What a drag

There's more to Frank Marino than just a pretty face

By Andrew Ramsay
(ramsay@vegas.com)

Frank Marino won't just drive any car. As he pulls out into traffic on the far west end of Sahara Avenue, he's busy explaining the details of a recent land purchase he's made. After years of negotiations, he's finally secured the land to build his Vegas dream house. But the story's lost on the writer in the passenger seat. At least for the moment, the car has taken center stage.

Perhaps it's fitting that the only thing worthy of upstaging the glamstar that is Marino would be one of his accessories. And that's exactly what his car is-not just a form of transportation, but an accessory; he doesn't drive his car, Frank Marino wears it. The 1989 Cadillac Coupe de Ville is as black as polished obsidian, dripping with gold trim, the leather seats as smooth as an $800 pair of gloves. Set into the dashboard is a small gold plate with the owner's name. The personalized license plates read "La Cage." And one last touch: Swinging from the mirror is a small medallion with the word "pimp." Breaking from his train of thought for a moment, Marino reaches over to the swinging disk. "You like this? All I need's a feather boa. I tell ya, I'm both the pimp and the whore."

The host of An Evening at La Cage, Frank Marino has become as much a fixture of the Vegas scene as Elvis, Wayne, or that other Frank. Having just celebrated his 15th Anniversary at the Riviera Hotel, he's currently the longest running headliner in the Valley. (Siegfried and Roy have been at it longer, but left for two years while the Mirage was being built.) And as Vegas has remade its image a hundred times over, Marino has remained true, never straying from his world-famous impersonation of Joan Rivers or hosting La Cage in his own self-styled drag queen role. Along the way he's stacked up awards and continued drawing the audiences. And after putting the ink to a 10 year, $10 million extension with the Riviera hotel-casino, Marino promises to be a big part of Vegas for years to come. "I was here when hookers were still legal," he says slyly, reflecting on his longevity. "They'd be standing out there at Caesars Palace; it looked like a bad Baretta episode." His black shark of a car weaves through the West end traffic. "I was here when the Mafia ran the place"-he stops for a red light, making eye contact for the punch line-"and it was still glamorous to have someone bumped off."

Turning off of Sahara, the conversation returns to the site of his new house. "I called the place Dollhouse Estates," explains Marino with an inescapable smirk, "so all these big builder guys have to say 'yeah, I live in Dollhouse Estates.'" After waiting and waiting for the tract of land he had his eye on to be purchased and sub-divided, Marino grew impatient with the delays of the prospective developer. After repeated phone calls, the developer informed Marino that he was well aware he wanted the property, and when the deal was final, he, the developer, would call Marino. Essentially, the "big builder guy" brushed Frank off. "So I call him back, and he says, 'Frank I told you I'd call you.' And I say, 'Oh, I just wanted to let you know that I just purchased the whole block, and if you want to buy property, you can just call me.'" Inserting the perfect comedic pause: "You don't piss off the drag queen." Pulling up to the sub-division, two massive homes are already under construction. The lot where Marino is going to place his own 12,000-square-foot mansion is still a scrape of dirt and sand, but the high desert castles being built on the other end of the block give an indication of what the finished street will look like. All of the houses will be gargantuan; naturally, Marino's will be the jewel in the tiara. His current digs are more simple-heck, even comfortable. Shortly after arriving in the Valley in the mid-'80s, Marino purchased the house where he currently resides. Comfortable yes, but modest? Winding through a maze of streets, house after modest house, looking like a cutout of the next, it's easy to think you've made a mistake on the directions. "Šturn left, the house is on the corner. You can't miss it. It's your typical drag queen house, completely overdone." Arriving at where the Marino's place should be, there's no mistake. If there is such a thing as a drag queen's house? 

Walking up to the entrance, past the stone lions, Tuscany fountains strewn with fake plastic vines, under the iron trellis and the 12-foot high street clock, the front door is already being opened. Your arrival apparently triggers a doorbell somewhere past the lions. "Come in, Frank's expecting you," smiles a powerful young woman in workout attire. "Hi, I'm Alice, Frank's personal trainer. He's back here." With another smile, Alice, looking every bit the part of an ESPN 2 exercise commando, leads the way through the house. In a small room built off of the bedroom, Marino, dressed in cutoff sweats and a white tank top, is sitting on the bench of a rather expensive-looking gym machine. "So you found the place," he says. "We'll be done in a second. Make yourself at home." Make yourself at home? Looking around quickly, that would seem to be easier said than done. Quickly coming to the rescue is Shannon Schechter, Marino's partner for the past seven years. Impeccably dressed in a starched business shirt and tie, Schechter has been working in the back office. He offers the tour of the house. "Your first visit to the house?" he asks. "I know, it's like Liberace threw up in here." He rolls his eyes and starts the tour. "This room," he says, pointing to a room of white and black furniture, fanned out around an ivory piano, "yeah, we never use this room." We walk on. "Here's the dining room," he continues, walking directly into the kitchen, "we never use that room either." The house is a gay man's Wonka factory. The kitchen looks as if TV's "Golden Girls" had walked in and exploded. Two words: seafoam flamingos. There's a chandelier over the bathtub. One room has a glass enshrined collection of Barbie dolls. Schechter's already through the kitchen, past the giant Mylar flowers blooming out of five-foot high glittering vases, and returning to the office. In a small room in the back of the house is a wood-toned library, clearly the most understated room in the house. It's here where Schechter spends much of his time, behind a small oak desk. When not rescuing befuddled journalists, he's the district manager of a large retailer. Rarely a man at a loss for words, when the subject comes to Schechter, Marino becomes almost bashful. "He's the opinion I most value." For a man who seems to always be on stage, his sidestepping of the subject seems odd. Never making a secret of his sexuality, he's quick to add, "I don't promote it to people (either). I don't make an issue of my lifestyle to anybody." After a short pause, he glances out the window searching for something else to add, he suddenly looks less like the Vegas star, and more like another kid from Long Island. Shrugging his shoulders with a smile he continues, "he's my partner."

Frank Marino was born in the '60s (none of your business exactly when) in Brooklyn, New York. Growing up he had what he refers to as a normal middle-class childhood, but it wasn't without trauma. The normal American childhood is apt to include tragedy, and for Marino it was no different. By the time Frank was nine, he had lost both of his parents to cancer-mother to breast cancer, father to lung cancer. Taken in by his godparents, he was raised in a loving nucleus that he still considers his family. While still in his teens it became apparent to Marino that beyond all of this, he was adopted. So still at a young age, he had to deal with the fact that while being raised in the house of Ace and Sarah Paz, after the untimely death of Frank and Sandra Marino, there was still a birth mother and father out there in the world as well. "I think the obstacles in my life, the few that I did have, really pushed me into being driven in my work," he explains. It gave him the confidence to stand alone. "If everything went smooth in my life, I don't think I would have that ambition to fight for things that I want." It wasn't until a few years ago that Marino decided to find his birth mother. She lives in New York, married, with a family of her own. Their reunion was heartfelt, the sort of made-for-TV thing you would expect. Looking back at it all, Marino feels more blessed than anything by the twists in his family. "Being adopted means being chosen," he writes in his book His Majesty the Queen. If anything, it just means more family to love. .

Schechter is desperate to get out the door. He has a meeting across town he's already late for and he's busy stuffing papers into a black valise. Frank's still in the closet-so to speak. The trainer has left and now it's Mandy Marchak's turn with the star. For the past two years, Marchak has been Marino's personal tailor. She has him standing on a stool as she pokes and tugs with pins at a black sequined dress he's brought from the show that needs alteration. Most of his "show gowns" have needed a bit of taking in recently-a strict regiment of dieting and working out has trimmed the star down a couple of dress sizes. (OK, so Frank told me he'd give me $5 if I wrote that line. Screw integrity, I could use the money.) Marino's closet is the stuff of legends. Literally hundreds upon hundreds of shirts are squeezed on racks, three high. Hats, pants, jackets, fill the small room in color, glitter and spangle. Along the back wall, encased behind glass, are the shoes. Nearly 200 pairs fill the wall, high up to the ceiling. Even Marino's not sure if he's worn them all. "Remember," he says, now holding the diamond belt in his hand like a wet towel, "this is just the boy clothes. All the girl stuff's at the show." It's an odd realization: Marino is perhaps the most complex of cliches. Sure, it's easy to say Marino sees two faces in the mirror. But he's not that simple. Perhaps it's an occupational hazard, or merely a prerequisite for the job, but there always seems to be something just under the surface. His house is a decorated bombast, but architecturally it's no different than a million others. He has the bravado of a Hollywood star, but mention that someone once called him difficult and the comment is likely to ruin his day. It becomes even more interesting to point out that the standard tools of a cross dresser aren't found anywhere in the Marino house. "I am a female impersonator," he writes in his book, "a person who dresses in drag for entertainment purposes" But, of course, a quick look at the "boy" clothes revels that there's just as much glit and glam here as anything Bob Mackie could hope to do.

The audience at La Cage is packed in tight. Chairs surround the tables, and even more fill the spaces between. The tourists jostle over each other's knees, bashfully settling into seats that seem far to close. The house is definitely full tonight. A few locals, dressed for a night on the town, sit comfortably along the edges. High roller types, with Italian suits and showpiece dates, move towards the larger booths. Someone comments, "Isn't that a Binion lawyer?" But for the most part, the crowd is middle America-the upper half of the baby boom generation. For a lack of a better description, the audience for La Cage appears, well, Republican. "There's a drag show going on in their hometowns," says one local at our table, upon seeing the La Cage audience, "but they'd rather be boiled in oil than go to that joint." Backstage, in a low ceiling dressing room as thin as a slice of pie, Marino is already busy with the transformation. His assistant for the past five years, Mitch Glad, is busy combing wigs, strand by strand. Dressed in a pink bathrobe, working over the make-up, Marino addresses the comment. "I think in normal cities and towns, to see a drag show one would have to go to an alternative lifestyle club. What the Riviera is genius in bringing to the public-they'll take a first class establishment and incorporate risqué-type shows like La Cage and Crazy Girls, where people will be able to go out of their normal realms and see a production show they're not comfortable in their own state going to see." But what about the fact that a certain portion of his audience would never vote for gay rights, even if they had a gun to their head? "I make gay references throughout the show," he explains. "I don't think I have an obligation" to change anyone's mind, "but they do walk away seeing another side from our show. Maybe they won't feel so intimidated. "I do feel that I have a voice and an opinion and for that fact I'd use it to try to help as much as I can."

  The show is moments from starting. The performers are busy getting ready stage left; stage right is all for Frank. "As we speak, we are the only (female) impersonation show in Vegas." In September of this year, The Kenny Kerr Show shut down at the Plaza Hotel. So what does Marino think of the departure of the "other" impersonator show? He looks into the mirror with a sly glance. "I think it's about time they voted her ass off the island." The whole dressing room nervously snickers, tempting the karma of drag queen cattiness. "The opening line (in the newspaper) was-and I remember it verbatim-the Union Plaza gave her the old vaudeville hook as they yanked her ass off stage." After a short pause, he quickly adds, "I'm just joking. Listen, I don't want anyone to lose their job. I pick on him for the entertainment of others and he does the same back to me. We're in no more competition than Siegfried and Roy or Lance Burton are." But for the moment, with Kerr gone, Marino is now the last of a breed. Many of the larger production shows have upped the bar for Vegas entertainment-star power, flamboyant special effects, dramatic staging. Female impersonator shows, even the fabled Vegas lounge singer, have slowly begun to fade away. Even with the new deal, Marino is more of a reminder of days gone past than a glimpse at the future. "In 1985, I was a star." he explains slipping into his first outfit, becoming more and more Joan Rivers. It's only the first of 15 dress changes he'll make for each show, two shows a night. "If you opened in a show-there were only like 10 hotels that had shows in them at the time-you became an immediate star." He slips on the wig. Glad scrambles over the final touches. The music for the opening of La Cage has already begun. "I miss what everyone says was the good old days, the intimacy of old Vegas. Now we're up against the major, big production shows. Bigger isn't always better." His cue is seconds away. He looks back with a smirk, "unless you're in bed." "And now the star of our show" booms the house speaker. Marino is just seconds from walking on stage. Someone hands Joan the mic. Looking back through the door, he adds one last thing, "Remember, it's difficult to climb the ladder of success, especially in high heels." With that, Frank Marino slides into the spotlight and entertains yet another audience just like he's been doing for the past 15 years. The Queen of Las Vegas, exactly where he was meant to be.

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