...luring disco dollies to a life of vice since 1999.

2001-10-28

80's night and the feeling's right

Okay. Okay.

Yeah, it's true. Irony is dead.

So, Lex throws this party last night. An 80's party. I spent a good week-and-a-half planning my outfit, which I believe is the only right and correct thing to do when one is invited to a "theme" party. The hostess has made an effort to incorporate all the necessary elements for said theme; it's downright rude, in my book, to show up in togs that do not respect said efforts of said hostess.

Understand that I am game for any opportunity to take my appearance over the top, as it were. I'm a drag queen at the very core of my being, and it's a connecting factor with most of my best friends as well.

I just found myself in a position last night where I was actually explaining my outfit, and my subsequent behavior, to at least a dozen people. Like when Lex and I propped ourselves against the living room wall, half-empty wine coolers in hand, loudly declaring to one another: "OhmiGOD, I'm so WASTED!" and having several people believe that we were serious. One smartass young whippersnapper cornered me in the kitchen: "I gotta ask: what's your costume supposed to mean?"

"Whaddya mean 'what's it supposed to mean?'"

"I mean, you look totally weird."

"It's an 80's party." (He was not dressed as anything other than a snarky 20-year-old who fancied himself some kind of indie-emo-corduroy-clad-Lothario.)

"Oh." Here's about where I was ready to take him out onto the back porch and give him a sound whipping: "So, then you lived through all of that."

"Yeah. I'm an old racehorse for sure. Just strap on my feedbag and put me out to pasture. Gotta sugar cube before I go?"

"So, what did all of that mean to you?"

I tried to answer him honestly; I tried to explain about Reagan and trickle-down and the ridiculous tail end of the Cold War. He stood there and smirked. A woman I know, closer to my own age, approached. He looked at her and said, "Lisa here thinks that the 80's were horrible."

"I didn't say that. "

"You did. You haven't said anything good about them since I met you."

I really hadn't expected to be put on trial by someone 11 years my junior at a goddamn 80's party, but there you go.

As it turned out, Lex didn't know half the people there, either.

And, to be fair, there were many truly hilarious moments. Andrea and I were highly amused by the drunk woman attired in gold-spray-painted bubble wrap, who bobbed and weaved in front of me while trying to read the buttons on my denim jacket: ''Whutzat button say? Th' one there with the red flags an' shit..."

"That's the Go-Go's."

"Th' Go-Go's?" She paused for a second, lost in thought. "Who were they?"

"The Go-Go's? They're a band."

"A band? I never heard of 'em..." She paused again. "Ohhh, wait...they had the clap thing, right?"

"Beg pardon? The clap?" I asked. Andrea stifled a guffaw next to me. "You mean, 'the Beat?'"

"Nawwwww...you know that one where they do this..." She contorted her bubble-wrapped figure, arms akimbo. "That Egyptian thing, y'know?"

"Oh, that's the Bangles." I couldn't believe I was having this conversation.

"Were they an 80's band, too?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." She tottered off into the kitchen. Andrea and I looked at each other.

"Dude, " I said, "That's a thought, there. 'We Got The Clap.'"

"Uh-huh."