Keeping Up With the Clintons
W e know the Clintons couldn’t possibly have forgotten to include our names on the guest list to at least four or five of the inaugural balls. So, anticipating that the invitations will show up in today’s mail, we’re starting to assemble our own list--what clothes to pack for a presidential gala that promises to be as eclectic in tone as the new President.
HE: The tux goes without saying; all inaugural balls are black tie, and if President Bill wants to recall J.F.K., there might even be a few white ties in the house.
That’s the official gear. On the practical side, we’re going to need weight. Inaugurations, traditionally, are stupefyingly cold. If the Clintons invite us to be on the reviewing stand (yeah, sure), I’d pack the 1,000-pound navy overcoat. But since we’ll probably be down in the crowd with the rest of the Potomac riffraff, how about a big down parka in an American flag motif?
SHE: At the balls, count on me to dress simply. No chandelier earrings. No Bo Peep skirts. Not one faux rhinestone on my modest bodice. Word’s out that Hillary will most likely dress simply for the inaugural galas. So, I’ll be wearing my no-frills red sheath, white kid gloves and smoky blue eye shadow.
As for the reviewing stand, well, I’m sporting my sheared beaver coat and praying Al Gore doesn’t look my way.
HE: Let’s not forget the gonzo element. We’re going to be toasting the guy who honked out “Heartbreak Hotel” on tenor sax on the “Arsenio” show, the fellow who used a Fleetwood Mac song to plug his campaign, the wild man who didn’t inhale.
We need to take along some retro-funky, strange-yet-sober, hippie-reformed, I’m-one-outta-control-yuppie sorts of duds. A couple of aloha shirts for indoor wear, perhaps. That Atlanta Falcons ball cap of mine with the little wings on the side that flap up and down, maybe. And that T-shirt that says, “My Parents Went to Woodstock and All I Got Was This Stupid Shirt.”
SHE: Yeah, I’m willing to get sartorially down for the the Monday night “American Gala” at Capital Centre in suburban Maryland. That’s the night the supposed “internationally renowned entertainment” is going to kick off the inaugural celebration.
Fleetwood Mac is going to have a reunion that night, so I’m going to salute them with my 1977 T-shirt that reads “You Make Lovin’ Fun.” Wish I had one that says, “Don’t Stop (Thinking About Tomorrow)”--Clinton’s campaign fight song.
I’ll pair it with my long, slit Donna Karan skirt, cropped leather jacket, Yankee Doodle scarf and ‘70s platforms.
What should we wear to the Tuesday night bash, the “Presidential Gala” that will be filmed by CBS and feature the entertainment and art figures who supported Clinton?
HE: Maybe I should run down to Planet Hollywood and get one of their logo leather jackets that Sly Stallone wore probably once. Actually, though, looking Hollywoody in Washington is not a good idea. Washington loves to hobnob with Hollywood types, but they like to do it in Hollywood. When they’re in Washington, they want to offer the image of the dedicated, sobersided public servant, and they can’t do that with safety pins jutting out of their cheeks.
Come to think of it, maybe it would be fun to show up in motorcycle leathers and super-reflecto Ray-Bans. They’d keep out the chill, and we might even get on TV.
SHE: If the TV cams zoom my way, I want the country to see the Orange County gal I really am. So, look for me in my Orange County Centennial sweat shirt, my Angels baseball cap, my L.A. Rams sweat pants and my Disneyland neck scarf.
Who am I kidding? You know I wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than the most scintillatingly sexy dress I can squeeze into. I’ll wear my old Lycra, surfer-girl frock, the one shot with a zillion rhinestones. You’ll need your Ray-Bans to look at me.
HE: And you’re going to need an ice pick to get yourself unstuck from anything you touch outside the building if you don’t put on more clothes. Maybe you ought to include a good Republican cloth coat.
SHE: Great idea. Then they’ll really know I’m an Orange County gal.
