One more hour without sleeping
Until the morning comes creeping
What’s that secret you’re keeping?
-- Sharon McNight
A lot of strange moments over the last few days, bunnies, and they’ve all sort of gelled into one seven-layer mess. Baby Jane Jackles attends Easter services dressed like a trollop fulfilling a baby doll fantasy, while porn legend Marilyn Chambers mysteriously dies in her trailer. Our lady of hypocrisy feels up a pig faced, horribly disliked NFL player, tipping off Page Six, while my aunt, Sister Margaret, worries about a culture that’s becoming entirely narcissistic and incapable of empathy. Add to the mix cabaret chanteuse Sharon McNight singing “Behind the Green Door,” with its Jackle-faced lyrics, on my iPod and no wonder the world seems topsy turvy.
In light of Jackles’ holiday misbehavior I propose a trip down memory lane, behind the pink door with Baby Jane during her wonder years.
Yes, these two items have appeared elsewhere and most of you will be familiar with the sordid details, but RBNS’s main page begs for their official inclusion.
Two of my closest friends roomed on the same dorm floor with Julia Allison Baugher when at Georgetown. That floor was in LXR, a tony dorm that had been designed to impress prospective students, parents, and alumni.
In a manic moment of pure selfishness, Julia painted her dorm room door bright pink, an action taken despite strict university policy not to deface school property. But as our lady has noted on her blog ... errr .... lifecast, “rules shmules.” The result made the hallway resemble a teenage brothel, reasonably angering current students, their parents, alumni, and the administration.
Any guesses as to how Julia got away with yet another strict violation when at university?
During spring semester, one of my LXR friends got in the elevator on the ground floor with a well-dressed older gentleman carrying two Victoria’s Secret shopping bags filled to bursting.
He was clearly no delivery boy, and when the gentleman got off on the same floor as my friend, intrigued, she followed him down the hall. Our man of mystery opened the pink door and walked right in. Not even a knock. No comment. Just a Victoria's Secret delivery.
Regarding the pink door in general, a ritual began among male underclassmen at Georgetown. On weekend drinking bouts, very early in the morning, these peers of Julia’s would stop by the pink door and urinate upon it in an effort illustrate their sentiments. This practice became so commonplace -- the drenched door, the students running away, the smell that lingered in the hallway -- that our lady decided to catch the culprits in the act.
Quickly opening the pink door, our lady was ready to yell and photograph the miscreants when she was hit with a golden stream of their affections. I know, I know, I’ve crossed the line, but we all did that ages ago.
Next time, a new tale. I promise.
That five-year reunion? We didn’t graduate in the same class, but my spies are already in place.