Sure, a mermaid-vampire-goth-glam party might sound ridiculous, but it does the explanation no justice.
This weekend’s party centered around the Polish cinematic masterpiece The Lure. The plot goes something like this: Two sisters—human flesh-craving sirens—come ashore. Why? Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Just know that, when dry, their tails turn into legs. On the downside, they have no nipples, genitals, or buttholes, because that would be silly. Point being, they find employment at a strip club/cabaret, where everyone is enthralled by their ability to grow giant fish tails.
Did I mention it’s a musical? Well it is, and subtitled—that way an English-speaking audience will realize the lyrics have nothing to do with what takes place on screen. It’s through this arbitrary plot device that we’re introduced to the mermaids’ devil-horned, death metal merman friend, and the younger mermaid’s bass-playing Prince Eric.
Once you discover such a film, it’s only right to house a costume party in its honor. Sadly, I was having a fat day, so the rubber corset was a no-go. I also waited too long to order fangs, but at least my scaly, gold, lamé pants were finally appropriate.
The home was generously decorated with disco balls, party lights, an undersea theme, and a nonstop screening of The Lure. Refreshments and snacks (alcohol, chips, and salsa) were not thematic. The screening took place against a white sheet that had been hung over the front picture-frame window, despite the homeowners’ possession of an actual projection screen.
As luck would have it, the film would be on perpetual loop as partygoers slowly but surely trickled in. During a critical scene in which the the club owner fingered a mermaid stripper’s cloaca as she sat giggling next to her nippleless sister on a naugahyde sofa, a particularly observant guest informed us that the neighbors might not appreciate the cinematic brilliance of this soon to be urban cult classic currently being projected on the window. Who could disagree?
As is only right, the party gradually relocated in several overlapping shifts to the aptly named “pillow room.” The pillow room was a corner of the finished attic with a low, vaulted ceiling, and a California king size mattress stretching from wall to wall, and shrouded in pillows and blankets. It was like resting in a strangely erotic cloud, though a strict “no sex in the pillow room” clause was made abundantly clear. Beside me sat a terrifyingly adorable, star-shaped pillow full of color-changing LEDs, and a blank-eyed smile that could eat the flesh off a newborn.
Having had far too much to drink, in order to watch The Lure multiple times, I opted to stay the night in the pillow room, as did a healthy percentage of other guests. Together, we drifted off into slumber upon a cloud and awoke in a breathing, snoring mass of bodies and smudged makeup.
Final score: 10 points out of 10.