In 1992 I bought a tie dye romper from a patchouli-smelling street vendor in Mission Beach, which I proceeded to wear to Lollapalooza with Doc Marten boots and a pair of round John Lennon-esque sunglasses from Charlotte Russe. (To complete the cliche, if you must know, I traveled there—Lollapalooza, not Charlotte Russe—in the back of a VW bus with 8 people, including my angsty long-haired wannabe rocker boyfriend who wouldn’t stop eating Funyuns.) It was a banner year for the ‘palooza--Pearl Jam and Soundgarden and Cube and Stone Temple Pilots. Sure wish I remembered the music. But, alas, classy college girl that I was, I had consumed my body weight in Zimas on the way and spent most of the festival either face down in the grass or face down in a portable john. Like I said . . . classy.
I do, however, remember that romper, with its bright, irresistibly cheerful concentric circles, like a textile lollipop—a vestige, if you will, of a simpler, more frivolous time. These tie dye plates are reminiscent of that garment. They almost pulse with their bold, swirling hues and, yet, there is a playfulness about them, a sweetness. They are appropriate as both the backdrop for a trio of jello shots at a college bash and the setting for a Spongebob cupcake at a kid’s birthday party. I attended Lollapalooza in 1992, so guess which one I recently used them for? (Though my son would be quick to point out that we served apple pie at his birthday party, because cupcakes are too “mainstream.” No joke. My kid is 9. What do I do with that?) Better yet, throw in some peace sign decor, psychedelic music, and a fondue pot and you have the makings of a groovy 60s soiree. You could even have guests tie dye shirts as favors. Hmmm . . . wonder what happened to my friend with that VW bus
Guest Post by Laura Davis of www.FictionLimbo.com
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