The Starfuckers of 1998

Star City, May 14, 1998 — The Starfuckers of 1998 come to a Star-studded costume party dressed as A Clue to the New Direction.

They can’t tell who is who, which Stars are which, whether the light is low, or how high the highs. 

The Starfuckers wonder: If we can see Stars, can Stars see us?

Stars such as the very late Sinatra, or a Star dressed as the not-so-late Sinatra, singing: and there I go and spoil not ALL but SOME of it ALL by saying something like “drink to me, drink to my health, I’m not sure, but I don’t think I ever took those blows.” Or, a Star dressed as The Seinfeld Finale while The Seinfeld Finale is on, on as in on Star City’s first flat screen. On like the four horsepeople of the apocalyptic metropolis. On like The Fantastic Four without the phantasm. On like so totally not off. And the Seinfeld Finale jury is out. On all of it. Wayyy out.

The Starfuckers of 1998 are overwhelmed at first, frightened to take it all in. Frightened of it. For to take all or any of it in could be to accept the verdict of a moment and the moment’s terms, the terms being: You are and are not here. 

It’s the very not part they’ve tried so hard to resist. The potential for — and of — the not of things. The not of clues. The not of Stars. The not of themselves. 

Welcome to our Starry Starry Night! says a possible Star who is dressed as Dressed to Kill. You can look, but please don’t touch! 

They see us! the Starfuckers say. They see what now? says a Star dressed as The Call of the Wilde.

Very witty, Call of the Wilde! the Starfuckers say and say as they laugh and laugh. 

The Starfuckers of 1998 laugh at all the possible Stars’ possible jokes. They laugh and laugh as they look and look. And try not to touch.

Your apparent reply to us in the AOL chat room made our year! they say to the Star dressed as They Call The Wind Mariah Carey. 

Your hot takes are genius! they say to the Star dressed as Phil Hartman Imitating The Kid From Hoboken, throwing his voice like caution to the Wind Mariah, throwing it the way The Chairman of the Board would throw it to the Peanut Butter Wolves.

Your seeing us here, seeing us now, in a here and now that might be NEXT — or a clue to it — is making us wet! they say to the Star dressed as Festivus, drinking a Ziggy Stardust with a Garth Brooks chaser.

Who invited these Starfucker guys? says the Garth Brooks chaser.

A juror from the Seinfeld finale, the Starfuckers say.

No fuckin’ way, says the Star dressed as The Finale, before launching in to the breathless opening line of Big Pun’s “The Dream Shatterer.”

Dressed in all the Clues — from super-strappy sandals and itty-bitty minidresses to Ecko Unltd. rhino sweaters and Pelle Pelle denim, the Starfuckers say and say as they laugh and laugh:

We are Star hungry

We are lemondrop golden

And we’ve got to get back 

Not to the Garden

But to the Present

The Present that will mean a Future

A Future we can touch

A Future we can feel

A Future we can see

A Future that sees us

You Starfuckers oughta be in pictures, says a Star dressed as a Busby Berkeley musical, with a Karl Kani rollneck wrapped around its show-stopping dance number.

I’ll introduce you to my publisher, says a Star dressed as There’s Something About Mary’s Arcing, Wooden Prose.

Unsure if they should laugh or sigh or scream or cry, the Starfuckers swoon, swoon like a clue, churlish as a wish, tumbling like dice, like crushed ice into the Garth Brooks chaser.

Fuckin’ Starfuckers, the Garth Brooks chaser says.

A Star dressed as Dial-Up Internet — the boy band Star Maker Monthly put on the cover of its “NEXT” issue — fetches a broom and dustbin, whistling Dial-Up Internet’s latest, the crunked-up “Costume Jewelry.” 

I’m sensing some of you aren’t Starfucking sincerely enough, a Starfucker scolds.

Sincerity? That’s “The Hard-Knock Life” talking, saysa Star dressed as The Kenneth Starr Report featuring the Sons of Funk.

On the flat screen, the Seinfeld Judge asks the Seinfeld Jury if they’ve reached a verdict.

They absolutely fucking have, the Star dressed as the Seinfeld Finale says. 

From the dustbin, the Starfuckers wave to the jury, wave to the Stars, like present when it is past, the future when it is here and not here, seen and unseen, an inside joke without an outside voice, dressed as velcro in a vacuum, strangers who remain strangers in the Starry Starry night. 

On better days, Pat Foran sells “Gold Diggers of 2021: Twitter Love Means Never Having to Say the Magic Word (or That You’re the Least Bit Sorry)” t-shirts at an abandoned strip mall next to the windmill in his heart. Find him at or on Twitter at @pdforan.

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