this imploding heart

The Mansion in Lake Forest

The Mansion in Lake Forest Park

No, no, the one near Chicago. Because that's where Mr. T lives.

I learned this when I was in college. My roommates and I had concocted a plan to throw an apartment-warming party and invite local celebrities just to see who would show up. I have a dim recollection that this plan began because one or more of us had a crush on one or more members of an indie-garage-punk band and we wanted them to think their invitation was general and not one of please-come-put-your-tongue-in-my-mouth. We put our party planning minds to work. Because we were at a snooty school and trained to follow thoughts to their logical end, the plan grew into the glorified Celebrity Invite '91. Because we were at a snooty school and trained that "logical end" meant discussion sans execution, Celebrity Invite '91 became a late-night legend revered. Celebrities were identified but never invited, we developed crushes on a new set of dissidents, and I left school in a pissy exhaustion.

I moved to Seattle.

Three years later and in a fresher, more highly-stylized pissy exhaustion, I returned to the land of snoot and NBA rioting, this time with the perspective of the World Beyond, a drinking savvy, and a boyfriend who liked to see me naked but hated Chicago so much that he lost twenty pounds and began to look like a comic book recluse of age 12.

But Mr. T was still mighty. He had survived Rocky Balboa, defunct Saturday morning cartoons, and pulled-from-the-shelf novelty breakfast cereals. He still lived in Lake Forest Park and I had a party to attend. We drove along wintery tree-lined streets and there it was: The Home of Mr. T, barren of trees. I held my breath as we neared his driveway, but we drove on: my invitation was for a party at a different Lake Forest Park mansion, one with marble countertops and sorority sisters who would confuse my unrushed indie ears with Theta gossip. Throughout the evening I drank my wine slowly in hopes that Mr. T would arrive in the A-Team van and rescue me. He never came and the wine made me tired.

I returned to Seattle.

Thoughts of Mr. T shifted into memory and subconscious, rummaging about until they reappeared in a startling A-Team dream in which I was featured as Face. We were trying to stop the evil stadium development that was taking over the real estate of the Lower Queen Anne Ladro, a site featuring baristas who harken the dissident crushes of years past. Face (me) was onto something big, really huge, a piece of information that could stop the whole organization, but Face (me) had also just been caught and thrown into a pit dug into the stadium floor. Face (me) was barely conscious and about to be covered with Astroturf. Who could help? Who would come to the rescue? This time, the bullet-riddled van did arrive. B.A. Baracus stepped out in the form of...my sister. Yes, the mighty Mr. T was now a redheaded pixie of a girl. And she kicked ass.

I woke dismayed yet elated. Dismayed that I had been cast as the most ridiculous member of the A-Team (why couldn't I have been Murdock?), but elated that the decade-old secrets of Mr. T and Celebrity Invite '91had finally been revealed: no party is complete without B.A. Erin Jorgensen.

Faux Sonya

Posted by Sonya at August 30, 2002 08:43 AM