I'm riding in the back of a
limousine drinking out of a bottle of
cheap champagne, no glass. In the limousine with me is
Lisa Kudrow who is busy filing her nails. I'm wearing about six of those
plastic bracelets that were popular in the eighties, a funky red vinyl jacket with huge shoulder pads, high-water black pants with white
sweatsocks and dress shoes and
lace gloves without fingers. Lisa is wearing a fake purple fur stole and a sequined minidress with
marabou feather trim.
We pull up in front of a club, it looks like the Roxy in Los Angeles, but the marquee says Dec-A-Dance. Lisa and I get out of the limo,apparently the driver was too lazy to open the door for us. We walk to the front door and the bouncer removes the velvet rope to let me in, but stops Lisa Kudrow and cards her. She tells me to go on in, so I do. I walk through a long dark, smoke-filled hallway and open another door. Suddenly I find myself in a ballroom-type sitting with an eighties punk band on the stage. Everyone turns to look at me as I enter and the band stops playing. The hipsters on the floor form a semi-circle around me and the lead guitarist winks at me, and suddenly the band begins playing "Are you Ready for the sex girls?" as I walk in. Lisa Kudrow taps me on the shoulder and slaps me.