Dexy was Serpico, a movie I haven't seen, but Barbie couldn't find "Come on Eileen" anywhere, which made him unhappy. Brian came as Wallace Stevens's "The Snow Man," James as the Ancient Mariner, Nancy as Leaves of Grass, and Vanessa as William Carlos Williams' red wheelbarrow. Sabrina and Barbie were yin and yang, one in white and the other in black with the symbol on their chests and chained together with black and white feater boas (which helped with dancing, later). Tim and Kirby were gay sailors (being from Wyoming, being a sailor must be as difficult as being gay). And Barbie not only couldn't find but actually didn't have "In the Navy." My theme song isn't really one to dance to, but everyone could sing, "Conjunction Junction, what's your function?" I passed out little cards with and, but, & or on them--those would get people pretty far. Two other new grad students and a roommate were Captain Fiction ("Fighting Crime with Image and Metaphor), Deconstructo, and Captain Poobody. You can tell which was the non-English grad student roommate. We are a sad bunch.
Barbie's husband, Dave, wore a cardboard sign around his neck which read, "Lost My Job--Will Eat You for Food." This got Sabrina talking about her studying garbage as part of U.S. culture: she wants to examine the signs of roadside messengers. I shrieked and pounced on her and told her of my ultimate career goal of being a graphic designer for itinerants. Pencil on cardboard is illegible, but--as someone pointed out--if someone can hire a graphic designer, then they don't need to stand at an intersection pleading for assistance. It's a paradox, isn't it? (I was going to link to her course's page but in the interest of the supposed camouflage of my pseudonyms, you can find it yourself.) Dave suggested that if this really was my career goal, chances were good I'd need my own services.
CGK was a painter and her husband her painting. Clove was Jackie O, and a sweet one she made. Last year SPM and JMJ were Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf, and when they showed up, someone unknown to them as the Wolf-post-Grandmother was already there; this year SPM was a chef and JMJ a French sailor, so she had to pose with Don't Ask Don't Tell. She has costume precognition.
RDC wasn't in character very much, mostly just on the way. He complained about the new-fangled guillotines and how little a person at a chopping block is likely to pay you when that person is the one whose head is going to tumble down the chopping block and no one can make a living as an executioner any more, which is why, by the end of the night, he had changed his title to hacker. We stopped in a the liquor store on the way over (still open at 8:30 at night, ooo, the hedonism of the west) and I, who hate the rotting-wine-cooler smell of such places, went in with RDC because I like being in costume. He stalked into the store, demanding, "Now what does an executioner drink these days?"
"Bloody Marys!" I suggested, and shouted with laughter. I don't know if it was my laugh or RDC's iron-bound mask that had a five-year-old boy hiding his face in his parent's leg.
Before Barbie's, we made a courtesy call ("How long should we stay?" "One beer.") at the party of a coworker, where I felt misunderstood. Most people were too old to have wasted the Saturday mornings of their youths watching Schoolhouse Rock. Some asked if I was Casey Jones, which I was also asked at the party at work. Engineer's cap, bandana around my neck, brakeman's lantern, fucking conjunctions hanging from my neck on a string. No, I'm not Casey Jones!
As we left Barbie's party, at which we stayed nearly long enough to experience one hour twice, Deconstructo was standing behind someone as she garbledly took leave of me. "Confunction junct--" she began. "Aha!" Deconstructo exclaimed. "My work here is done!"
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Last modified 31 October 1999
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