On our latest trip to Disneyland we were able to witness the annual phenomena named Bats Day At The Fun Park. This was unintentional, yet one of the many perks of having an annual pass (which I believe is the best investment ever for any SoCal family with young ones).
I knew something was up when I saw more than a handful of…well, what can I call them without generalizing…goths/rivetheads/cybergoths/gravers…anyways, they were dressed to the nines in the latest strapped, chained, buckled and chunky platform-shoed glory…some even sporting the cyber post-apocalyptic dreads of rebellion, others boasting full tilt androgyny, “Is that a dood?” “Yes, it’s a dood.” “Dood!”
The best part about this phenomena is it gives out-of-towners and tourists a real treat. Not only are these urban specimens morbidly mesmerizing, but they also give the foreigners a smack-in-the-face validation to the almighty stereotype that yes, L.A. people are fucking freaks for sure; something they can tell their loved ones when they pick them up at the airport. “It’s true! I saw them with my own eyes!” The looks on their faces as these angels of darkness fluttered by—from shock to surprise to utter disappointment—were priceless, ironic treasures which one would never expect from the Happiest Place On Earth.
Yet another plus—my What Would ZOD Do? shirt, which I coincidentally wore that day, conjured equally curious looks from some younger dark dozens (“Is there someone more evil than I? Hmmm…”) …and won critical acclaim from their older counterparts, who reveled in the evil ephemeral entity with approving nods, smiles and words, with one derby-clad lad even enlightening his friends to Zod’s existence and quoting him in true cold, Kryptonian Zod fashion: “Why do you say these things to me when you know I will kill you for it!” Excellent.
But by far, the greatest thing, and perhaps the most challenging—was trying to explain to one of our friends, straight from the tropical, sun-kissed and salsa-laden shores of Colombia, what this was all about. This was her first trip to Disneyland, and probably her first large-scale exposure to So Cal society. At first glance, her jaw hung open in disbelief. “Ay, Greg….¿por qué ellos van a vestirse así…estan locos, no?” (Oh Greg…why would they dress like that? They’re crazy, right?…)
After explaining to her that it was actually a fashion and culture, she looked even more puzzled. This especially after seeing a pasty-faced madame walking by in a full mourning dress with velvet gloves, hat and a parasol.
How could I best describe it? “Es un imagen de melancolia…tristeza y de obscuridad,” (It’s an image of melancholy, sadness and darkness) I explained. But even that was a very broad statement and not always true. How could I explain that despite the bleak and depressing image, goths and their cousins were actually amongst the happiest and most fun-loving bunch I’d ever known? The irony just wouldn’t translate. But I tried. “Pero eso es solo un imagen. Ellos son alegres” (But that is just an image. They’re happy people).
Then I remembered the everclear image of a goth circle of friends rushing to show me the slash marked scars on their wrists, like gleeful, giddy little children showing butterflies on their arms. All this commotion the result of me responding in concern when one of them said “I’ve tried to kill myself” (with a smile, of course).
Yeah, good luck trying to translate that.
So I simply said, “Bienvenidos a Los Angeles.”
