All I needed was my tape player, which my friend had borrowed to do an interview that inevitably was postponed. So, last night, I drove to my friend's place of work to pick up said tape player before heading out to King King to chill with the Usual Suspects.
My friend's place of work is Secret Desires, which is an adult shop in Van Nuys. It's a fairly easy spot to miss somewhere along Sherman Way by the airport, as that neon pink sign is so high up off the street that you have to cock your head back and to the left to see it and the windows are all blacked out. The only reason that I was able to find it was because I know it's next to Denny's. Well, the boatload of protestors outside was probably an additional signifier.
At first, I thought of the protestors as nothing more than people with too much time on their hands. After all, it's Friday night and these people are parked in front of a store that is benign in comparison to the slew of strip clubs and sex shops that surround the Van Nuys Airport with signs saying things about their children, even though their children couldn't possibly be under-30, let alone minors. I turned the corner and attempted to pull into a parking lot when an old man with a camera stood up and pointed his lens at me. I thrust my head out of the window and shouted, "What do you think you're doing? You can't take my picture!" I then backed out of the parking lot and pulled under a tree across the street. I read the guy's sign, which said something to the effect of "Your picture will be taken. It's legal." Either on his sign or the sign next to it, I saw the word pervert.
How this jackass gets off saying this is legal is beyond me. This isn't surveillance, it's harrassment. Plus, if those pictures appear *anywhere* with the implication that those in the photos are perverts, it's libel. I think one of my attorney friends and relations, could explain libel better than I can (I did J-school, not law school), but let's just say for now that libel equates to more legal fees than you probably want to imagine.
Needless to say, I was pissed and perhaps a bit intimidated as well (after all, I presume that was the goal of the Junie Harpers). Here I was, innocently going to pick up my tape player and this guy accosts me like I'm some sort of sick freak. Even if I had visited the shop for purposes of purchasing lingerie or penis-shaped pasta, what business is it of his?
I called my friend from the car and he instructed that I turn around and enter the parking lot from opposite entrance. He then met me outside and snuck me in through the back door. I asked for him to show me around the store. Still, I couldn't see why people were complaining. The videos are in a back room, set apart from the main portion of the store, as is the case with your typical non-Blockbuster/Hollywood Video rental shop. Most of the large space is dedicated to lingerie, club wear, bath products and the sort of toys that I believe the ladies bestow upon each other for bachelorette parties and birthday celebrations.
As my friend and I walked around the store, we peered out the window, catching the glare of a few older women. They looked at us like we were, as my mom says, "kukh" (that's either real Armenian or some sort of Armenian slang for icky). My friend told me that these people protest the store often and that they usually only stay until ten. I wondered if they were even from the neighborhood, or if it was some sort of odd vigilante group trying to make a statement. Something doesn't make sense here. Starting any sort of business, let alone one that is adult-oriented, is no easy feat in Los Angeles as even operating a hot dog cart requires mountains of red tape. In a situation such as this, I would imagine that there had to have been hearings for zoning and various community meetings. I would think that any sort of potential neighborhood problem would have been addressed before the store got its City Hall stamp of approval.
I soon left the store with my tape recorder and adapter in hand and headed over to King King for this month's Compression party. I haven't been to Compression since The Roofie Incident that closed out 2005. Inside the club, Kelvin Larkin played a killer set of Chicago house-meets-Detroit techno as a gaggle of women engaged in the secretarial stomp. Sometime well after midnight, Kenny Larkin introduced his set with a deep drumbeat that eventually morphed into ESG's classic "Moody." He followed "Moody" with a Chip E. track that made my trainspotter boyfriend giddy.
After last call, I was going to take off, but Carlos and I ended up chatting about how the track Kenny was playing kind of sounded like it could be Nitzer Ebb and kind of sounded like it could be Front 242, but we knew it wasn't either. Kenny dropped the bass and brought it back full force, prompting me to jump out of my seat and start dancing. A few tracks later, he worked in Donna Summer's "I Feel Love," all pumped up with a thick, unidentifiable techno bass underneath. Carlos joined me on the dancefloor, leaving me stunned. I think I can count the number of times I have danced with my boyfriend on one hand and we have been together for seven years! Usually, I end up sandwiched between gay men. Oh, but "I Feel Love" is that much of a jam that it can compel my head-bobbing boyfriend to actually join me on the floor. After "I Feel Love," I had to leave, if only so I could depart on a high note.