LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth
|by Brent Mundt|
|Frills, Baby, Frills! A Maverick Theme to Halloween
Sarah Palin can field dress a moose, dress herself on a borrowed Visa, and inspire cross dressing by countless gay men. Since September, Caribou Barbie donned her red written-off pumps and primed every audience to pump oil. But by Halloween, Drill, baby, drill! had morphed into Frills, Baby Frills!
This year of woes, October 31st was pale in comparisonuntil Palin comparisons came out of the woodwork. Cross-dressed homo hockey moms were aplenty in D.C.'s legendary high heel race just days before Halloween. News had broken about the Needless Markup shopping "spree for free" and thus many Palins sported price tags dangling from every item of haute couture. It was a sight to turn Tina Fey gray. Counting Palins became a sportPalins with a flute. Palins with a moose. Palins with hockey players. Palins with Joe the Plumber. One very lucky Palin had "the dude" with her. Each had at least one baby.
Yes, the woman who once banned books about us now dresses us. But the Palin parade we watched served as an arbiter of the Halloween night sure to come.
We were headed out to Rehoboth that following weekend and figured that, dollars to drag queens, every bar would overflow with those faux Killahs from Wasilla. My stuffed moose and my flute were hardly original. I'd seen it all, so had to think quickly and queerlyor be just another run-of-the mill ditzy diva.
I called my friend Walter and asked if he'd mask as Michelle O. to my Cindy Mc. Duos always work at Halloween. Walter meets the basic requirement of being black and I certainly have enough costume jewelry to be a Budweiser brewery heiress. So the plan was for Walteras Mrs. Oto throw Monopoly money around "spreading the wealth" and I would follow behind her gathering it back and shouting "Mine! Mine! Mine!" and shoving it back into my purse. Ms. Redistributionist vs. Mrs. Entitled Heiress.
So, Bud beer in hand and pumps on feet, I escorted Michelle to the costume party at Shag. We arrived fashionably late, to find, among a bunch of rather rag tag costumestwo lesbian pirates, Uncle Sam on a skateboard, and a drunk Snow White. Not one Sarah. We were, without question, the prettiest women there! But there was clearly no sense acting out our redistributionist thang just yet. It would have been overkill. So the pirates asked us to dance. Although we were both married women with very busy husbands on the campaign trail, we found ourselves enamored with these salty old dogs.
Wardrobe malfunctions are not the exclusive domain of Janet J. I'd had a few adult beverages, and for some reason, my pearls wouldn't hold their clasp. My necklace hits the dance floor not once, not twice, but three times. Walter/Michelle had put them back on each time, getting huffy by the third clasp. When the pearls fell the fourth, my pirate said, "Give me those damn things." He went behind me to clasp them once again. He finishes the task, and steps back in front of me without missing a dance step. He yells above the music, "Those won't come off without pliers. I twisted that clasp like a pretzel!" A man, dressed as a frilly silly first lady wannabe was helpedmanhandled actuallyby a woman pirate. How gaily gallant is that?
I should have known that no one was buying the dueling first ladies theme when Uncle Sam said, "Hey, you look like Norma Desmond." You would think Uncle Sam would be more patriotic and play along with the election theme, but no, he just boarded his skate board and took off. Reality bites drag queens, too. Undaunted and heavily under the influence, we two first ladies in waiting headed to the Moon. Our designated driver pulled up on Baltimore Ave. and Michelle disembarked the car first. From the patio we heard someone yell, "Look, it's Gwen Ifill!"
In our haste to be a dynamic duo, Walter and I forgot to ask ourselves a few basic questions. Questions such as: "How old am I?" "What do I weigh?" "Do I look remotely like that parody in these pumps?" The answers are: too old, too much, and not even close.
So Gwen gallantly heads up the stairs, with a rather dejected Norma Desmond trailing behind. Standing in the front door, perpetual man-about-town, Tony Burns, looks at me and says, "Hey, Brent, I have some photos of you in my car." Some master of disguise I was. I'd long abandoned Cindy when Uncle Sam dissed me, and would easily have settled for "Norma" now. But, Brent? There were only two answers. Lipstick and scotch. So Walter/Michelle/Gwen ordered the scotch and Brent/Cindy/Norma headed for the ladies' room. Nice men bought us our scotch, but alas it was time to head home.
Have you ever tried to find pliers under the influence at 1:30 a.m.? It's amazing what strength one can muster to simply break the chain. All threeBrent, Cindy and Normawere picking up pearls all day the next day. Spills, baby, spills!
Thanks for the memories, Governor Palin. Next year, Grandma Barbie will no doubt sweep North America. That would be Canada, Mexico and the U.S.just for the record.
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 18, No. 15 November 21, 2008