February 7, 1999.

So...very...tired...I've been staying up till dawn all weekend, and only getting a few hours afterward. It's been a very go-go-go! sort of weekend. Fuck, but we have some catching up to do, don't we?

when we last left our plucky heroine...

...she was eating nachos at Sneaky Dee's until five a.m. Saturday dawned gray and cool, but since we slept until two p.m., who noticed? Ate bagels and procrastinated in front of a muted teevee and a velvet underground tape. Morgan dyed my hair me an appropriate Fireball red, and used the leftover to change Dirk's short do. Spent about two hours in Poison Ivy, mostly in curler limbo. But the end result was very worth it: when we emerged, Little Spider had a mass of ringlets suiting her romantic black Ophelia dress, Morgan had straight country singer locks, and I had a perfectly oval bouffant that outdid even last year's cocktail-hair-helmet and matched my diva outfit to a tee. Alerted the Boy of our return, picked up wine and arrived home to some very welcome pizza...I love him especially when he provides pizza. Then the three of us ran around removing tags, hitching on nylons, debating shoe suitability and trying to find mirror space. Stacy wandered in on the tumult, wearing an "obnoxious top" and a cape. I made her a salad as she elaborately admired my roommate's interior decorating. I keep forgetting that nobody's ever been to my house, so it's new to everyone. Is this too much detail? Onward.

About the dresses and stuff, I'll just wait until the pics come back. I couldn't possible convey Morgan's rhinestone glamorousness or Little Spider's classical and flawless loveliness or Stacy's stealth beauty (the full impact only hit you after a few minutes)...and I looked pretty wonderful too, in case you think I had any doubts on that score. Not to mention the boys...kilts and tails and dada bowler hats and salvation army coats and brocade, all separated out into individuals, of course, but that was the gestalt. Saint Stephen took the prize of the night in his gold Baroque outfit. But pictures will tell that particular story so much better, so you'll just have to be patient for a little.

The event itself was the usual jumble of wine and dancing and glitter and roses and food and familiar faces glimpsed and then gone. The Saints threw a pre-party that was almost good enough to justify the evening all by itself, and it was with near regret that I piled into a cab bound for the actual dance. Through a door, down a hallway, and then the Boy was stalking towards me with a flower in his teeth, which is a fine way to start any evening.

At some point I started collecting the red and white roses that were scattered throughout the building, and it seemed to satisfy my typical craving for Fireball larceny...even though the roses were meant to be taken, it still felt slightly illegal. Good for me. Tymothi:J showed up with his new girlfriend and newly shorn locks, looking almost respectable...that is, until he asked me to take a picture of him and the Boy, as "he'd had a crush on him for years." I directed them to stand near the pussy...ahem, I mean the gold statues of Bast flanking a doorway...and they vamped it to the full - Tymothi:J straddling one of the cats and the Boy snuggled up behind him. Does it sound like a compliment if I say it was the kind of picture that would destroy a political career?

As always, the various rooms were decorated in the theme. This year was dedicated to the seven wonders of the ancient world (hence the previously mentioned statues of Bast), and we were in constant migration from one room to the next. While we were in the acid jazz room, I dragged Stacy off to show her the access hatch to the roof (which was unfortunately padlocked), and then found that we were half-starved for semi-quiet conversation. Over the course of the night, I became aware that I not only liked and admired Stacy, but that I loved her, as I love my university and few remaining highschool friends. You know: like someone you've known for just long enough.

Argh. I'm getting sappy.

Anyway, by the time we emerged, all of our group had left and my nearly-full glass of beer was long since swept away. Atypical overservice. How annoying.

Just like all my other Fireballs, I kept finding and losing people as the night went on. I think I spent about 30 minutes with the Boy all told...but that was okay (although I'll have to photoedit to produce a picture of us together). The best thing about losing someone is that you get to be found. Near the end of the evening, the Boy attached a balloon to my dress, as a kind of Shivering Jemmy visual pager, and from then on I could always be found...that is, until we stood outside and Saint John batted it away. All flesh is grass, all pleasures end and all balloons eventually bob away into the clouds. Right? I still mourned...I hate the losing of a balloon, no matter how old I get.

It was a total stimulus overload, a blacktie mindfuck, a barrage of sensory information and it didn't go on long enough. When they finally kicked us out, we went back to the Saints to wind down. St. John and the Boy drank enough wine to temporarily short out their memories. I tried to handle Brie with my elbow length opera gloves. Little Spider wore a complimentary house poncho. We'd be there still, but two consecutive nights of partying had done their damage, and I was glad to fall into bed while the Boy crawled off to pray to the toilet. A typically glorious ending.

And that's that.