If you came of age in the 80’s like I did and had any particular interest in the Hammer-pants world of hip hop then you assuredly (maybe, possibly) have heard of the LA Dream Team. They never made it mainstream in a Rob Base sort of way, but they did have at least one hit of sorts called The Dream Team is in the House, that was played at many a party in the mid 80’s.
With nonsensical rap lyrics like “We came here to kill and this is our deal. But the music don’t kiss it, then the fly looks real” and an annoying yet catchy hook of “Oh yes, we’re here, the Dream Team is Here,” this song became a favorite among my group of friends in junior high and high school. And somehow, in the fall of 1989, my group of friends (aka The Basement Crew) came up with the idea to perform a dance routine to this classic at the Homecoming Pep Rally, as the football players were being introduced.
In retrospect, I have no idea why we thought this would be a good idea, or how we convinced the guys to join in our routine (we probably had to promise to stop singing George Michael songs at parties). Nor do I remember why we picked that song. But I do know we were flying high on the endorphins of senioritis and there is something to be said for the magical, over-confidant infallibilty that comes with being a senior.
So for a week or two leading up to the pep rally, a group of us rehearsed in the basement of my parents house. And by rehearsed I mean played Quarters and then came up with the most simplistic dance moves we could conjure up, to ensure our football playin’, non-musical theatrish guy friends would actually be able to do them.
On the eve of the pep rally, my entire group of girlfriends got together for a slumber party. At some point between the “sorta-virgin” margaritas and carne asada burritos, we came up with the idea to go to school the next morning dressed as “Biker Slut$ From Hell,” BSFH for short, to provide a nice little kick start to the weekend’s Homecoming festivities.
Though our micro-minis and short shorts would certainly not adhere to the strict, one-inch-above-the-knee dress code of our private, uptight high school with approximately 232 students in the ENTIRE high school, the combo of Cuervo Gold and guac made our BSFH idea seem muy inteligente.
Though we look very innocent in our flannels and fuzzy slippers, this is us plotting our BSFH high jinks.
and this was us at breakfast the next morning at the McDonald’s down the street from school trying to figure out how we were actually going to walk on campus in spike heels and fish nets.
We caravanned down to school and strutted onto the campus as a pack (it’s common knowledge that biker slut$ travel in a pack). It was like the final scene of Grease with eight girls gone Sandy. Within fifteen minutes we were asked/forced to change out of our “gettups” and threatened with various reprimands. School administrative types were not amused but we certainly kicked off the weekend with a bang.
A few hours later, it was time for the Dream Team to arrive.
To be continued…Tune in tomorrow to find out how we were received and what we wore under our trench coats.