You are cordially invited to my 1960s “Les Baxter” party. Yeah I know, I know — just work with me here…
When I was a kid this is what adulthood looked like to me. I’m prompted by Twinkly Sparkles’ post on what it was like to be a kid in the 1960s imagining what being a grown up was like. My mom is light with long hair that she wore in the style of a lot of the white women on TV back then. My dad and mom went to parties of my dad’s artist friends and there would be pictures.
My party is slightly based on that but mostly based on media images and a few of the dirty magazines I “happened” on back then.
So guys put on your smoking jackets. Cigars and pipes welcome! We won’t protest in self-righteous health-awareness. You’ll get none of that “Oh my God that stinks!” at my party. Girls – yeah I said it – GIRLS – this is pre “women’s liberation” era – bring your cigarette holders and pink-filtered cigarettes, but no lighters. The boys at the party will eagerly light your cigarettes on the terrace overlooking the Hudson. Black women, wear your newly liberating afros, but you have to wear head bands, mini–skirts and Nancy Sinatra go-go boots. Wear your grooviest bouffants and pale peach-colored lipsticks – re-apply after eating the fondue.
Martinis abound, the plain ones with no fruit, chocolate, peppermint or marshmallows– blech! Drink up, smoke, swap wives and have an orgy in the blue room – no condoms. Next week you’re all invited to the Cheetah Club on 53rd and Broadway!
This wasn’t the sixties but I’m going to play it at my party:
We actually had this album at home:
Yeah that’s me in my pajamas, in my sister’s backyard, soaking wet. Ghetto right? She had the sprinklers on for the kids and the bubble machine going. “Mama, it’s a party?” Says my four year old nephew. “Yes, yes honey. It’s a party,” says my sister. Yeah sure it was a party. I only had one pair of pajamas. They dried fine. I wore them to bed again that night. Wanna know what my nephew calls me, sometimes? Grandma. So. How was y’alls weekend?
I’m at my sister’s. She has a four year old and a one year old. She has all the sockets covered. I think she could do a lot more to child proof the house — enclose both children in a plastic bubble like in the movie — I’m totally neurotic and would do this if I had kids. That’s why I don’t have any — no that’s not why I don’t have any. I never wanted any because I just never cared to be a mother. Period. It’s too hard, with covering up sockets and what not.
In the 1960s we didn’t have all this awareness and consciousness about this and such. You’ve seen those funny little pieces about how the kids of yore didn’t have child seats in cars or bike helmets, etc. My mother was having a shindig in the living room back in the 60s and I waddled back into my room and plugged the socket with one of her huge black bobby pins. She happened to be walking down the hall and saw me as I just recovered from the shock of my life. What did she do? Probably just pat me on the head before lighting up a another cigarette and smoking up the entire apartment with her friends. Yep, she smoked, like a chimney when I was growing up. My brother and I didn’t have asthma either — I’m not saying this was okay. Just saying.
What’s that age where it’s okay for women to talk about how hot they used to be or to talk explicitly about sex in mixed company? There’s an age where nobody gives a crap anymore, like that crazy old lady at the barbecue who takes her titties out and says “C’mere, suck on these!” She’s the life of the party, the quirky old drunk broad. She’s not a threat to any of the women and nobody wants to fuck her so it’s okay if she says “I used to be a beautiful woman long ago who’s had sex with many many many many men, and boy what I would pay to suck your dick!” “Oh boy, your Auntie Sandee’s a riot T! She must have been something else back in the 20th century!” “Yeah, we know.” 23 skidoo!
Could you all please suggest some themes that I could use to decorate my apartment for Halloween this year? Last year I referred to my apartment as a crypt in my little party invitation for a group that I belong to. It’s the perfect size for that. I would much appreciate it and promise to invite you all to the huge party I’m having in a haunted house one day.
The only reason I take my Halloween decorations down is because it would be anticlimactic for the next year if didn’t. It makes me depressed to dismantle the skulls, spider webs, tombstones, bats, rats, black candles, etc. I only just took my Halloween decorations down in March – one year I waited ‘till April. Some say it’s a non-holiday, that it’s for kids, that it’s too much candy flying around – fuck that shit! Last year, my party was a ‘literary’ Halloween party. I had haunted house sound effects and it was fun. By candlelight, we read excerpts from classic horror stories, including one that I wrote about ghosts and a man who becomes possessed and chases the protagonist down the street butt naked with a meat cleaver – oh wait – he wears a butcher’s apron – but his dick flaps behind it in the wind – oh wait, I took that part out because it sounded too vulgar.
But anyway, I can’t wait for Halloween this year! What shall I do this year? Oh what shall I do? — Maybe a sophisticated Halloween with subtle decorations — maybe with shear swatches of orange and black material draped around my furniture, and sparkly orange and black skulls. Maybe I’ll just invite a couple of people over at a time for dinner – like people do at X-mas – have drop ins – only we’ll watch horror movies.
There are horror movies that I won’t watch any other time but Halloween, like “The Night of the Living Dead” from 1968, “Carnival of Souls,” and “Children Shouldn’t Play With Dead Things.” I like some other horror movies but they don’t have the elements that classify them as Halloween horror movies.
This year, I figure maybe I’ll participate in the parade in Greenwich Village. I have a great fucking idea for a costume – but it’s a secret. So please give me some good suggestions for decorating my apartment, and I’ll give you some good suggestions…
Once this has been totally legalized, these would be a great idea. The mobiles could be painted in bright designs, to take the stigma out of euthanasia – inside the mobile could be a party atmosphere. We could have some with pictures of beautiful women and men surrounded by clouds, hands out, beckoning, calling those thinking of suicide to ‘come, come’, ‘you can do it. I did!’ The truck could have a theme too, like an ice cream truck. It’d be rolling down the street playing Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’. The slogan would be ‘Come, let’s just put you out of all of that ‘ol misery.’
You see my biggest fear is that I’d shoot myself in the head, miss the important artery and wind up being a vegetable. Or I’d hang myself, the rope breaks right where my brain’s been starved to the point of no return, and I’d be the drooling idiot nauseating the entire family at Thanksgiving dinner. Auntie Barbie would have to feed me. For some reason she’s the only one that I’d take to without writhing in protest since I’d be unable to talk. My sister would be mad and would shove the fork into my mouth with the intent of stabbing me I’m sure. My brother, well, he’d say, ‘She did this to herself. Let her starve to death!” I wouldn’t even be able to laugh at the irony of that. Auntie Barbie’s the most sensitive of all of my mother’s sisters plus she’s a nurse. The food would roll out of my mouth back onto my plate in a heap of mush. Everyone’d try to be evolved about it but in reality, they’d think it was gross. Auntie Barbie would roll her eyes at them and keep feeding me, martyr that she is. She’d tell them that God spared me from death for some reason because he had some special purpose for me then she’d prop up my bobbling head and wipe excess saliva from the side of my mouth. But regardless, some of my relatives, ever so quietly in the back of their head would still wish that I hadn’t missed my shot. If you think about it, after all this was a goal that I’d sought that I hadn’t been able to achieve. But oh well.
So you see, the mobiles would eliminate the possibility of this kind of an error. They’d be staffed with the finest experts in the medical community. And the mobiles would be great because they’d come right to your door. All you’d have to do is call 1-800-U Kill Me and they’d be there lickedy split. Because face it, most people thinking of killing themselves are too depressed to drive or to take the bus anywhere to some kind of a euthanasia center. The mobiles would even encourage more people to kill themselves perhaps. People who normally wouldn’t consider such a thing would entertain the idea now because it would be so darned convenient. We could rid ourselves of all types of nuisances who need only a nudge to go through with it; the self-pitying depressives that suck the lives out of us, the ones who go around blaming others for their misfortunes; people who call you ten times a day because they can’t figure it out for themselves – you know, those people David Byrne talks about in ‘Psycho Killer’, the ones who start a conversation they can’t even finish, the ones who talk a lot, but aren’t saying anything. What about those miserable gossips who can’t find any value in their own lives? And then there are the ones whose looks you don’t like; people who stink; people who look at you funny; people who let their car alarms go off while they’re standing right there; people you see everyday who don’t say hello; people who don’t deserve the good fortune they’re receiving while you haven’t gotten shit that you’ve asked for…okay, okay – so I’ve gone a little off track with this last group, but you get my drift about the other ones, don’t you?