So I'm back from Rehoboth. And I'm typing this with the remnants of my first clean-shaven face in probably five years. Actually, I'm typing this with my fingers.
In any case, the Project Runway party was as big a success as my pornstache wasn't. And before I show you, I'll tell you that three perfect strangers (three! as in ... three) pulled me aside before the end of the party to tell me that I really should get rid of the facial hair before I went to the camouflage party that was next on the party schedule. Because a Rehoboth weekend is really just a string of three-hour parties with short breaks for costume changes. And a party circuit is apparently no time for pornstache failure.
Anyway! The beach house where I stayed is at 5 Prospect. Which pretty much wrote itself into our party theme ... and even our logo:
No theme party is complete without a grand entrance. Here's ours: a red carpet with a runway at the end. Which is just like any Tuesday night in our living room in Chicago.
Here's the view to the front gate from the runway. It's amazing how easily you can fancy up a party with $2 curtain panels from Walmart.
Speaking of fancy, it's never a party without a sparkly kitty.
Speaking of sparkly kitties, I almost made a pornstache. And by "almost made a" I mean "never had a genetic chance in hell to grow a decent." So here's how I looked right before the pornscaping, with 10 full days of beard growth. Notice the baldness on the front of my chin ... right in the Pornstache Zone.
The baldness proved to be unfixable, which means I wasn't able to pull off the pornstache. Not even a little. So—just like in any challenge where the dress doesn't fit the model or the hem looks too matronly with the shoes or the bric-a-brac doesn't match the hat and Tim Gunn is giving the five-minutes-until-showtime warning and you just have no choice but to improvise—I went for a standard-issue mustache and a soul patch. And wispy little rocker sideburns. And fake arm tattoos across the front of my neck. And a fauxhawk. And vacuum-packed stretch-leather jeans. And a little leather wrist cuff. Throw in a red Saturn and someone's crying mom and I'm a dead ringer for Jeffrey. Or your standard-issue show-me-on-the-doll-where-the-bad-man-touched-you bad man:
And here I am a little too wrinkly around the shins and a little to focus-y on the crotch on the runway. That growth on my left hip is my tiny little phone in the one pocket in my trashy, trashy pants. Which should tell you just how vacuum-packed they are.
And here are all but one of the weekend's residents of 5 Prospect. Notice that very few of us made any effort whatsoever to wear a Project Runway-themed costume. Harumph.
And here are our dear guests. Notice again what kind of fabulous you can create with $2 curtain panels from Walmart and a roll of twine. It's like the Project Runway Don't-Dress-Up-For-The-Theme Challenge come to life.
Here are more of our non-costumed guests, including no doubt at least one of the three (three!) strangers who told me my facial hair was an abomination before the Lord, who makes all things tax-exempt.
Notice that Tim Gunn isn't among the guests in this picture. But! He's actually friends with one of the residents of 5 Prospect. And he has family near Rehoboth. And there was a time when he actually planned on coming to our party! Imagine his surprise had he showed up to find out that Jeffrey was actually at the party too. Taking pictures from the runway. Because his cheap little point-n-shoot camera made an excellent prop for hiding his wispy little abomination of a non-pornstache failure. Which was denied three times before the sun came up. Or at least before it was shaved off for the camouflage party.