Bob and weave 

I'm in no condition for this. Nor is my hair.

; ;

"You write for the Weekly, right?" queries mayoral-miss Tom Levine. A cautious nod in reply elicits the expected, "I recognize your hair from the picture. Do you really smoke?"

; ;

Oh, do I. Especially when I'm sore-thumbing it at a protest nonevent over which Levine is lording to the left of the disco ball liz-art lizard plopped down in the shadow of City Hall. The heavily fliered Peasant Revolt has drawn about 10 people out on a Saturday morning to rally against Glenda's glaze-eyed political indulgences -- basically, the invisible gases and cell-tower radiation that feed our suburban paranoia -- and nobody seems to really care. Country crooners The Hindu Cowboys are doing their best to shower 10 gallons of twangy rebellion over the smattering of Bea Arthurs and Rue McLanahans in attendance who are fanning themselves under the slight shade of the glass erection at Orange Avenue's edge, and apparently we're all taking our lives for granted.

"That's right," rues the Rue to my right, rattling a response to some Levine liturgy on the decline of Western civilization.

That's boring.

This isn't: Orlando's second annual invitation to excess, Decadence (hosted partially by this flippy rag), provides a suitable antidote to the redneck rebellion, if only for dousing that same morning's genuine concerns with their sweet and lowdown libations.

"I told you we made it just for you," perts the corn-blond leggy thing hosting the Smirnoff kiosk. She's peddling the new Twist varieties of said potato potable, and, naturally, I'm seeing more and more of her (sometimes two, sometimes three) with each booth visit.

Kit Kat's ubiquitous Kat lumbers over to my personal (and my very own redneck's) rebellion for an emergency inebriation consultation. My vanilla Twist is fast turning into a spin. Or is that just my hair?

"Have you tried the Godiva?" she purrs, followed by a generous instruction involving shots of white chocolate liqueur accompanied by their bellyache sister, the white chocolate-covered strawberry. Oh, I couldn't. Oh, but I did -- until the entire intended sample-size ruse gave way to my own decadent demise. What do you mean I'm cut off? Was Lady Godiva ever cut off?

The not-necessarily-newsworthy event is yet another fair indication of Orlando's given purpose -- don't think, drink -- and duly bubbles along with comfortable smugness. Artists are arting ("Should I buy that?" slurs my companion. No, you're drunk). Salesmen are selling. Somebody's warbling Enya over Radiohead beats. And, perhaps most importantly, preposterous hairstyles are parading.

For the occasion, Shane from Shine (not gay, although I think we've kissed before) has dolled up the usual street-trash ethic of the Wall Street Kids look to create a more Cabaret-style, vagabond chic that awkwardly peppers the typically down-dressed, lovehandle set. It's still green hair, though.

Which is fine, especially as it's across the street from the fabulous nonprotest, Hair Peace event that is prancing through Tabu. Organized as both a FABULOUS exposition for the crème de la crème of Orlando's twist-and-tease crop and a benefit for CENTAUR, Hair Peace bravely beehives a number of willing subjects into decadent-hair disrepair to the tune of a choreographed fashion-show extravaganza. All of which sounds absolutely wretched and garish on paper -- like a big gay slumber party, maybe -- but somehow comes off as the best night EVER downtown.

"I'm so glad you're here," hairs mini Wave project (and Missing Person Dale Bozzio ringer) Jen Paxton.

I'm glad I'm hair -- er, here -- too. Especially when show openers The Wave, led by boyband hair-doer (and, um, my roommate -- gay, although we've never kissed before) Skotty Pitts, take to the stage for a scantily clad mummy revue -- with said Jen Bozzio, tits out, wailing and writhing a stripper siren song. It's a sight to see, as a corps of dressed-down dippity dos strut their exposed cheeks down a mid-club runway, and hope nobody pulls their bandages.

By now, I'm dumb drunk and pussyfooting around like a proud mom at a redneck reunion, slurring words like "daaaahlink" and "flabulous" amid jokes about not "be-weaving" it. Positively hatable, really. As The Wave's set ends, I stumble up to the runway to grab the un-beweavable teasing hand of my Duran Duran-shirt-wearing roommate. This is what I do when I'm drunk, you see. I pretend that it's my own personal event and I have to thank the entertainment. Only, it looks more like I'm grabbing for the shirt, and losing ... my hair.

The show's fabulous host and emcee, Tabu's big gay Michael M., takes to the stage with a query. He's wearing Versace, he'll have you know. And he looks divine.

"Any bleached blondes out there?" he teases, noting the special moisturizing needs of those privy to heat-set beauty blisters.

Swaying towards the stage, I lose out to another toe-head without so far to wobble. My decadence got the best of me.

Obviously, I'm in no condition for this.

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