I have just returned from a short jaunt to Asheville, where we celebrated the birthday of the lovely, luscious lass that my younger sibling is lucky enough to be dating. I forget her name, but although it does not rhyme with a part of the female anatomy, it does have something to do with delicious fast food burgers. The host of the party, a good man we call by the name of Dan, chose to give the party a theme, eschewing the traditional birthday cake nonsense. Instead, we traveled back into the past, making a visit to the decade we should by all rights have forgotten, the 1970s. On the other hand, what better time to hearken back to those years? With skyrocketing inflation, energy crises, an unwanted and unnecessary war, and an extremely unpopular Republican president, residents of the decade could travel to our time and feel right at home.
Since the entire ten year period was an unholy fashion abortion, party goers had a vast array of possible costume choices. Unfortunately, I could not find a company willing to make me a fur suit made out of shag carpeting. Instead, I sported a tribute to the ABA, the era's failed basketball league, which gave us Julius Erving's plush afro and sporty Chuck Taylor shoes, not to mention the patriotic red, white, and blue ball. Every time someone managed to put the colorful orb into the hoop, a dollar was donated toward the defeat of the Russian horde. Although I was not able to grow an impressive afro in time for the event, I did manage to find the requisite headband, armbands, and tube socks that composed the outfit of the era's ballers.
Once attired in my jester's outfit, I felt right at home amongst the rest of the fools. My brother Colin chose to compose an ode to Starsky and Hutch with his costume. After donning his dark shades and a shirt somehow colored silver and brown, his sideburns and hair suddenly seemed as if they were beamed directly to him by Erik Estrada or some other 70s demigod. The birthday girl flashed a white and red flower-print dress resembling the kind worn by the Brady girls. In a celebratory mood, Wendy proceeded to eat a bowl composed of jello shots and pass out on top of the Twister board. Although there were other impressive costumes, I think we have reached the limit of my ability as fashion impresario.
With the red carpet rolled up, we then proceeded to annihilate ourselves in the traditional fashion. Twelve games or so of beer pong later I too was ready to become one with the Twister board. My zen drinking master, David Carradine, would be proud if he saw me today.