Hilton Head is like Charlotte’s toilet bowl, I learned last night, sitting at the bar with two friends who lived in the NASCAR and banking capital of North Carolina. They informed me of this as two other former Charlotonians (or Charlatans?) walked in and took a seat at the opposite end of the bar, which, according to the denim power suit and going-to-see-Jovi-at-Giants-Stadium haircut the woman had, apparently is the one spot on earth where 1986 still exists. Her man-friend — but not quite husband — I’m pretty sure was a rejected villian from the Popeye series, with his lengthy Gandalf beard framed nicely by an incandescent bald skull. This guy is having his 60th birthday today, we learned. And as everyone knows, the 60th is the Ornate and Completely Unnecessary Displays of Ostentatious Masculinity birthday.
His celebration plans include (no joke, this is what Denim Debbie told us they actually have planned. We’ll call him James because his name is being withheld to protect his identity and, um, because I left the notes I took last night on the table at home):
• James will be transported via coffin
• The coffin will be placed inside a military truck
• The truck will be escorted by motorcycles
• Thongs will drape the coffin instead of flowers
• The pallbearers will be all-female
• This whole Dada-ish parade will end the Alligator Grille (pictured right), where I assume everyone will have sushi and a cabernet and go home before 10.
Not knowing much about this James character other than his obvious desire to dispose of any subtlety related to his heterosexuality, several questions arise from this. One: How does one get access to a military truck? I am unaware of them being rented on an hourly party basis like so much shameful clown. Two: Does one have to purchase the thongs specifically for such an event, or is he borrowing them from lady friends? And if he’s purchasing them, did he walk up to the check out counter at Victoria Secret and ask for the 25-piece thong econoy funpack? Three: Does a local funeral home offer an all-female pallbearer service, or are these freelance pallbearers trying to get some gigs to build up a resume? And Four, in regards to the coffin: Which is a better vampire movie — “Once Bitten” or “My Best Friend is a Vampire”? The answer to that one, at least, is obvious:
Of course, I don’t know if any of James’ through-the-testosterone-looking-glass birthday will ever materialize. But if it does, I salute you sir. Just know that I have garlic and holy water in my pockets at all times.