I couldn’t believe my ears. Mindy, shot?
I was at a 1970s costume party last week, and one of the guests was insisting that Mindy, aka actress Pam Dawber of the sitcom “Mork and Mindy,” had been shot.
“How could I not know that Mindy was shot?” I said. “I don’t believe it. Somebody Google it.”
Immediately, five iPhones appeared from nowhere like switchblades in “West Side Story.”
“What do I Google?” asked a 40-year-old guy dressed in Walmart pajamas pretending to be Hugh Hefner.
“Just type ‘Mindy’ and ‘shot,'” I snapped, looking hip in my too-tight denim sport jacket. Turns out, there’s a Web site called “Dead or Alive,” and we quickly smartphoned Mindy back from the afterlife. (Although Dawber’s co-star from a 1980s sitcom had been killed, we discovered from the Web.)
Going back to the 1970s, even for a few hours, was a jarring experience. At 51, I was one of the older guests at the 40th birthday party of a friend, and I had appointed myself the arbiter of 1970s culture.
I coached people on what to say — “groovy” no, “dream on” yes. And what to wear — stacked heels for men, yes; white go-go boots for women, no.
It seems most younger adults have lumped the 1960s and the 1970s together into one big glob of years they think of as “That Sad Period Before We Were Born.”
In the case of the 1970s, there is reason for remorse. The 1970s were my home from age 12 to age 22 — I marinated in the 1970s. Yet, for most of my life I have run from the tacky pop-culture trends of the Me Decade.
On this night, there was no escaping 1970s chic. There was fondu, both chocolate and cheese. There was 1970s music, including the party anthem “Do the Hustle.”
And, oh my, the clothes.
One stylish guest — a CEO by day — wore a red wig, a skintight silk shirt open to the navel and a pair of pocketless pants with a pattern that looked like rec-room paneling. He also smelled of Musk Oil, although that could have been an olfactory illusion triggered by his outfit.
My lovely wife — bless her heart — dressed in a halter-top ensemble with geometric patterns. She looked like an extra in a “Superfly” movie. She stacked this package on wedge heels made of cork. Nice.
Looking around the room, I felt transported to 1976.
Some of the men gravitated to the TV room — don’t we always — where promotional photos for 1970s television shows were flashing up in a continuous loop.
As the pictures changed, people would shout out the name of the show.
“Petticoat Junction!”
“All in the Family!”
“Wonder Woman!”
“Emergency!”
“Emergency,” I said, feeling a flashback coming on. “Start an IV with normal saline and Ringer’s lactate.”
“What?” asked Hugh Hefner.
“Start an IV with normal saline and Ringer’s lactate,” I repeated. “I have no idea what those words mean, but that’s what they always said on ‘Emergency.'”
How weird, we agreed. A nurse in the room verified that this was true EMT-speak. It’s amazing how random scraps of information get trapped in the crevices of your mind.
By 11 p.m. I was rubbing my eyes. I glanced at my watch. Oops, time to go home and relieve the baby sitter.
I got up from the couch, yawned and nodded to a buddy: “Good night, John Boy.”