to start worrying about all this: Seattle's brand-newest live RPDR knockoff drag competition. It's aptly called Fierce Queen, and here's what we know: Drag performers old and new will herd themselves into the Eagle to be subjected to the brutal critique of one Miss Amoania, a vicious and acerbic shock queen who moved back to Seattle from San Francisco just for the privilege, and a queen called Urethra Franklin, whom I've never heard of, so there. (But I just adore the name—drag names should be an Olympic sport.) Categories to be judged: look, track selection, synching or singing, creativity, and moves. They've already got 12 local dragsters on the docket to compete, and nails are being sharpened and lashes beaded as we speak—there's not only pride on the line, but real cash monies! Now, I know we seem to be going to the Eagle almost every damn weekend (Jesus Christ!), but it's just so ironically delicious that what was once the best place to suddenly find a fist in your butt (whoops!) has transformed into a pavilion of camp and draggy whimsy. It's a beautiful thing. The Eagle, 10 pm, $7, 21+. recommended