Dancing

Dancing

In the early 80's, soon after Tom and I first met, I invited him to go dancing with me. We hadn’t known each other long and I was excited to consider the possibilities for the evening as I dressed and blow-dried my hair. We took my old Ford Pinto from my place toward the Oz of every gay boy’s fantasy, West Hollywood, where the drinks were stronger and the acid washed jeans were tighter. Driving my shortcut through Laurel Canyon, I was much relieved the Pinto managed to climb the grade over the hill and reach the apex, then we could coast the rest of the way. After a couple of stops we found ourselves at the dancing Mecca for LA gay boys, Studio One.

For those of you who were there, I don't need to say much to describe the scene. It wasn’t New York's studio 54, but it was fun and had a lot of interesting people in it. There were your leftovers from the disco days, your body builders, the coke freaks, and your suburban boys in town for a night of revelry. We had a blast! We danced and laughed and drank our gin and tonics. And then danced some more.

After a long night, Tom and I were exhausted. And I wasn’t sure the Pinto would be able to climb Laurel Canyon again. So we two underpaid professionals sought out the cheapest accommodations we could find. We settled on a motel on Santa Monica Blvd., whose name shall go unspoken here. We’ll just say that Tom Bodett wouldn’t have stayed there, even if the lights were on. We got a queen-size bed but that was the only queenly thing about the room. You could hear the roaches scurry when the lights went off, so we left the lights on all night. The sheets were so thin, you could read the name of the mattress company through them. I don’t really remember how I slept that night; I guess sleep was not the point of the journey.