25 October 2005
Everytime we go to Jess' & Joe's house, we end up dancing. The day they moved in, we sat on the bare floors, drank champagne and listened to Quarterflash on vinyl -- and some other bad 80s tunes that compel you to bust it. Since then, Whortleberry Lane has hosted numerous events from the Bags' wedding afterparty to dinners and cookouts, and each time -- long before conversation has grown tiresome -- we dance!
For this fall cocktail party, Jess suggested the guests tart themselves up a bit. My eBay liquidation sale of 2004 left a giant sinkhole in my wardrobe that I’ve yet to backfill. Beyond suburban sweatpants and mom jeans, I’ve got few swishy threads with which to festoon myself. But, hanging in the back of my closet, I found my sparkly disco frock that I wore to one of Auntie’s 70s parties in Charlestown in 1999. I have been dying to wear it ever since, and -- in an unintentional foreshadowing of dance moves to come -- I pounced on it with a sweater.
(photo: Fast forward to later that night: LP & Annie demonstrate a perfectly synchronized helicopter move, circa 1977)
The 10-minute journey to Scituate was a nailbiter. I swerved around some roadkill on my favorite backroad and was trailed by a Norwell cop for two miles. Then, after an over-enthusiastic left turn onto Whortleberry Lane, I nearly side-swiped a car of fellow partygoers. We both parked at the end of the street. Instead of taking a baseball bat to my headlights, they kindly pointed out that I was blocking the driveway of one of Jess' bellicose neighbors.
(photo: Code Red, Di and Goy share a tender moment)
From there, the night twirled on effortlessly. I learned about the Darwinistic phenomenon of "Suicide Squirrel Season" from Jen; an occurrence I found intriguing having come face-to-carnage with a flattened rodent just moments earlier. We gathered around the dining room table, catching up with all of the BUUURDS. Dawnie and I were enjoying a fine chinwag over some Slim Jims -- and then, bearing iPods and vodka, the to-be-Dell'Olios arrived...
Suddenly PYT was playing and there was a mass exodus from the kitchen to the dance floor. WMD began whipping up a high-octane vodka concoction that was simply yet aptly labeled “The Dell’Olio." He passed the drinks around in red keg cups -- lighter fluid on the disco inferno ignited by LP’s iPod.
Shortly thereafter, the hallucinations began, appearing in shadows cast by Tom’s burgeoning ‘fro.
Tom tries to deflect blame, insinuating the Bee Gees' apparition is bouncing off the glare from LP's glossy mane.
Di spots the Bee Gees in a ray of moonlight.
From there on in, the night was a blur of white polyester and back beats. And out of the swirling lights, a new noun was born.
The Dell'Olio (n). A Bee Gees roofie; a hallucinogen.
Here are some photos before the evening was hijacked by the freaky-deaky visions of the Gibbs brothers who oddly enough resembled Brownguy, Tom and Bags. (Is it just me who sees that?)
You come to me on a summer breeze...
Tart me up.
SNF artwork courtesy of Tom Haley