Get a load of this Facebook crap:
Remember, it starts early and peaks early. This is good – basically, this soiree is aligned to Manchester time (UK, not NJ) starting at 7pm and going to 1am. There’ll be the customary nod to our hosts’ formalities at 11pm, when the power officially dies for sixty seconds in deference to Elks who’ve passed to the great beyond, and then the party continues until the clock strikes midnight and our coaches turn into pumpkins. (And if your coach doesn’t do that, read on.) Note that last year, this happened a bit earlier because WE DRANK THE ELKS’ CLUB DRY. (They expect to provision a bit more of those libations for this year’s event.)
Because it starts early – and I can’t emphasize this enough – you need to get there early. Fire codes dictate a certain occupancy, and we meet that every year; when we do, that’s when we really start to get picky about who gets in. Recognizable faces get recognized; others not so much. If you think you’re recognizable, that’s great, but if you demand to be recognized, the folks at the door may want to recognize someone else. Be cool, be courteous, be there early.
For some, midnight’s about as late as they’re prepared to stay out. For others, the night is young…and for those folks, the party will continue at the corner of Somerset and Easton…a.k.a. The Corner Tavern. Remember, that’s CORNER. The Corner Tavern’s also there for you earlier if you can’t get in to the main reunion for whatever reason – if you’re too young, or if you’re tired of standing in the line you were too late to avoid. They’re open ’til 2 AM.
Wherever you are, I’ll see you there, and I’m sure another slew of vaguely disconcerting pictures will make it onto Facebook. Enjoy!
“Recognizable faces get recognized; others not so much.” My sister Daria, recognizable in her Melody Bar days as the cocktail waitress who arrived after hotel bar closing time in heels and a mini skirt, read me this over the phone and steam shot out of my ears. I was broke with a baby in the mid-eighties so I dressed in a leotard, off-black stockings and a few silk scarves. It was that kind of art/biker bar, ruled by armed hairdressers. Nobody was looking at our faces. I can’t gussy up to look 22 again, and neither would I give that fool’s errand a try.
All kinds of people have been after Pete and me to go to this thing and now that they’re there and we’re here, it’s perfectly safe to be blunt: the bar closed, we’re not kids anymore and the past is gone. Nostalgia is for people who think the best parts of their lives are behind them, and we won’t live that way.
Spring is coming. Today, I have wild ideas. The future’s so bright, etc., etc.