Three and a half hours in purgatory.

I am always up for a costume party. On my calendar, Halloween is just the kick off to another 365 days ripe to be themed. That extolled, it wasn't the suggested attire, so much as the promise of a designated seven minutes in heaven room, that had me most revved up for the 1980s junior high re-enactment dance at Freak City, in Hollywood, Saturday night.

"I don't care if there are only three other gay men here to choose from -" I proclaimed upon strutting into the venue around 11 p.m., before I'd even drank my first glass of spiked, fruit punch. "I WILL be taking someone behind that curtain to make out."

I didn't.

We danced until almost 2:30 a.m., and throughout that whole time I don't remember seeing ONE other gay man in attendance.

Not. A single. One.

No definitive homosexuals, at least. I might have been able to coax a celestial minute or two out of the more libidinous and blacked out straight guys. And I'm sure I could have gotten even drunker, myself, and charmed (read: browbeaten) a female friend into giving me a few pity pecs. But we were only pretending to be back in eighth grade.

While it's unfortunate that I wasn't mature enough to experiment then, no one with less than equal skills of seduction or pride in their identity - not to mention a vagina - is going to get their hands beneath this authentic, 1984, Christine McVie solo tour T, now.


The mullet wig, though. Anyone's free to run their fingers through that.