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He
paused to reflect. "Well, no, not all. Some are hos out of
rehab."
This
soliloquy was in response to the news that I would not be able
to join him for our usual Sunday morning sack artistry.
Rather,
by the time he awoke to earth's three jejune dimensions, I would
be an hour away at the Dedication Ceremony of Orange County's
first Goddess Temple. No skin flutes allowed. Trim only.
The
laugh riot here, gentlepeople, is not that there is a Goddess
Temple. It's that there is one in Orange County.
Orange
County has a reputation for being a bastion of rich, commando-conservative,
white, Stepford bwana-brains with yacht hats and Dior MyDoom brain
worms. It has this reputation because… it's true. Excepting,
of course, the little people there to serve them and the meth
labs to serve their children. Oh, and Dennis Rodman.
This
is the land of Richard Nixon and John Wayne. Rumor has it that
The Duke died with thirty pounds of impacted feces in his colon.
True or not, it's a metaphor.
Driving
down to O.C. always gives me the leapin' heebies. You pass a number
of toxic looking 'beach communities.' Tijuana, the Bangkok of
Mexico, is shortly beyond. John Wayne Airport greets you as you
pass the frontier.
While
I was wondering if it had banned the suggestively named Virgin
Airlines, I realized that I had reached my destination.
It
was an oddly hot day. I passed some sweaty 'Goddess Vendors' (fringy
burnt velvet stuff, crystals etc.) on a strip of lawn near the
Temple entrance. I mean a strip like a Brazilian wax.
A
long, pale woman in long, pale silk did that thing where you rub
the rim of a wine glass and get a tone, but on a huge tub. The
sound was deep and wide, ameliorating the scream of jets on their
final descent.
The
Goddesses themselves waited, all a-twitter, under harsh UV rays.
There were dozens of them. Most were dressed in long, drapey things
best described as the Stevie Nicks Signature line at Target. I
couldn't stare yet because they were staring at me. Maybe it was
the Harley boots and leather tank. Perhaps the day-glo BU**SH**
hat. I'm not sure.
The
Rev Ava appeared to announce the ingress protocol.
"Enter
the Crones!" she called out.
"The
Crones!?" Some older women ambled forth. Jeez, doesn't 'crone'
mean 'old hag'? Not in Goddish, I guess.
Rev.
Ava is the Temple's founder. Behind her, banging a gong, was a
jolly butch broad in robes with the requisite spiked hair and
glasses.
The
Rev. is a dish. A real tomato. Her busty, brunette looks are a
throwback; naughty girl-next-door meets Ava Gardner. I could see
her in a white mink with Frank Sinatra in Vegas, ringside at the
Ali-Frazier fight.
"Blessing
Priestesses!" she called, "All the Blessing Priestesses!"
'
Now
a real show began. The Priestesses were the peacocks of the crowd,
peacocks on 'shrooms. The only one who could have truly done justice
to this parade was Dr. Seuss.
One
was a Grecian goddess (thank you, rayon), with laurel wreath,
one a full-tilt African Queen.
One
was sporting a kind of tribal ski-mask with tiny conch shells
resembling you know whats. One was in an ersatz chador, face shrouded
in black gauze and rhinestones.
One
was a 'do-able' (as Aap would say) actress type in a sexy sari
with cheek implants. And the beat went on.
Rev.
Ava continued. "Mothers! Now Mothers!" This meant the
rest of us because, God(dess) knows, there wasn't a 'Maiden' in
sight.
I
entered and received my own, personal finger-cymbal salutation
and a maraca. The Temple was packed and, to my surprise, lovely
inside. The 'sanctuary' is only a tad gag-me with vagina-centric
art and whatnot. The walls give a golden glow. There's trickling
water, an altar, and little stations devoted to celebrity Goddessim
(Yiddish spin), like Kali. This made me feel like I'd joined a
girl-band fan club.
The
rent for this place, despite the artless location, can't be cheap.
Either Ava made a pack of dough, a pact with Satan or divorced
well. Her cyber info is sketchy. She is or was a financial consultant.
She's a community activist. Her e-mail address is at a big manufacturing
company.
Plus,
she's a witch.
I
plopped down on a pillow and looked around. Oddly, I disliked
no one on sight, which is something I'm wont, even eager, to do.
Diesel
dykes were a minority, as were synapse-fried hippies and the winsome
be-gowned. For the most part, I saw reserved, well-groomed 'ladies'
of un age certain. Women who seemed to have grown past the cares
of conventional life, whose children were gone. Women who now
could, without guilt, grasp for the mystic. Some looked a little
scared.
What
went on was butt-puckering corny. We sang "Laughing Goddess
Is A-Rising" which, trust me, was tough. We sang to dead
grandmas, lit candles, ululated, introduced ourselves, chanted,
held hands and yelled "Blessed Be!" a lot. We 'restored
ourselves to beauty' and marinated our Feminine Divine.
Every
frickin' thing was 'sacred,' the most hackneyed word since 'awesome.'
And
yet… it was poignantly sweet. After a spell, the 'ladies'
really got down. I stopped staring at them, they stopped staring
at me. We banged the maracas like apes. We got splashed from a
palm frond with water from Lourdes. We hooted and yelped when
the African Queen did a booty dance, knocking me over. Priestess
got back. It was no less than a pussy revival meeting.
I
realized, driving home, that my titanic misanthropy had actually
been neutralized for, damn, a good hour. This much daffiness beats
the crap out of you. Blessed Be.
Maybe
John Wayne should have indulged.
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