My marriage. For me to examine it is like analyzing my own blood. Or my face. It's such a part of me that I can't see what it really is. Objectively. Or how it really functions. Twenty-six years is a long time. I say twenty-six years but Joe and I got married in May 1988, so only twenty-three and a half, technically. But we've been married for all intents and purposes since I was 25.
I met Joe in September of 1986. I was out with Tony Mendoza, whom I'd "dated" in the past but we were through. Tony dragged me out to an underground nightclub in downtown L.A. called the Dirt Box. I remember driving through empty downtown in Tony's old blue Buick, following some obscure directions across the L.A. river into a covered parking lot, and hearing the bass beat throbbing in the distance. We parked, and followed the sound to a door into an abandoned warehouse. We paid and walked into an enormous scene. There were probably 1,500 people dancing. There was an arialist doing a performance over everyone with no safety net. The music was amazing. Everyone was beautiful. It was the days of MDA. We were not high, but looking back, I'm sure a lot of people were.
We danced. It was steaming hot. We made our way through the crowd to an outdoor section. It was enclosed by chainlink fence, and was only a few feet from railroad tracks. Tony and I lit up a Marlborough and maybe had a can of beer. There were a bunch of guys standing near us, all good looking in very different ways. Ian, Steve, Jamie and Joe. I thought they were probably gay. A lively discussion arose around who was the first cubist painter. It got a little heated between Tony and Joe about Juan Gris versus George Braque. Joe took my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor.
He was shorter than me, and was wearing a wife beater t-shirt and tight black pants. He was in incredibly good shape. He told me he was a surfer. His head was shaved except for a shock of blond hair that was teased almost straight up. He wore clear horn rimmed glasses that were taped together at the bridge.
He whispered in my ear, "I'm tripping on acid." Or did he yell it?
He was a great dancer.
I left with Tony. We made our way across the even more crowded warehouse through wall to wall dancers. Just as we were exiting I felt a hand around my wrist. It was Surfer Joe. He wanted my phone number.
"I'm listed," I yelled.
I gave him my last name.
That was the beginning.
I met Joe in September of 1986. I was out with Tony Mendoza, whom I'd "dated" in the past but we were through. Tony dragged me out to an underground nightclub in downtown L.A. called the Dirt Box. I remember driving through empty downtown in Tony's old blue Buick, following some obscure directions across the L.A. river into a covered parking lot, and hearing the bass beat throbbing in the distance. We parked, and followed the sound to a door into an abandoned warehouse. We paid and walked into an enormous scene. There were probably 1,500 people dancing. There was an arialist doing a performance over everyone with no safety net. The music was amazing. Everyone was beautiful. It was the days of MDA. We were not high, but looking back, I'm sure a lot of people were.
We danced. It was steaming hot. We made our way through the crowd to an outdoor section. It was enclosed by chainlink fence, and was only a few feet from railroad tracks. Tony and I lit up a Marlborough and maybe had a can of beer. There were a bunch of guys standing near us, all good looking in very different ways. Ian, Steve, Jamie and Joe. I thought they were probably gay. A lively discussion arose around who was the first cubist painter. It got a little heated between Tony and Joe about Juan Gris versus George Braque. Joe took my hand and pulled me onto the dance floor.
He was shorter than me, and was wearing a wife beater t-shirt and tight black pants. He was in incredibly good shape. He told me he was a surfer. His head was shaved except for a shock of blond hair that was teased almost straight up. He wore clear horn rimmed glasses that were taped together at the bridge.
He whispered in my ear, "I'm tripping on acid." Or did he yell it?
He was a great dancer.
I left with Tony. We made our way across the even more crowded warehouse through wall to wall dancers. Just as we were exiting I felt a hand around my wrist. It was Surfer Joe. He wanted my phone number.
"I'm listed," I yelled.
I gave him my last name.
That was the beginning.
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