Tuesday, February 15, 2005

The Time That Land Forgot

We were invited to an Eighties Party on Friday night.

I went as Winston Smith.

Gloria went as Joan Jett and she just looked great. All she was missing was a cue ball in her purse in case she got into a fight. We had to leave early, though, because she had a gig at Six Flags.

Apparently, the hive mind has decided that the Eighties are worth reliving. I will tell you plainly that they are not. They weren’t worth it the first time, and they’re certainly not worth it now.

This party took place in a rental house that some friends are staying in temporarily. The neighborhood is an odd amalgam of mansions and tiny cottages. We parked outside a white mansion so large that I thought I saw a slave quarters in the back. I wanted to ask the owner what would happen if he died—would the remaining help get to live out their lives as free men?

The rental house was even stranger. The original owner added on an extra room off the back bedroom with wood floors--and wood paneling. Think hunting lodge without the animal heads. Then, he built a basement underneath the new room—a basement entirely of white plastic. It was spotless. It’s the serial killer floor plan, I think, and I told my friend Mike that on his next lazy Sunday afternoon he should swab the basement for DNA evidence.

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