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“Just look at the bones of the paragraph!”
I semi-whined to Aap, my Afrikaans boyfriend. He’d
just read the Spundae hype and now stared like an Indian
chief. “’World-class turntable talent.’
Outdoor patio…”
“The only good club in L.A.,” he replied,
quick-drawing his hands to his head like two guns, “is
between your ears.”
I am fully aware of this, may I say, but if we went
to that club, no one would admire my new stiletto boots.
Spundae is at Circus Disco, of all numb-nut names.
Circus has been around for twenty-five years, even before
‘disco’ became the d-word. In those halcyon
days it was the epicenter of amyl nitrate, which was
baldly sold in the lobby, along with organic herb tonics
to smite the effects.
Amyl nitrate, for the wisely uninitiated, is a drug
that you inhale. It makes you feel, momentarily (its
thousand-skunks-smell piercing your brain) like when
you were little and spun around a lot then lied down
on the floor, nauseous, and watched the ceiling twirl.
Big frickin’ whoop.
Aap and I pulled up ‘round midnight to Circus
Disco’s Tranny Whore Central Area address. Before
us stood a huge warehouse all futzed up to resemble
a ship. Gay men of the rare, style-free variety ambled
up its ‘plank’ two by two. This looked like
a poorly planned Noah’s Ark.
“No one will admire your boots here either,”
Aap smirked.
“This can’t be it,” I said. “Drive
in.”
To my pride’s sweet relief, the real Circus Disco
was, in fact, behind the Love (That Dare Not Speak Its
Name) Boat, obscured by extravagant cars. We had to
go through ‘security’ – bag check,
pat down – which always thuds the vibe. An Illuminati
mind fuck, if you ask me.
A maze of ropes and walls brought us to Security Checkpoint
Two, but I think that was, in truth, a dimensional wormhole.
A big, wide uniformed guard scanned us from behind
a high podium, a striking cross of Cheshire Cat and
Masai warrior. He had spinning, mad, holy man eyes.
I smiled and started to pass, but he said, “Wait.”
I moved back. The guard took my hand and turned it palm
up. “I need that,” he continued, but factually,
no leering. He bowed and touched it to his forehead.
This lasted a twirly spell until Aap appeared behind
me. The guard then, simply sensing him, faced him with
open arms. “My brother!” he nearly gasped,
and lassoed him in a bear hug.
Although Aap presents as a fair European, he is pure
African, a completely different head. He’s spent
a lot of time in the bush of many countries, hanging
with different tribes.
He told me, when we met, that he had a mystical thing
with black people. I filed that away under Guy Yap until
I saw the phenomenon myself. Tonight, it played out
with the hug, a three-act eye lock, and a convulsive
handshake I’ve never seen on MTV. Five years could
have passed.
At last we entered, to a luxurious outdoor sprawl.
Ladies and Gentlemen — Micro Vegas! There were
geyser fountains Celine Dion could pose in. Graceful
vegetation. A tented buffet and a Red Bull booth. Big
bar with good booze. A raised terrace with tables and
chairs. Nice.
There was but one fly in the ointment. The clientele.
Like lice in hair, Dead-Eyed Rich Kids (DERKS) crawled
all over the place. Having been one, I can call ‘em.
Good old fully dead Kurt Cobain described their thick
gestalt best: ‘With the lights out, its less dangerous/
Here we are now/ Entertain us.’
Heretofore, the DERK evening: 1.) Snort, toke, tweak.
2.) Spend hours dressing in a two thousand dollar outfit
that looks like snot rags chewed by bulls. 3.) Snort,
toke, tweak. 4.) Poke at a posh repast of sea bass flown
in from the Cote D’Azur. Forget to tip. 5.) Pile
into newly detailed Hummer 2s, tricked out with roof
lights to look ‘rugged’…
(Cultural Note: I call them Housewife Hummers, as they’ve
replaced Mercedes Jeeps as the choice of soccer moms
with BIG BLING supplanting personalities.)
6.) Snort, toke, tweak. 7.) Give a twenty to the valet
to park the Armor-All’d de facto motor home ‘somewhere
safe’.
(Cultural Note: Valets steal drugs inside, then siphon
gas.)
Spundae mirrored, to me, the Gilded Youth themselves.
As a shell, lovely to look at. Add what’s inside
and it’s grim.
The ‘world class turntable talent’ was
a kid so young his balls may not have yet dropped. The
music had no balls. Neither brave nor hot, sparking
no chakras, its 4/4-time thump was just… novocaine.
The crowd moved in their own block of space, from the
waist up. No sex, blood, sweat or tears. No collective
trance. No fun.
“Nice boots,” Aap said, cracking himself
up.
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