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LA Weekly Sept 9-11, 2004 - Like Goths to the Flame
If you had happened to stumble onto the heat-baked plain of Disneyland as thousands of Iowans and I
did Sunday, you would have found yourself smack in the middle of the
Sixth Annual Bats Day at the Fun Park — Goth Day! — which
is to say a convocation of Ursulas and Evil Queens and Wicked Stepsisters
and Cruella De Vils the magnitude of which the Magic Kingdom sees but
once a year. Goths overran the Small World ride, Sleeping Beauty’s
Castle, and the Haunted Mansion; visited the petting zoo (black goats!);
and sneered at the Hot Topic–style punk miniskirts and pseudo
bondage tops for sale in the Tower of Terror gift shop. Young teenage
goths hung in groups chaperoned by their distinctly ungoth moms and
dads. Baby goths lolled in the cradle of their parents’ goth-tattooed
arms. Goths lapped up caramel corn and pink cotton candy, faux juleps
and bad cappuccinos.
Even in the cornier pastures of
California Adventure, out by the Ferris wheel, there were fat goths
and thin goths, goths strapped into plaid bondage pants and goths squeezed
into grommeted leather, torn fishnets and torn tights, blue hair and
green hair, hair lifted from Lost Boys, Derek Jarman’s Jubilee
and The Bride of Frankenstein, all tied together by stiflingly hot black
clothing, a certain air of summery surliness and colors of lipstick
that were almost certainly not manufactured by Maybelline. Lace-encrusted
black parasols of every shape and size shielded pale goth skin from
the brutal Orange County sun.
I like to think of myself as not
unsympathetic to the gothic cause. A band I used to play with opened
up for Christian Death a few times, and I stood in line for hours to
see the Cure’s first Los Angeles show at the Whisky a million
years ago. I have been to more Peter Murphy concerts than I would tell
even my best friends about. I practically lived at a Hollywood club
called the Scream.
And although I ran across Bats Day quite by accident,
I had, of course, heard about the non-Disney-sponsored fiesta, from
zines, blogs and Chuck Klosterman’s diary of the event in Spin
a couple of years ago. Who could resist the fun — the gloomiest
people in the universe in The Happiest Place on Earth?
But as cheerful as Bats Day was, I couldn’t
have felt more out of place. The goths were goths and I was just another
stroller-pushing suburban dad in a pink button-down shirt. Bela Lugosi
wasn’t the only guy who felt dead.—Jonathan Gold
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