On Sunday my friend Sarah and I strapped skis and angel's wings to our bikes and slid across the river to Governor's Island to get some Trinidadian oxtail and crash the Jazz-Era party thingie being held there. We really had no business being there because we weren't dressed up and had always thought the Charleston was a Prohibition-era illegal sexual position involving South Carolinians, but there was a lot of booze, so we consoled ourselves with that. Here are pictures!
Dancing, awkwardly.
Suzanne and Sarah (different Sarah)
Her boobz were so awesome my camera phone demanded another photo.
My favorite costume of the day. So authentic.
Sittin' and strummin'
I let her borrow my favorite blouse, and dammit, she didn't give it back.
Umbrellas
This bartender got more attractive with every drink he served me, and I think he appreciated me telling him so, repeatedly.
Garden parties are exhausting.
I discovered to my amazement that the Lindy Hop--which was the name of a brothel I used to work at--was also the name of a popular dance craze in the '20s.
These young daddies put their wiggle on and got the gams moving as they hit on all sixes with their hotsy-totsy, ducky beeswax, and how. Or something.
