sick

Why is fate so cruel as to give me a great hair day on a red-nose, stuffed-head, feverish-skin, puffy face, bloodshot eyes, walking crookedly day? It's not fair.

But enough of that. For anyone who didn't have fun on Halloween, you should have come with us. Not only was it a wickedly fun UT-alum reunion, it was a fascinating sociological experiment in DC pop culture knowledge. The evening had two stops: a costume party at a house on Capitol Hill, and a dance party at indie club Black Cat. My main squeeze and I went in our smashing White Stripes get-up. The house party had some good costumes: Charlton Heston packing heat, Fidel Castro trying to make out with our friend, a giant fortune cookie handing out demented fortunes. But you wouldn't believe how many people gave us blank stares when we explained that we were the White Stripes.
"Who?"
"What's that?"
Seriously, it's not like the White Stripes are so obscure. We weren't going as Godspeed You, Black Emperor! And you can't blame it on our costumes, because they simply hadn't ever heard of the White Stripes. Meg and Jack could have walked in and they would have said "What are you?" Seriously out of the loop, kids. Get a fucking radio.

Then we go on to the Black Cat, and it's a different story. We haven't taken ten steps out of the cab when we hear "White Stripes! Awesome!" Everyone knew who we were, and we spent the evening collecting the accolades of our peers and keeping Kriston from falling on people. And, as we hoisted Kriston bodily into a cab to go home, a life-long dream of mine finally came true when a jeep spilling over with hot gay men leaned out to yell, "Meg White!! You go girl!" Sigh. The affirmation of gay men. Now I know what it feels like to be Madonna.