Some time in the weightless ’80s, I had a birthday bash at a St. Marks Place boite named Bananas.
And it was bananas all right.
The zany crowd consisted of drag queens, singer Margaret Whiting, ex porn star Jack Wrangler, new personality Ricki Lake, actress Bridget Fonda, playwright Christopher Durang, novelist Tama Janowitz, and my entire assortment of friends and family.
And I looked amazing in a lobster outfit I’d rented from a cheapo Times Square costume place, an ensemble that made me the crustiest crustacean in town.
Everyone was oohing and ahing over my adorably surreal choice of wardrobe–“Where’d you get it?” “You look fantastic!” “You should always dress like shellfish”–that is, until clubbie James St. James walked in.
Dressed like a banana.
Which was a reference to the name of the place, you’ll remember.
And the photographers suddenly went bananas.
The flashes popped and people shrieked and everyone went wild over how amazing James looked in such a cute and outrageous costume blah blah blah.
I got virtually no attention the rest of the night, except for occasional photos with the banana. (See above.)
I felt like yesterday’s entree, supplanted by the hot new dessert.
I was horrified that a big, yellow potassium phallus was the night’s big attention grabber, when I felt I’d gone for a way more fascinating food group.
And I’m still bitter about it.
That’s not a dish you want to go near.