Speaking of Disco

I’ve told this story here before, in a Diary Friday somewhere, but I will tell it again. It’s one of my favorite stories. (“You should see her knees” still has the potential to make me howl with laughter, in remembrance.)

Michael, an old boyfriend of mine, was obviously born in the wrong generation because he happened to be this kick-ASS disco dancer. He took it seriously, too. He loved it. He was passionate about it. He was a geek about it. He was very much like Tony, actually: he was Italian, kind of a tough-guy on the outside, but a pussy-cat inside. Very manly, very masculine. But capable of great tenderness. And … uhm … a major disco dancer.

I met him when we were doing a show in Ithaca- a great show, and we had a great success with it. We also started dating within about 5 days of arriving in Ithaca. We were far away from our “real” lives, doing this intense show, there were only 3 other people in the play, so all we did was hang out with each other. Romance blossomed.

There are MANY amusing stories about our time in Ithaca, one of them being he and I appearing on a small local-cable talk show. We were local celebrities, I guess. I still have that tape, I’ve only watched it a couple of times, but every time I do, TEARS of laughter stream down my face.

The cameraman looked like John Lithgow in World According to Garp. He was a big tall line-backer of a man, dressed completely as a woman, with clip-on costume jewelry, and a nice conservative blue skirt, and flats … etc. He dressed like he was going to a bridge club meeting in the 1950s. No judgment, he was fabulous.

Then Michael and I were introduced to the talk-show host, who was completely wall-eyed. Nice nice man, but … being on his show was shrieking agony for both of us. It went on forEVER. He interviewed us, on TV, for HALF AN HOUR which meant he asked us the same questions 25 times. I tried to be gracious and succeeded. Michael did NOT try to be gracious and he also succeeded.

He and I were in the middle of our romance, so we … I have to say … look very disreputable. We look as though we have just rolled out of bed. We look like that because, oddly enough, we had just rolled out of bed. We probably had been up until 3 in the morning, talking, or arguing, or kissing or whatever … and we barely look civilized. We are twin Mowglis. My hair was long and wild (it’s like: Sheila … have you heard of a comb??), Michael was wearing black jeans and a flannel shirt. It’s hysterical.

At one point, the host asked us if we were enjoying our time in Ithaca, and what we did during the day, when we didn’t have shows. I opened my mouth to extol the beauty of the waterfalls, to talk about walking up the hill to Cornell, to say how much we loved the churches in town – but Michael beat me to the punch and answered bluntly, “We sleep.”

At one point, the host said to us, “The show is very violent. And you in particular — You get knocked around quite a bit. How do you avoid getting hurt?”

I opened my mouth to give some gracious answer, and Michael interjected caustically, before I could speak, “You should see her knees!”

Which … was so inappropriate on so many levels. I am laughing right now. It was how he said it. The undercurrent being: And lemme tell you, gentlemen, I have seen this girl’s knees.

I had breakfast with Michael last summer, when he came to New York, we guffawed about the “You should see her knees” moment. He said, “I was such an asshole.”

The following entry is really about how he and I made up from some stupid argument by going out to a disco club and disco-dancing for 3 hours. And what song began the orgy of dancing? “Tragedy“, by the Bee Gees. Of course.

Michael wasn’t just into disco. He was a disco SNOB. So anyway, in honor of our collective-disco-memory, and in honor of one of my awesome ex-boyfriends, I give to you:

Our night of Disco in Ithaca, from my journal at the time:

September/October

He is reading Brando’s biography, I am reading Howards End. I cook for him. I had an out-of-body experience staring into one of his eyeballs. I don’t know how else to describe what happened. It was 2 a.m., we had been kissing ferociously for hours, and I fell into his eyeball and that is all that I have to say about THAT.

Leaves turning. Orange – gold – red – flame – purple – lit from within. Freezing nights. Warm blue-skied days.

I know how much I will miss this experience when it’s gone. I will miss this situation, knowing these people in this way. It won’t come again.

Ithaca: The Commons. Simeons. Rosebud Cafe. State St. diner. Sirens. So many disaster vehicles. There appears to be some inbreeding. Strange. Churches. Michael and I have fights on the sidewalk, then we go get Ben and Jerry’s or go to church. We went in one today. Presbyterian. Golden light streaming through circular window. Arched ceiling. Deep blue cushions on pews. Huge organ pipes. I feel like we have been in Ithaca for months. We go to the park, and sit in the grass. I put my head in his lap and he reads outloud to me from the Village Voice. Then we go and get Ben and Jerry’s. I am telling you, we get Ben and Jerry’s every day.

Michael’s parents came to the show. We have been spending every minute of every day together, so for two nights he hung out with his parents, and he missed me. He was obsessed with what I did during those two days. I went to go see Reservoir Dogs with Pat and Michael was absurdly jealous. “What did you guys talk about? Why won’t you tell me? What did you do after the movie?” Ridiculous.

I take care of him. I’m good at it, surprisingly enough.

In a lot of ways, he and I do not speak the same language, but at the same time we’re both really good listeners. So, weirdly, it all works out.

One night, we had a fight. He got very mean. He apologized, but by then I was so hurt I could barely process the fact that he was apologizing for being mean, and then THAT pissed him off. We were in a loop. We didn’t make up.

But the next night was when he and I went to the “70s Dance Party” at Club Semesters. Just the two of us, and we had a fucking BALL.

That was when I realized our compatibility. We didn’t even have a make-up conversation like: “Oh, I’m sorry I was mean…” or “I’m sorry I was a bitch.” No. What did we do? We went out disco-dancing for 3 hours straight. And then we were FINE. If only all misunderstandings could be solved in such a fun way.

Club Semesters was a totally bizarre place. Unclassifiable, really. It was almost like an underage dance club. Everyone seemed about 14 years old. Maybe it was like a high school mixer. They actually had a big long table with bowls of party snacks. Yet they carded us heavily at the door. So there were probably a lot of fake IDs in the domain of Club Semesters. Michael himself got in with his fake ID.

The lights were garish and elaborate, sweeping colored spotlights, flashing strobes, mirrored spinning reflecting balls – and smoke puffed out onto the dance floor. Totally disco, totally weird, and totally ridiculous.

It was enormous, too – like a massive Rec Room.

Michael and I had a ball, once we were danced out (and drenched), sitting over to the side and people-watching (doing a lot of people-trashing, I must admit.)

“God, let’s try to find at least one person in this crowd who has managed to maintain their dignity,” said Michael.

Michael has the potential to be the most scornful and the most contemptuous person alive. I guess I do too. We are misanthropes. Romantic misanthropes. Two peas in a pod.

Oh, I forgot to tell this part:

We were a little scared to go into Club Semesters, initially. We hadn’t been before. Michael kept predicting that they wouldn’t play real disco music, and they would just play 80s dance stuff, or confuse disco with funk (which was sacrilegious to him), or whatever: Michael loves disco, loves the Bee Gees, even pre-disco Bee Gees, and he is a total purist about the whole disco thing. So Michael suggested that we stand (this is so FUNNY now that I think about it) outside in the alley, where we could hear what kind of music they were playing inside, and make an executive decision on whether or not we wanted to go in, based on the songs.

Now, the first song we heard was “It’s Raining Men” – which is rather 80s and definitely not pure disco. Despite this technicality, I shot through the roof (well, not really – we were outside) with excitement. I am, to put it mildly, NOT a disco music snob.

Michael scorned my excitement with such contempt. He SNEERED at me. His estimation of me significantly went down and I blatantly did not care. I found his contempt hilarious. And Michael got such a kick out of it – because I know every word – and every nuance to the song – all their little “Go girlfriend” comments underneath the music – I did them all.

“Humidity’s rising…”
—Mm. Risin’.
“Barometer’s getting’ low”
—How low?
“According to all sources…”
—What sources now?

Insane. So with It’s Raining Men I was immediately hip on going in, and Michael was NOT. I kept saying, “If they are playing the fucking Weather Girls, it’s gotta be a cool club!”

Of course, Michael harbored the exact opposite view. Snot.

The next song met with Michael’s approval (snot!), so we went in.

Long black entrance corridor, with black whites, so the whites of our eyes glowed, and Michael’s tight white T glowed, and everything looked very spooky.

We went in, scoped it out, I bought a beer, he, my underage boyfriend, bought a coke. We held back. We were picked out by a gleaming blue spotlight, this long column of light. Big muscle men bouncer types strutting around, sad girls wearing tight slutty clothes, all kinds of sad desperate adolescent behavior, and NO ONE was dancing. NO ONE. And yet also – there was this major Broadway-level light show going on. On the empty dance floor.

I had taken about 3 sips of my beer when we knew we had to dance.

And what was the song that was our call to dance? “Tragedy”.

This time it was Michael who shot through the roof.

He was a maniac with excitement. “I can’t believe they’re playing this! No one ever plays this! It is such a great song!”

He took my beer from me, put it down, and then dragged me out onto the dance floor. And he and I basically – well, we re-enacted Saturday Night Fever. NOBODY else was dancing. It was hilarious. Michael actually knows how to disco-dance -and he doesn’t dance it with irony, he doesn’t dance to make fun of the style of dance – he GOES for it. He does not make himself ABOVE that cultural moment – he LOVES that cultural moment. I’m not such a bad disco-dancer myself. We took up a lot of room (after all we could, because no one else was out there). Now this is embarrassing to report, but it is the truth: a clapping cheering circle formed around us.

Michael was in his glory. It was his fantasy. He has studied John Travolta, basically. He told me that when he was little, 9 or 10, he memorized the main dance number in Saturday Night Fever and he used to do it to entertain his parents. And then they’d have guests over, and they’d want him to do it for the guests, and it was too traumatic, and he would start to cry. Hysterical.

And – Dancing together erased the memory of the fight the night before. It was a huge release, for both of us. We danced until we were drenched in sweat. I would start to twirl away from him, and he would grab my belt buckle and yank me back, without missing a step. And let me reiterate: we were surrounded by a clapping crowd. We howled with laughter about that later.

It was the best thing we could have done, and it was so great – it being just us, and not the rest of the cast. We dig each other. We make each other laugh. He would imitate how I danced. I would laugh.

Also – we looked like nobody else there. The 2 of us in true Seattle grunge mode – in our battered jeans, flappy flannel shirts, and sneakers. Michael kept saying, “We look like grunge drug addicts compared to everybody else.”

For the second act of the show, Michael would put this brown stuff below his eyes – so that he looked like shit, like a man losing his grip, getting no sleep. It looked good. Sometimes he wouldn’t wash it off after the show: “I think it makes me look sexy, don’t you?” I would say, patiently, “Yes, Michael. It looks very sexy.” Yawning as I said it.

But the two of us looked like characters out of Drugstore Cowboy.

Everything is so vivid now. Everything is sensory. Nothing intellectual. It’s all about the taste of coffee, and the golden light inside the church. I am filled with awareness of the colored leaves and the cold and the stars and the crickets – all kinds of sensory stuff – Michael is a sensory experience, too. It’s not reflective. It’s sensory. I fell into his eyeball, after all. French toast, ice cream, book stores, cafes, coffee drinks, sitting in the sun, people watching, lying in the grass, the fallen leaves, Michael’s voice reading out loud, and he would keep checking to make sure my eyes were closed and that I wasn’t peeking. All of these simple things now ARE my life. I am wholly in them all.

Friendly grungy black-shadows-under-eyes drug addicts, disco dancing in a club in Ithaca, New York.