Sometimes you just have to find out the hard way. So you ignore wiser words and touch the Poison Ivy, get the Clap, be shot in Nam or O.D. on Smack. For me it was Disco Dancing. Now, no one I know likes the monotonous music or vapid movements of this latest commercial craze. None of us have ever even considered going to Studio 54. But still there is some of the old ’60s appeal in getting down and, as they say, shaking your bootie; whatever that is. So dressed to beat the dress codes (a 50’s throwback), I picked up a fotog and “ the guide’ ’ . I wore my Catlan Gable Rummage bright green baggies with the sewn in seam, a very red and shiny shirt and a white sports coat. But no pink carnation. No undershirt either, and it was cold. The guide laughed. She said I looked like Santa Claus in Civies. I figured it was as close to the John Revolta look as I could ever get. I mean a white sports coat and open shirt, right? We figured we would do the clubs a Favor. Give ’em some of the ol’ reportage routine. Free P.R. and so on. Mainly get in for nothing. First we went to Mildreds’ in the Pythian. Mildreds’ is a very hush hush place. They said they would let us in but no fotos and no publicity please. Mildreds’ is sort of ultimate test of faith in the varieties of Human Experience. Ten years ago the Pythian was the psychedelic dance spot. Strobes, stoned teeny boppers in flashy outfits. Today it’s the same spot, strobes, stoned teeny boppers in flashy outfits with one apparently big difference. Mildreds’ crowd is mostly though not entirely, gay. And young. So they don’ t want no attention drawn to Mildreds’ . No fundamentalist demented types storming the doors or vice cops busting chicken hawks. The gay scene is still, it seems, sort of on the defensive what with EatafruitAnita B. and all screaming around with pity and hate in her eyes. There is still a closet but it is much much bigger now. Ran into some teen friends at Mildreds,just women in fact. They go there just to flash and dance, have fun. At Mildreds’ they don’t get hit on by horny heteros. They can relax and really dance. They seemed happy and, from mom and dad’s point of view fairly safe in a fairy kingdom. All the kids know of Mildreds’ . It provides an important social function. It appears well run and a hell of a lot better a spot than some outdoor meatrack. But, not quite what we were seeking. Not depraved enough. No sense of evil, or even frenzy. Next then to The Upstairs at the Downstairs or vice versa. This is Hetero country. Cruising males, mostly straight couples. A. good Black Disco band upstairs. Records downstairs. Not very exciting. Just right for Portland’s climate. We left after one beer. Thence to the Copper Penny Too. This joint has whorehouse wall paper and mirrors in its lobby. And a Five Dollar admit. We passed, what was once called a wasted evening. We tried my guide’s favorite spot, The Rafters on the second floor of the Embers. Here too they will let us in free, but please, no pictures, no story; in fact, no publicity. “ Our clientel includes members of the business community who would be hurt’ ’ , explained Someone in Charge. Well now at last a grown up spot. Men dancing with men. In tank tops, in jeans, sweating in short hair cuts. A few women dancing together. One or two male-female couples. Lights flashing, men, as they seem to do whether gay or straight, cruising. All fairly civilized. One couple dancing, lightly hitting each other with their fists and pantomiming some cock sucking. No more gross than say the action at the Earth. But very intense, very real, very electric. Along the rail some guys are sharing poppers, coming alive suddenly as the nitrate hits. Here there is a sense of excitement not seen at the other clubs. Here basic urges are out in the open. Still, loneliness lurks in the corners and in the eyes of the watchers. But where is the flash and glitter? Where the Saturday Night Fever of my dreams? I figured that I would be left out. Not knowing the new dances, having no knowledge of the L.A. Hustle or Latin watchamacallit. But the fact is, the dancing is the same style done in Portland since the Twist first separated partners. One last chance, we decided. If downtown disco is dull then we would try out the suburbs. And so we came at last to the ultimate Plastic Phantastic Pleasure Palace of the New Culture and its Beautiful devotees—EarthQuake Ethels’ . Ethels’ is a mistake, but a big one at least. Three small dance floors, machine made dollar drinks. A real imitation suburban Jersey roadhouse of 1965, crossed irreparably with a Vegas casino of the same year. Only to be fair, with one hell of a lot of moving red lights that spell things and make designs and even some strobes. There is a big, big bouncer at the de r in an orange blazer. Inside the help is fetching drinks in orange cocktail waitress outfits that are all tail and tit, leg and lung. Like I say, 1965. I figured out the meaning of the dress code thing at Ethels, though. If the disco is straight and expensive, then men can’t wear jeans and collarless shirts. If it is gay and also expensive then the code doesn’t exist. I don’t know if there is a disco dealers association to enforce these rules or whatever. But it does seem to be a peattern. No riffraff at Ethels’ , just nice dull straights; usually with dates. No one was dancing well at E the ls ’ . Nothing interesting was happening at Ethels’ . The music was dull at Ethels’ . The conversations we overheard were stupid at Ethels’ . There was one interesting thing at Ethels’ . There was this big handsome blond guy, maybe 7 feet tall, dancing with this little women, maybe 4’5’ ’ . They appeared to real good friends. Both were reed pretty people and I kept wondering; wondering how or even if, you know. . . . Next time, new better and more exotic disco variants: Black Disco and Black Rollerskate Disco. Perhaps, who knows, maybe even Black, gay lefthanded roller skate outdoor disco. 21
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