i like your gun

Saturday night I piled into a limo with friends and got out at a new club called Boulevard 3, which hasn’t officially opened yet but held a costume party nonetheless (someone had gotten us on the all-powerful List). Great space — lofty, white-walled interior with a huge dance floor and upper balcony running along the walls, white sofas and chairs fitted inside the VIP alcoves so you could lean over the railing and take in the costumes below. (My favorites included a Flashdance Jennifer Beals — in leotard and legwarmers and ripped sweatshirt and big wig — dancing with a male Rubick’s Cube, between the two of them a rather touching tribute to the ’80s.) The scene was Hollywood as filtered through an episode of Melrose Place or Beverly Hills 90210: a mostly white, mostly thin, mostly pretty crowd, the women dressed up as male fantasies: female cops, fairies, devils, nurses, milkmaids, saloon girls. “Christmas for guys,” as one male friend observed.

I was an angel. It was, admittedly, a very low-maintenance costume: I found a white cotton mini-dress with ridiculous daggered sleeves, slapped on some wings and a halo and silvery accessories and, boom, down from on high.

Sunday night, the husband dragged me off to a different party, this one at some club in Hollywood done up like a haunted house, held by an organization that — actually, this is the second party I’ve been to by these people, and I’m still not entirely sure what they do. It involves sports and hot girls on trading cards. Yes, it is as cheesy as it sounds. My motivation to dress up was sadly lacking: jeans and boots and favorite top. When someone asked me what I was, I said The Final Girl. (It’s not like the party needed another frickin’ Bo Peep, complete with short skirt and ruffled panties.)

But no costume could top — in my mind, anyway — the Han Solo ensemble worn out on Saturday night by a member of our party named Scott, an industrial designer* who has appeared on the reality series Blow Out**. The costume looked disturbingly authentic, to the point where it almost didn’t look like a costume. The blaster was lovingly detailed with some serious heft to it; you felt like you were holding the real thing. (I suspect I know what some of you might be thinking and I am so not going to go there.) Turned out he paid a pretty penny for the people at Industrial Light & Magic to put it together.

On the ride back from the club he lamented his single status. “Look at me! I paid $3500 for a Han Solo costume! What self-respecting woman is going to date a guy who pays $3500 for a Han Solo costume?”

I don’t know. I found it kind of hot.

* When The Blonde Socialite Who Shall Not Be Named Again somehow came up in conversation — triggered by a guy who had dressed up as her DUI mug shot — Scott said, “Hey, don’t slam her, I designed her perfume bottle.” Swear to God, this woman haunts me.

** How difficult is it to find a group of people in west LA that does not include someone who’s been in a reality show? Even yours truly appeared in a trailer for a potential series about ex-dot.commers living the high life in LA — a “revenge of the high school nerds” kind of angle — which, perhaps quite thankfully, did not get picked up by whatever network the film crew made it for.


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