More dangerous than Three Mile Island, more toxic than Chernobyl, and potentially more catastrophic than Fukushima, is the poison atmosphere of three women arriving to a party in the same dress. The radioactive looks will peg the needle of a Geiger counter, not to mention the razor sharpened finger nails, digging deep into boyfriend’s hands, or the raging rivers of mascara. But tonight was a false alarm. The screaming sirens I heard were not warnings to take shelter, but were the cheers of celebration. It was a girl’s night out. A summit of three gal pals had arrived to the bar in full runway mode. Leading the way was the birthday honoree, followed by her dress-coordinated entourage and their inebriated boy toys. With makeup at maximum strength, drinks refreshed, brassieres fully loaded, cigarettes ablaze, and air-kisses delivered, the trio granted me a photo op for which my camera was blessed.
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