LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOut: Doin' Time with the Time Warp |
by Fay Jacobs |
Sitting in the movie theatre with a Cape Gazette on my head, uncooked rice-a-roni dripping from my hair and people pumping water from super-soakers into the back of my neck, I doubted whether my parents ever behaved this way in their fifties. I doubt that Brooks Brothered dad and shirtwaisted mom spent a Friday night heaving minute rice, tossing toilet paper (Great Scott!) and screaming "Asshole!" and "Slut!" at the movie screen. No, the Rocky Horror Picture Show is my generation's schtik, and we've been having our way with it for a quarter of a century. In celebration of the 25th anniversary of what is inarguably the worst movie musical of all time (okay, musical comedy queens, except perhaps for Lucille Ball defaming Mame), the Rehoboth Beach Independent Film Society had the good taste to make a fundraiser out of screening this icon of bad taste. It was a sell-out and a hoot. For readers who are Rocky Horror virgins, having wondered what the fuss has been at midnight shows since the 70's, here's the scoop. This horror movie spoof starred a young, handsome Barry Bostwick and an even younger, gorgeous Susan Sarandon, as hopelessly boring newlyweds who stumble into the castle of a transylvanian transvestite (Tim Curry), a man with an equal-opportunity libido. Suffice it to say, the film was so awful the moviegoers started talking back to the screen and throwing things in the theatre. Pretty soon it became a cult thing, with a script of sorts and specific props for audience participation. It's a stunning example of mankind's ingenuity in the face of artistic failure. And the damn thing is still playing nightly all over the country. Theatres full of purported adults everywhere are throwing rice at the wedding scene, doing the Time Warp choreography and screaming "Slut!" as scantily clad Sarandon and Bostwick get turned into plaster statues and then fried. Talk about Dead Men Walking. And if you think Tim Curry in fishnet stockings and a black leather corset is outrageous, you should have seen some of the audience members last Friday at Rehoboth Mall. I have to admit I passed on the chance to run around in a Sarandon-like slip or dripping in ghoulish make-up and blood-red lips. Others were not so timid. Some of the most genteel people in town showed up in scandalous garb, mimicking their favorite characters. And while I didn't dress, I did prepare. On Friday afternoon I checked out Rocky Horror on the search engine Yahoo.com. You'll be gratified to know that our information highway has over 40 Rocky Horror sites, official and unofficial audience participation scripts, on-line memorabilia shops, fan club pages and some really disgusting suggestions for activities to engage in while the movie is showing. I will spare you. But pointing and clicking through the silliest of selections in an effort to procure my mandatory prop list for the show, something struck me (figuratively. We'd be struck literally later in the evening). It occurred to me that as ridiculous as the evening's antics promised to be, it might not top the list of recent fabulously silly events. Did you go to Drag volleyball this year? I had the pleasure of being among the thousands strewn around Poodle Beach on the Sunday of Labor Day weekend watching our annual Drag Volleyball festival. Not only is it a delicious spectacle but it's damn good volleyball, too. For the drag volleyball deprived, here's the drill. Two teams of burly guys (and one brave drag king this year) take to the court in meticulously planned drag get-up, complete with team musical numbers and choreography. The cool thing is that these queens can really play the game. They may be amateur drags (and therein lies the fun) but they certainly can spike and serve. This year we had the Broadway Divas vs. the Bridal Party from Hell with a veritable rainbow of bridesmaids. Close your eyes and picture Evita spiking the ball to the Mother of the Bride who, in turn, pounds the ball back to Liza Minnelli, who returns it like a rocket to the green bridesmaid (green dress, green hair, green lips). Now that's a volley. In the further annals of silly, I reminded myself of our preparations, that same weekend, for the Sundance auction. I wish everyone who attended either the auction or the danceand even those who just read or heard about itcould know the amazing story of what it takes to pull the event together. Hundreds of volunteers devote hours and hours and then more hours to decorating the hall, picking up the auction donations and logging, labeling, displaying, counting, accounting, gluing, framing and more. The few hours I spent assisting was nothing compared to the sacrifice made by so many. But I was on hand to provide some small measure of relief when the varsity squad suffered temporary writer's block labeling their four hundredth item. Faced with a bust of the poet Milton, the chief writer inquired, "When did Milton write Paradise Lost?" She got no response so she grabbed the phone and called a lifeline. "I can't use stunning, exquisite, lovely or fabulous one more time," she howled. "Quick, get me a superlative." Called in from the bullsh*t pen, I too, got a brain cramp after two dozen promotional come-ons. I got to a wonderful fruit and nut gift basket and found myself describing it as "perfect for all the fruits and nuts at your next party." They replaced me. Between the convention hall arrayed with vinyl cut outs (they are asterisks, not snowflakes, said the designer), and two exuberant days of feasting, fundraising, dancing and decadence, a good, silly time was had by all. And that's what community is all about. Coming together for the good times...and giving each other strength for the bad. And we've had plenty of both around here over the years...and recently, as well. My spouse said a very true and interesting thing to me today. "I just realized why living in a small town is so different," she said. "It means that when good things happen to people, most likely we know them. But when bad things happen, it probably touches people we care about, too." Which is why I love it here in Rehoboth. Our diverse and caring community knows how to get through the tough times and celebrate itself silly at the good times. Which brings me right back to the Rehoboth Mall cinema, tossing toasted Pepperidge Farm white bread (at the cue "Let's have a toast" of course), twirling noisemakers and shouting "Slut!" at that perky Susan Sarandon. With so much rice in my brassiere, a hot flash could have cooked up dinner for two. And this human casserole had all this fun without those controlled substances of our youth. Ya gotta love it here. Fay Jacobs, a Vice Versa award winning columnist, is a regular contributor to Letters from CAMP Rehoboth. You can find more of her CAMPOut columns at www.camprehoboth.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 10, No. 13, Sept. 22, 2000. |