One Nation Under a Groove

If things were different, tonight I could be seeing George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic. Of course, if things were different, tonight I could be enjoying peace and quiet, or sitting on a beach in Kauai, or eating dinner at Gordon Ramsay. On the other hand, if things were different, tonight I could be lying in a hospital bed or working the third shift. But not that much would have to be different for me to be seeing George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic. However, things are what they are, and I’m staying home with M, E, a novel, and a DVD, so instead I’ll write about the night I did see George Clinton.

It was a long time ago. It was Berkeley. It was Halloween. It was George Clinton and the P-Funk All-Stars. So you can imagine. (And if you can’t imagine, it’s probably better that way.)

I’ve never been too into costumes--I don’t like to look funny and I’m particularly self-conscious about my hair--so I’ve become an expert at non-costume costumes. That night S and I went as your parents. He wore a suit and tie--ok, it was a blue lamé tie--and I wore a vintage red brocade sheath dress with matching bolero, high heels, my hair piled on top of my head, and all the make-up I owned at the time. The costume was a minor hit. People smiled and nodded when they saw us, and when we told them who we were, they laughed.

We went with this girl--I know, I should say woman, but I can’t, and in fact girl is probably the most complimentary thing I can bring myself to call her--who was in love with S, though neither of them would admit it. She had long blond hair and a cliché of a body, and she went as a cat. She wore a black unitard, black high-heeled boots, a long black tail, and little black ears. I think there were also whiskers. And lipstick. She was a big hit. All evening, she kept wondering why guys she didn’t know were yelling at her from across the street and muttering suggestive comments as they walked by.

It was the story of my life: I’m your mom and the other girl is Pussy Galore.

So we thronged down to the Berkeley Community Theater with all the other costumed funksters and hipsters and stoners. And you know, I really don’t remember that much about the actual show, which is perhaps as it should be. I don’t remember Bootsy or Funkenstein or what songs they played. I do remember that we didn’t stop moving for over three hours and those high heels were killing me. I remember George Clinton really did come out of the Mothership, and he really did look like this. I remember the whole thing blew my mind.

I don’t remember whatever happened to the cat girl.

[And in case you’re wondering, everyone is talking about S’s star turn on the evening news. I’d barely been at work ten minutes before the phone rang with the first report. M’s pediatrician walked into the examining room and asked, “Did I see your dad on TV last night?” S walked into work and one of his cooks said “I come here to fish all the time, and I’ve never seen anything like this.” A genuine, bonafide, small-town star.]