Original Article: http://dartreview.com/archives/2006/03/03/winter_carnival_drags_on_part_ii.php
Friday, March 3, 2006
We will always look back fondly at that time in our lives, the time before that storied Thursday night of Winter Carnival. For now, our dear friends, we have lost what shred of dignity we once had.
How did this happen, you might ask? Well, it’s a long story, so cozy up by the fire, and let us share with you the story of the dynamic duo of Michael “He’ll Do Anything” Russell and one Weston “Giggles” Sager.
It was, as I said, Thursday of Winter Carnival, the second night of the hallowed Dartmouth weekend. As it was our first Carnival, both of us had been looking forward to this night since before our acceptance into the college. It was supposed to be a typical Dartmouth night of frat hopping, pong, and socializing. But before we could make the trek over to Webster Avenue, we were called down to the Review offices for a “cocktail party” starting at 8 o’clock. Oh, how naïve we were.
Having sat down on the shabbily-upholstered couches, facing one another confusedly, glass table betwixt, two forties of Schlitz were placed before us. With each passing minute, our souls became warm with the rich influence of such delightful spirits.
An hour later, who should appear but several of the Review’s female staffers holding cardboard boxes containing what seemed to be ornate silks from far-away lands. But oh, these lavish clothes were not made for men. Indeed, the clothes that were taken out of the box were fit for a feminine figure. Slowly, the metamorphosis began. Weston was gone. In his place was “Giggles,” a rosy-cheeked vixen who laughed wildly at even the most mundane utterance. Mike Russell likewise faded away. In his place would be Dixie, a genteel Southern belle. We were about to enter the Drag Ball.
Yes, the Drag Ball. Sponsored by the Dartmouth Rainbow Alliance, this festive cross-dressing dance is now on par with other Winter Carnival traditions like the snow sculpture, the polar bear swim at Occum Pond, and getting picked up by the Hanover Police.
The female staffers began to undress us. Our pale, scrawny skin was donned with a variety of garish garments. Weston took the classy route, donning a shimmering purple dress, bright pink stockings, silver heels, and a sports bra stuffed with paper towels and pages of old Reviews . And, that accessory no man-lady at a drag ball should be without, three (yes, three) Trojan Ultra-Fit Condoms stuffed in his cleavage. The ensemble matched perfectly with the blue mascara and purple nail polish, and served as compliment to the thick red chest hair clearly visible above the bra line. Giggles was ready for her evening.
However, if there were any man-lady that deserves recognition for overall taste and poise, it would be Michael Russell, AKA Dixie. Elegantly dressed in a sequined pastel tube top, short pink skirt, and neon pink fishnet stockings, accented with his own white New Balance sneakers, Dixie was the epitome of class, grace, and refinement in her own peculiar way. And frankly, she didn’t give a damn about anything she would do or say that evening.
After having a plethora of pictures taken, effectively ruining any hopes of running for political office, or any office for that matter, we headed over to Collis Commonground—site of the infamous Drag Ball. Weston’s loud singing and Mike’s inflammatory shouts garnered strange looks from passers-by. We yearned to enter the relative safety of the Drag Ball.
Under normal circumstances, we should have been confused by what was going on at the Drag Ball. Not only were there men dressed like women, and women dressed like men, there were also men dressed like men and women dressed like women. However, neither Weston/Giggles nor Mike/Dixie really cared about the wild gender confusion. We just wanted to dance.
And dance we did. For a drag ball, there was surprisingly little booty-shaking action when we entered the Commonground. We changed that in a hurry. Quickly ascending the stairs onto the stage, we began to danced to the blaring techno music. Well maybe dance isn’t the best word—probably convulsing like an epileptic would be more accurate. Michael Russell, keeping true to his image of incomparable poise, flipped off the entire audience while parading on the slipshod catwalk, while Weston gave two big thumbs up behind him. For but a few precious moments, two Review staffers were putting the entire transvestite community to shame.
And then things started going downhill. Dixie, dancing wildly and flipping the bird perhaps too enthusiastically, passed out on the catwalk. It looked as though this in fact might have been the night that old Dixie had been driven down. Giggles, however, not having had his fill of dancing for the night, began to coach him into dancing again, but this was no use. Mike Russell would be in and out of the Collis women’s bathroom for the rest of the night, doing his best imitation of a Kappa sister who had been insulted for being too fat.
Not to be deterred, Weston carried the torch for the Review cross-dressing team. Seeing what appeared to be a blonde bombshell, Weston began to talk with one of the “women.” However, this was none other than Weston’s UGA and neighbor Taicu Hsu ’06, and upon realization of this fact, Weston promptly lost his balance, falling spastically. Blaming it on his “damn high heels,” Weston immediately stumbled away to the shaking head of his UGA.
Seeing that Mike Russell had returned to the Drag Ball, Weston again began to encourage him to go onstage. However, the only part of Russell that would make it onstage would be his forehead, after landing with a thud on the catwalk.
However, Weston was determined to “dance.” Giggles yearned for her time in the rainbow-colored limelight. After asking a couple of transvestite compatriots where the disc jockette was located, he marched behind the stage to her table, where he demanded that the B-52s song “Love Shack” be played. However, the DJ, perhaps jealous of Giggle’s feminine charms, refused to play the song, saying that Weston needed to “Blitz her ahead of time” if he wanted to get onstage. Obviously a lie. Weston persisted, but to no avail. She was ready for her close-up, but Mr. DeMille was unwilling to oblige.
Fearing our cover had been blown, the senior staffers decided it would be best to make a getaway as fast as possible. They delivered us to our rooms, but sans keys, wallets, or cell phones. Mike Russell made it back to French while Weston was locked out of his room and ended up passing out in his next-door neighbor’s bed. Slut.