Disco Inferno

I'm sort of a pro at this look.

With plans to go to a disco-themed party in a few weeks, I set out this afternoon seeking an appropriate dress for disco-ing in. My requirements were based on three criteria: had to be polyester, had to have the kind of skirt that moves when you dance and had to remind me of something I actually wore back then.

Just to be sure of the last one, I looked at some old pictures before setting out. Because, yes, I spent far too much time dancing in clubs back in the '70s and there's evidence to prove it.

My first stop was Halcyon Vintage, where I ran into a photographer I know making an impromptu purchase of a celery green polyester dress that wasn't too far off the era I was seeking. She guessed instantly what party I was shopping for, telling me that if nothing else, I could wear a tuxedo jacket and black pants a la Bianca Jagger.

Explaining that I don't do pants (then or now), she wished me well in my search.

When the saleswoman offered to help me look, I stipulated that it had to be polyester like everything we wore back then. Although why we thought a synthetic fiber was good for hours of dancing on a crowded dance floor is beyond me.

She agreed laughing, then found a dress that, while vaguely 70s-ish, was nothing I would have worn then or now. Promising they'd be getting in more '70s stuff, she suggested I check back.

But I was on a mission, albeit one with a very limited budget. It was on to the Clothes Rack where I met a woman who said she had a Western boot fetish and bought a pair she said she didn't need. I heard her telling the saleswoman about how she justifies her purchases to her husband with half-truths.

Me, I wasn't so lucky (or have a husband to answer to) and left with nothing.

My next stop was the Hall Tree which had scads more dresses than either of the other places. I began scanning the racks to see what they had in polyester that would work. As I looked, I kept in mind the stuff we'd worn back in the day.

After a few minutes, I realized I was smiling and it was because of the cheesy radio station they had on. The music was as much a throwback as the kind of dress I was looking for.

Heat Wave's "Always and Forever" from 1976. McCartney's "With a Little Luck" from 1978. Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb's "Guilty" from 1980, which I haven't heard in a million years.

Pulses racing, darling
How grand we are
Little by little we meet in the middle
There's danger in the dark

A Gibb brother serenading me? It was the soundtrack to go disco dress shopping to! A dozen dresses made it into the dressing room with me and three made the final cut. The eventual winner looks amazingly similar to the dress I wore New Year's Eve 1977, except it's not red and the V-neck is not cut all the way to my waist like that one had been.

Which brings up a funny story. When I'd worn that red, polyester dress out to dinner on the southwest D.C. waterfront that night before going to a club to dance in 1978, a woman had stopped me as we were led to our table for dinner.

Eyeing the waist-deep slit on the front of my dress, the older woman had pointed and sneered, saying, "Wear it now while you can, honey! You won't be able to wear that when you're my age." Maybe it was my youth, but it seemed like an incredibly rude thing to point out to a stranger, even if it was true.

So here I am three decades years later with plans to wear a remarkably similar dress - synthetic so it'll be hot as hell to dance in, but with a flared skirt that it'll look great when I do so - with the major difference being a respectable V-neck instead of full decolletage.

I'd say I hope she's happy now, except I'm pretty sure she's dead. Satisfaction came in a chain reaction, as the Trammps sang.

Who's still dancing now, old lady?

Legs M.I.A.

My legs were covered day and night and that tells the whole story.

Sunday night, it was a black burnt velvet dress (purchased by a former boyfriend back in 1997 at Lex's in Carytown) that ended at my feet, the better to fit in for the black-tie Richmond Theater Critics Circle awards (aka the Artsies) at the November Theater.

Considering that my skirts always end well above the knees, my full-length attire was cause for comment.

"You look beautiful but what did you do with your legs?" I was asked in the lobby pre-show.

Put them away for the night?

After hearing that I looked swanky, I explained that that's like telling someone they look casual. I got an amended, "You look really good," far more complimentary to my ears.

One of the evening's hosts, Michael Hawke, came onstage and yelled, "Good evening, Richmond bitches!" setting the tone for a raucous evening celebrating local theater.

Not that I'm partial or anything, but Matt and Maggie, hosts of the monthly Ghost Light Afterparty, did some of the funniest awards presenting, using every possible opportunity to crack wise.

"Look at this! Everyone's in costume, everyone's wasted, clearly this is GLAP!" Matt joked before Maggie clarified it was the Artsies.

When they went to announce their first award, he yelled, "Wait! We have to have a drum roll!" and pulled out the GLAP bongos a familiar sight to regulars.

"I'm still not convinced this isn't the GLAP," Matt said, playing it to the hilt. "I'm pretty sure I saw Karen at the bar."

"I'm gonna go look for Karen!" Maggie said, using me as an excuse to leave her hosting duties and get a drink.

And while I wasn't at the bar (I was in my seat like a good attendee), it's always good to get a solid shout-out from the GLAP crew.

As if an evening with my assets hidden wasn't enough, I took a day to go to the country to traipse through the woods at the invitation of a friend.

The invite came with a warning, though.

"I know you're not fond of long pants but I'm going to recommend you wear a pair and some shoes suitable for hiking so we can trek through the wilderness."

What are these long pants you speak of, friend?

But I took the caveat to heart, went to Diversity Thrift and found a pair of jeans that I was told looked straight out of the disco.

Hip-huggers, multiple zippered pockets front and back, wide bell-bottoms and only $5.25, they were about as groovy (and cheap) as they come.

If there'd been a disco on the other side of the state forest, I could have gone there directly.

Instead, I spent most of a day wearing jeans, so rare an occurrence for me that I can tell you the last time I had denim obliterating a view of my gams.

February 2009.

I'm not expecting to put jeans back on again anytime soon, because what's the point in having good legs and not showing them off? Twice was more than enough.

Okay, maybe if I get invited to the disco.

I Want Some Action

You just never know what talents people have.

So when I was invited to a party to celebrate the third anniversary of Amour in Carytown, the last thing I expected was a mirror ball.

But there it was, spinning and casting a moving pattern of light along the walls, while Freddy Mercury danced across the big screen on the bar and a smoke machine filled the room with hazy fog.

What alternate universe Amour was this?

Oh, you know, just celebrating another year of mercantile success in a diametrically opposed way to business as usual.

If you've ever been to Amour, you wouldn't have recognized it tonight.

Guests barely walked in before a glass of fruity and floral La Vielle Ferme Rose found its way into their hand.

Everybody recognized everybody, at least on some level, because everybody was a long-time customer.

The Queen concert on the big screen was merely a talking point as people mingled and sipped.

A favorite couple came over to marvel with me over owner Paul's inner disco DJ.

I heard a great story from the '70s about a new guy at work wearing his white bell-bottoms to work until his supervisor gently suggested he stop that.

Apparently, the white pants showed through what was underneath.

Ah, the '70s, when that was what we worried about.

Just about the time everyone was becoming lubricated, Queen gave way to karaoke.

Oh, yes, serious entertainment.

There were multiple microphones, a wide catalog of songs available and Paul mixing each song into the next seamlessly.

Very quickly, those with a desire to sing became masters of the mics, while the less bold sang nearby, slightly off-mic.

A-ha's "Take On Me."

Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff."

No Doubt's "Don't Speak."

While I was over at the bar with my orange-dressed associate, "Like a Virgin" began playing and the bartender looked wistful.

Addressing the two of us, she said, "This song always reminds me of "Moulin Rouge."

Pause while the woman next to me and I digested that.

She continues, "I picture a red-headed man with a mustache singing this."

We look at each other in wonder.

"Is it a generational thing?" she asks sincerely.

Yes, my dear, if you hear "Like a Virgin" and don't picture Madonna writhing on stage, it probably is a generational thing.

The never-shy owner of a nearby Mexican restaurant was the karaoke ringleader, encouraging others to sing along to the words on the screen.

And wouldn't you just know that we made our way back to more Queen?

Fact: in the case of many songs, the contingent singing along was everyone who had not yet been born when the song came out.

Funny how that works.

DJ Paul was a smiling multi-tasker, putting music on, running to the back to hit the smoke machine and singing along to all his personal favorites.

At one point, a restaurant owner tapped my knee, telling me to come dance with him (insisting "I know you're a dancer") but I preferred to hang in the back, where there were prime observation spots.

It also put me in the thick of the smoke when that got going, making for a fuller anniversary experience.

I love the nightlife
I've got to boogie
On the disco round, oh, yea

I have to appreciate a man willing to let his inner disco out, even just for one evening.

But who would have guessed?