21st Century Mod

Saturday was a good day. It was an arty-farty day, light and enjoyable. It was even a trip back in time, in a wonderfully retrospective afternoon.

I went to see the Tim Burton exhibit at LACMA, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. I ended up going by myself since my arranged play date had to cancel. I didn't mind. I looked forward to savoring the exhibit by myself, taking as much time as I wanted to, to soak in the details, especially anything that had to do with Edward Scissorhands.

The museum was crowded, and I wasn't the only one meandering alone. I enjoyed seeing a few art student types, with their avant-garde hairstyles, geek-chic glasses, and espadrille shoes. As a forty-something adult, I relish the 80's-inspired fashions that young people are wearing.

As expected, a lot of the art on display was dark in tone, often infused with humor. A lot of it was gory, and violent, even, such as the drawing of spaceships landing (but not from "Mars Attacks!" - that was later on in the exhibit) and aliens spearing human beings on the run. In the same picture, bloody corpses were trapped under giant alien eggs as bloodthirsty creatures were hatching out of them, dinosaur-esque and tentacled creatures.

The costume for Edward Scissorhands was on display, a patchwork of various leather pieces and many buckles. I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I started to tear up when I first saw it. It was practically - and unexpectedly - my own personal Shroud of Turin, melodramatic as that may sound. Seeing the costume so close up and in person brought back the direct connection I had felt to the abandoned, childlike character two decades ago.

I needed to take a moment to step away and then come back to it. I walked into the next part of the exhibit featuring characters and scenes from "A Nightmare Before Christmas," before returning.

Next to Edward's leather bondage suit was a single set of scissor hands. It was under a cube of Plexiglass. I loved being able to examine the detail so closely, seeing that the "thumb" was a closed pair of pliers. Even upon such close inspection the metallic plastic covering the long blades, like Mylar wrapping paper, was still pretty convincing.

LACMA is within walking distance of Molly Malone's, an Irish pub. It was my lucky day: I got to see a small but conspicuous scooter rally gathering outside of the pub, a new generation of stylish mods among their tricked out Vespas parked on Fairfax Avenue. It did my former wannabe-mod heart good to see this specific subculture adapted and re-translated from the 60's to the 80's, and all the way into 2011. The newer mod generation seems tougher, grittier, with their piercings and many tattoos. They still appealed to my Inner Teen, and the young-extrovert-I-used-to-be, so eager to express my rugged individualism via a thrift store wardrobe and a Vespa scooter, circa 1986.

The cherry-on-top of my arty-farty Saturday was seeing a bright purple smartcar parked in the neighborhood. It was a candy-colored shade of purple, like the special edition M&M's you can buy in Las Vegas at M&M world. Like the uniquely accessorized scooters, it must have been a custom job. I would have been more jealous if my twenty year Purple Period hadn't ended a decade ago.

My inner Donny-Osmond-meets-Duckie-Dale reveled in the visual stimulation of it all.
It was a good Saturday.

Mid-life Crisis Clubbing

BFF Kathy has two children, ages almost-9 and 6. I love them as if they were my own flesh and blood, but even I cannot fully comprehend the depth of their mother's love for them. And they have been driving Kathy crazy lately, with her usual stay-at-home mom insanity being compounded by school being out for the summer. She needed to get away, even if only for a few hours. I was more than willing to kidnap her.

After their father drove us all to the kids' introductory dinner at Chipotle (they both had pinto beans and shredded cheese on top of rice), we returned to their house to share a raspberry tart from Trader Joe's - a la mode!

The Shark Club in Costa Mesa was only about a half hour's drive away on the freeway. It was Britney versus Gaga night - all Britney and all Lady Gaga music, all night! I was looking forward to some good dancing. And there was no cover charge before 11:00 pm.

Kathy wasn't sure we were in the right place after we had parked. She saw a couple of petite young women dressed in flirtatious and feminine skirts. I pointed to the very tall glamazon standing by the front door, checking people in, and Kathy was reassured.

We got in right away, and right away we felt old. It wasn't the younger crowd - there were a few other people close to or about our age - it was the volume of the music. It was too loud! ("If it's too loud, then you're too old!"). One of the first songs we heard was a mash up of Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" and the Human League's "Don't You Want Me." It was a brilliant mix.

There were half a dozen go go boys rotating around the various platforms of the club. Kathy, who used to teach high school chemistry, leaned in close to me on the dance floor to shout, "They seem so young!" I thought so, too. I forgot to ask her if she ever wondered or worried about seeing her former students in "a place like this."

We had a great time, even though Kathy wasn't familiar with any of the songs. Being the perpetual adultolescent that I am, I was in my overgrown glory, dancing with Kathy to la Spears and la Gaga tunes. It felt good to dance and sweat and just let loose, not having to feel inhibited around all of the other extroverts that were there for the same reasons. Like me, the other men on the dance floor seemed to know all the lyrics as well, lip syncing right along.

During one song I didn't recognize, I asked Kathy if she wanted a break. "Are you crazy?" she asked, yelling over the music. We stayed until closing.

We took breaks when the drag queens performed on stage. We thought of Fabulous Friend Eddie, even though they weren't the best or fiercest drags queens we had ever seen ( I told Eddie later - clarified - that their not being the best or fiercest was not what made us think of him). They were still entertaining, though, the Divas-in-training.

We had perspired the night away, and we had only had one drink each when we first walked in (margarita on the rocks/salt for Kathy and a cranberry juice for me). I wanted to refuel after, so we grabbed a quick bite at a 24 hour cafe on Pacific Coast Highway, crowded for 2:30 am. I ordered too much food, and we didn't finish. The night was not long enough. We were both tired but we could have continued talking until dawn.

We practically did. Thank goodness for the holiday, and for the three day weekend! I walked back into my own home after 4:30 am. Before I left, I told Kathy that I would probably feel hung over the next day, even though I don't drink.

We're not 37 anymore.

Twister and Crisco Oil

I have the most amazing and wonderful friends - if only for the fodder that their inane behavior and insanity provides . . . Remember Edith, my Famous Fag Hag Friend, from both my Disney past and my church past? She's baaack!

Edith was coming back to town for the Father's Day weekend. So was Anna, our mutual friend from our show choir days at a local junior college (the older, legal age version of 'glee'). They asked me to cajole Fabulous Friend Eddie into a small reunion, to reunite our original warped and dysfunctional foursome.

Eddie was not available. Honestly, I don't think he was that heartbroken about it. The three of us still talked about him, though, over appetizers and drinks.

"Remember the time Eddie took me to the 24 hour supermarket late at night?" Edith asked. "I've told you this story a hundred times!"

Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. "Refresh my memory," I prompted.

"It was just the two of us," Edith continued, a giggly grin stretched across her face, "and he bought three items: a game of Twister, some Crisco Oil, and a box of condoms - just to see the look on the checkout girl's face."

I fell over on my side of the restaurant booth in exaggerated laughter. "No, you never told me that before! I would remember something like that. Can I post that as my facebook status tonight?"

I did post it, but I was careful to use only Eddie's initials, rather than tagging him in the statement with an '@' symbol before his name. I called him today.

"Edith is crazy," I informed him, as if this were new information to him. "She's fucking crazy!"

Eddie set the record straight. "I never did that. I only talked about doing it, how funny it would be to go into a store and buy those things."

That sounded accurate. I told him so. "Yeah, it sounded a little fishy," I said. This was in the 80's, and we were all working at Disneyland? I know what we made.

"I didn't think you would have wasted money on a stunt like that, even just for the shock value."

I was glad I called Eddie. I thanked him for confirming my suspicion about Edith: that she twists the memories of our shared past into much different versions than what we remember.

"Maybe we should give her a break," I suggested. "She told us how she had been on Percocet after throwing her lower back out. It made her crazy and she told us about how she had to wean herself off of it.

"Maybe the medication affected her memory of things. Who knows? She still swears that I went around telling everyone at church that she was my ex-girlfriend - in order to make my desired image as a heterosexual more plausible."

I'm a little crazy, I don't mind admitting, but I have never been that fucking crazy, even back then!

If I ever get off my lazy butt enough to become a published novelist some day, one of my book titles is going to be Christian Fag Hag.

And the (Bubble) World Still Goes 'Round

So, that Family Radio guy, Harold Camping, was wrong. Well, okay, not exactly wrong, just off by five months, as he has been saying. The world did not collapse in chaos and destruction on May 21st, as some had fearfully believed it might. All of the good Christian people of this earth did not get raptured up to heaven, as some of the Faithful Followers had sincerely expected.

I had forgotten to watch for it. I had imagined it, days before, playing it out in my mind like a scene from the movie "2012." I already knew that I was going to be visiting my Aunt Pat in Palm Desert that day. I had wondered if I would still be driving on the 10 freeway at the moment Judgment Day began, the road crumbling beneath me near the desert windmills before swallowing up my little smartcar with me inside.

I had wondered if we would be caught off guard while at the movies, good and religious people disappearing in mid air - poof! - leaving behind their empty, flat clothing in the middle of a "Bridesmaids" showing ("That's not a very Christian movie to see!"). Would we even notice it in a dark theater, right before the Edward's buildings toppled over those of us Left Behind?

As much as I can let my imagination get the better of me, and as much as I gave the alleged end-of-the-world some thought, I wasn't close to what you could call truly scared or worried. If I were actually concerned, I would fret more about my pets (Did you know that there was a group out there promising to take care of pets post-May 21st if their owners did indeed get raptured? And that they accepted payments before that not-so-fateful Saturday? . . . I wonder if it was non-refundable?)

Oh. But back to my precious old lady pugs, and our darling baby feline. If the very foundations of our paved paradise were going to crack open and swallow us into fiery depths of hot magma, then I would want some sort of euthanasia pill or injection to administer to our furry babies. I wouldn't want them to have to suffer any fear or physical pain simply because their human companions had been blighted for deliberate sin. I can't even stand the thought of our surrogate children suffering a slow demise from hunger and thirst if their two dads weren't able to make it back home from the Judgment Day festivities.

When I returned from visiting my aunt that Saturday night, our house was still standing, and there was music booming from a party in the next block. A live band was playing, with vocalists singing in Spanish. I didn't understand all of the repetitive lyrics, but I heard a lot of 'Hallelujahs.' I suspected that the party had gathered in anticipation of the Rapture. If so, I wondered how disappointed those people were at the end of the night. And the next day.

It was anti-climatic, really. Not that I wanted the world to end. Lady Gaga's new album hadn't even come out yet, before that weekend, and that would have been sacrilege, darling, not getting to experience those new tracks. Have you heard her song "Government Hooker?" So 80's-esque!

Some Parents are Cool!

In the early 80's, Band Geek Friend, Bubba, suggested we go looking for part time jobs. The winter break was coming and we needed extra money so we could do some holiday shopping. We went directly to our local shopping conglomerate that included a Mervyn's, a Miller's Outpost, and a Baskin Robbins. Armed and energized with fresh ambition, and perhaps a bit of naïveté, we aimed to fill out applications in every store until we received the first job offer.

There was also a Clothestime, a trendy clothing store for young women. Since we were there we figured, "What the heck?"

"What . . . ha ha . . . positions are you applying for?" the lady behind the counter asked us.

"Oh, being a rude person like you," Bubba calmly replied before I followed him back out the door.

That was before either of us had come out. Today, almost thirty years later, I received a message from High School Friend, Brenda, who shared an interesting update. Her husband had used a birthday shopping excursion with their daughter as another chance to try to make more sense of the social world in which we live (as she so beautifully described). He mentioned the young, gay men on staff in the women's clothing stores. Their daughter, who had just turned 12, was genuinely surprised. "Really? I thought that they were just really good dressers."

Also, today, my niece's mother asked me if I had seen the new shopping bags for Hollister. I hadn't, so she sent pictures to my phone, pictures of two male models lying next to each other on the beach. I think it's interesting that you can't actually see the whole picture at once, just sections of it on four different sides of the bag so that the models' faces are on opposite sides, although their torsos crisscross in between . . .

"Mom, you know only teen girls and gays shop there, right?" my 16-year-old niece had asked her.

I'm such the proud uncle, proud that she gets it! (Hollister certainly knows their target market) Her 13-year-old step sister's response, however, was "Eww, gross!" My niece's mother used it as an opportunity to teach her that choosing one's sexuality is as realistic as choosing one's eye color.

Too bad Bubba and I aren't young enough to apply for the same part time jobs now in these clothing stores. We were a little ahead of our time, maybe. And Clothestime? I can't even remember the last time it was still open.

Tolerance in 2011 - on sale now!

Welcome to Peter's Retro Discoland!

Part of the problem with getting older is that it becomes more difficult to find a good dance club that plays satisfying music, satisfying to my aging ear, at least. I know: my life is a constant trial! But as BFF Kathy had once said, "I need a place where I know and recognize the songs so that I can enjoy myself."

There are plenty of gay bars/dance clubs to choose from, in and near Los Angeles. So, I am forced to admit that my age is a major part of the problem. There are simply not enough retro nights at bars on the weekend.

There is Oil Can Harry's, close to Universal Studios. On most nights they play country & western music for line dancing. But Saturday nights are for disco night! And age is not an issue there. Yes, most of the patrons have been my age or older on the nights I've attended, but quite a few were much younger. It's about a 35 mile drive from home, though. I can't always get friends or even Domestic Partner to go with me.

I saw a Totally 80's night, for a local club, advertised on facebook. That's specifically what I was looking for! But it's held on a Tuesday night. I could still go, but the Sensible and Responsible Adult that I've finally become is reluctant to risk a lethargic day at work on Wednesday morning.

Lately, I've been thinking that I will just have to bring the dance club to me. I'll just have my own discotheque at home. Years ago (okay, decades ago, literally, even if it's only been a couple . . .) I went dancing with friends at the Coconut Teaszer in Hollywood, when it was at its old location. I loved that they had a huge window in the front of the club, like some one's living room window that you could look into. The exhibitionist in me loved that I could dance behind that window and be seen by people driving by or walking by on Sunset Boulevard.

Since then, I have always wanted to live in a house like that.

Our current home is in a quiet, suburban neighborhood. It's not the most ideal location for building dance hall dreams. But maybe some day, about the time I have my fourth novel published, and the film rights optioned, and a stage musical adaptation for one of them, then I'll be able to build a dance club in the front part of our dream home! I'll be able to sync up the iPod to play an infinite play list of my favorite dance tunes from the last five decades, and have a dance club the way I want it.

And you will too, the way you want it - you'll be invited! And I will take requests. There will be food and drink, and plenty of guest rooms for you to crash in and spend the night. It may take me another couple of decades, but keep your boogie shoes ready . . .

How to Make Your Partner Mad (or, Midlife Crisis #8)

I almost left. I was going to quit my job. There is nothing wrong with my job, not really, except for me. The pay is good. I genuinely like my coworkers, and I know that's not always easy to find in a work place. And the stress, consistent as it may be, is at a pretty minimal level.

But my numbers have not been as high as my boss would like them to be, for more than a few months now. I am weary of being so ineffective, and I was ready to leave. I came very close to announcing my two weeks' notice.

I wanted to give notice right after I was offered a sales position with a solar panel company. I also had an appointment for a job interview with a famous weight loss company (Kirstie, Valerie, Sara, and even Jason have been their celebrity spokespersons), just in case.

I hadn't said anything to Domestic Partner about it, not until the first job was offered and the appointment had been made with the second company. I opened up the conversation with, "I need your advice about something."

He was not pleased. His first response to me was, "I don't think you would do well, trying to sell solar panels." He became even more upset when I told him that the pay was commission only. I told him that was why I had an appointment with the famous weight loss company. He was not appeased by my back up plan.

I told him that if I was single, I would have jumped at the chance to take either job. I would take the risk without giving it much thought. But since I'm not single, and since I had to consider how the consequences would affect us a couple, I wanted to know what he thought.

Be careful what you ask for.

Domestic Partner told me, not unkindly, that he feels he has been carrying me for the last dozen years or so. That was not the first time I had heard him express that feeling. He just hasn't said it in a few years.

When we first met, I wasn't even employed. I had just been fired from my server job at the Olive Garden. I was performing as a Kit Kat girl in drag, in the musical "Cabaret," and I was making $7.00 per show. This was in the mid 90's.

Why did he want to continue dating me? Why did we stay together? I secured better, more consistent employment after "Cabaret," including another restaurant job and a Disney gig for their sports entertainment (cheerleader!). But I also went away on contract as a dancer, more than once.

Why does someone, knowing what you are and what you are not, want to stay in a relationship with you only to try and change you?

Now I'm just ranting . . . the changes that Domestic Partner wanted/wants for me have benefitted me. He is good for me. If we weren't together I would not have even gone back to school. My pending retirement would be even more pathetic than it already is.

As I have said before in this blog, he is my stability.

I asked him why he was so upset, why he was taking my proposal to change jobs so personally. Domestic Partner is only 51. He may have the opportunity to take early retirement in five years, so he is still waiting for me to catch up to him financially (and in other ways) so that he can afford to take early retirement.

So that he can afford to stay in a relationship with me.

Our conversation ended well. He said that when he retired in a few years, maybe we could consider moving to Hawai'i, as we have been talking about for a while now, and just rent a small place. If I want to change jobs, I should just wait until we move to the islands.

That made me feel very happy. It was a wonderful consolation prize.

Instead of giving notice I went to work the next day and told my boss, without going into detail, about the previous night's conversation. I told him that I had renewed commitment for my job responsibilities.

I turned 45 this past weekend. Maybe it's having another birthday that has been making me want to do something impulsive. So, instead of quitting my job, I got a haircut (I also bought my first smart phone, my birthday present to myself, after using the same flip phone for the last seven years).

I still think I would have rocked as a sales person at the famous weight loss company.