Recently, I did a show up in Flagstaff, home to Northern Arizona University. I started my undergraduate studies there the year most of the kids attending the show had just learned not to piss all over their miniature, orange, plastic grade-school chairs. I loved Flagstaff, still do. It was chill, mellow, the perfect place to just go wander out in nature to hike, study, meditate, or possibly collect mushrooms of the mildly psychedelic persuasion. I'll tell you, there's nothing like cruising through the Ponderosa forest in a Geo Metro stacked ceiling high with cow pies while blaring happy hardcore musing with your friends that the worst part about getting in an accident in this situation wouldn't be the fact that you might die immediately with your face in bovine shit, but the possibility that you might not die immediately, and you'd have to lay there during your final breaths doing all your final-breaths thinking while that tape dubbed from a DJ Frisky dance party in a Buffalo warehouse pumped away in the background. Don't get me wrong, we all LOVED that tape -- so much so that we had rotating, coordinated custody -- but it probably wouldn't have been the most peaceful way to die.
In case you're wondering, yes, this is one of my absolute favorite tracks of all time, and also, yes, my resting heart rate was a consistent and calm 99 beats per minute during this phase of my life. Add the anxiety I often had over my love life and the heart palpitations I experienced whenever meeting someone new due to my PTSD about trusting other human beings, and I could push it to a nice cardio 140, 145. Who needed the gym? Add dancing non-stop for 6-8 hours in the middle of a cinder cone volcano, desert, or a crowded Walgreen's and voila! It's like I hit the stair-stepper 7 days a week. In fact, I've just spent so much time this morning on YouTube going down memory lane with this music, that I think I've counteracted all the junk food binging I did this week.
It's a happy hardcore miracle!!
True, this music is certainly an acquired taste, but it's not like I only listened to happy hardcore; I loved all electronica. My sometimes-boyfriend at the time was a classical guitarist, so my love for this type of music used to get his goat like nothing else, as did my dancing in what he deemed barely any clothes. Buuut, he did appreciate my Rainbow Brite costume in ways only he ever could, and we both kinda had this weird thing for Elmo, so it wasn't always so bad.
I remember even wearing this costume to one of my NAU poetry classes when I presented a compilation of writing on the theme of growing up and time (yes, I've been worrying about time since I wish I wouldn't have been worrying about time). I even resurrected it recently for a comedy show when I graced the stage as Rainbow Dim, Rainbow Brite decades after the world was no longer just rainbows and stars. She even had a house-arrest anklet, an illegitimate child, and a paper-bag 40. Needless to say, this costume is an integral piece of my being.
But I digress . . .
I was recently in Flagstaff for a show, and I was like the oldest person there. It was cute to hear the comics just out of college complain about their seniority. Of course, I imagine that's how people my age used to feel about me when I was their age and complaining about being old, or how people now who are older than me hear me complaining about how I'm so old. It's just what we do, I suppose, and since I can recognize it, I also suppose I should try and fall deep into the moment where I am and live, live, live without the notion that I'm too old to do so, but that'd be far too emotionally and spiritually mature for my Thursday, especially after reminiscing about how skinny I was back then.
Oh man, I'm just so old.
Well, after the show, we eventually ended up at the Gopher Hole in the basement of the Hotel Weatherford. It was 80s dance night. Now I can get down with that. Of course, if there's music, I'm gonna dance like an idiot no matter what, but it certainly helps when it's jams I like. Last time I was up in Flagstaff for a show, and we ended up at the Gopher Hole, it was dub-step night. Arg. But I danced anyways. And yes, I understand the parallels of me judging this music when I just posted that Rush Hour song. But come on! What is up with music these days??
It was cool at first because they were playing good 80s dance songs like Depeche Mode and Soft Cell, but then every once in awhile, they would play something fucking lame like "Oh Mickey, You're So Fine' -- ummm, 80s dance music is about black eyeliner, androgyny, and varying levels of bondage, not stupid clapping. Anyhoo, the DJ soon corrected his wrong, and I was back at it, dancing amongst a sea of children who still weren't born for over a decade when these songs were released. Out of the corner of my eye, I kept seeing this guy wanting to dance with me. Ladies, I know you can relate to this: no matter how clear you make it that you just want to dance alone, they still keep following you around the dance floor, looking for their opportunity to grind on you even though the song does not require grinding. So, I notice him moving in, and I dance away to another spot and continue my solo groove.
Oh, I forgot to mention that this guy was wearing a black, floor-length, fake fur cape.
I'm not judging this fashion choice in the slightest; in fact, I have a pink, fake fur, blanket cape I made myself for Burning Man one year. It's not floor-length for a couple of reasons: 1) I couldn't afford that much fabric and 2) even if I could have, I wouldn't have wanted it to drag on the playa floor. It was created for its functionality. I would wear it around my shoulders and button it at my neck to keep me warm while I was wandering about, but whenever I needed to just stop and take a nap or chill somewhere on the playa, I'd simply unbutton it and cover myself up wherever I happened to land. I call it my marshmallow, and I still use it like every day. It's one of my favorite blankets, and anyone who's ever been to my home knows I seriously love blankets, so this is saying a lot.
So, naturally, I'm not gonna rag on this guy for wearing a cape. But the thing is, it was HOT in that basement. I had to remove my jacket and my scarf, so I can only imagine how hot it was beneath that black, floor-length, fake fur cape. Sure, it probably looked fabulous when twirling to some synthesizers, but come on, function over fashion on the dance floor, buddy. So, I'm really feeling the groove now and forgetting that I could have possibly birthed any one of these kids in my near vicinity, when all of a sudden he appears behind me. It was like one of those animal nature shows when the male just makes a run for it and quick-mounts the female without any warning or consent. That's exactly what he did; he quick-mounted me, did a of couple pumps, and I -- in complete horror -- danced away yet again. Sure, I'm a fantastic 80s dancer. I was spinning myself right round, baby right round, like a record baby, right round, round round, but that in no way invites a quick-mount. I grabbed the back of my shirt in fear, like shit, was I just inseminated?! It happened so fast. And to add insult to injury, the heat and relative humidity he gave off due to his dancing in that damn black, floor-length, fake fur cape was palpable. Seriously, dude. Come on! Gross.
Now as I'm typing this though, it dawns on me that this guy in his black, floor-length, fake fur cape didn't look around that dance floor filled with all those just-21 year olds and think to himself, mmmmm, I gotta get me some Ronnie D, He looked around that dance floor with all those just-21 year olds and saw me, the lame, oldest member of the herd and made his move, increasing his chances of survival in a hostile, natural environment.
Fuck man. I'm so like, tragic, I-can't-bear-to-watch-how-this-turns-out, Planet Earth old.
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.