“The Last Party: A Wake for the Rodeo Grounds”
Article and Photos by Dani Katz
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| Lola Babalon, Marsha Maus and the Artist Now Known as “Toilet.” |
After a five-year struggle, the Rodeo Grounds community celebrated their final farewell Saturday night, January 28. The remaining dozen hold-outs faced final eviction January 31 and in spectacular homage to the arts community's wild and wonderful 80 years, the threadbare group hosted a dazzling celebration at notorious compound of the artist who has changed his name to "Toilet," in honor of State Parks' treatment of him and his neighbors.
I wandered down the hill just before eight o'clock and the
party was already jumping. Crusty Soup greeted me with dilated pupils and
silver fairy wings. I followed her through the arundo, around the blazing fire
and behind the loquat tree to Jean Batiste's studio, a converted garage serving
as the evening's bar, lined with tables topped with an incongruous collection
of bottles—two-buck Chuck, high-end champagne, water, booze and a Mason jar
filled homemade moonshine.
Toilet wore his best thrift store suit and charcoal around
his eyes.
"Are you under the influence?” I asked, because with
Toilet you never can tell and it was shaping up to be that kind of night.
"I dropped six hits of acid, but otherwise I'm totally
sober."
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| DJ Jean-Louis Bartoli |
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| The Animatronics |
The DJs set-up camp in front of the art studio behind the
bar. Various DJs took turns spinning throughout the night and into the morning
while throngs of revelers tripped and wiggled the moonless night fantastic
under a hundred million tittering stars.
The compound was packed. I'd never seen so many people at a
Rodeo Grounds party (and I've seen some doozies). There were hundreds of people
of all shapes and smells—old people and teenaged people, fancy people and
f***-ups, hippies and lawyers and trippers and artists and Creek rats and surf
bums and suits and pond scum. It was one of those parties where everyone shares
that same twinkle in their eye and greets you with a smile, whether you know
them or not. I danced and danced and danced and danced and after a million
spins and a gazillion shimmies, I asked Jane if she had any more water. Before
the word water had finished its swan dive off my tongue, a hemp-clad hobbit
grooving to my right handed me a Nalgene bottle of Mount Shasta's finest at the
same time that a lycra-ensconced supermodel offered me an unopened Crystal
Geyser of my very own. It was that kind of scene—typical Rodeo Grounds, otherwise
unheard in of in LA and that right there is a microcosm of what we were
celebrating—community—topped off with fruit trees and newborn deer and clean
air and art and imagination and anything goes and painted toes and afternoon
hikes to the beach in floor-length taffeta and opera gloves for no reason
whatsoever. Skinny dips and mushroom trips and picnics and rituals and hugs and
snuggles and tears and struggles and poems and paintings and... and... and this
is what the Rodeo Grounds are made of.
But, I digress. Back to the festivities at hand….
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| A Rodeo Grounds celebrant/mourner silhouetted in front of a stand of Arundo. |
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| Partying by candlelight. |
Us gals were huddled in the kitchen, giggling and gnawing on
Nina's dried mango when a dark and gorgeous young man approached us wearing a
yellow hooded sweatshirt and an extra-wide grin. He slipped a bottle from his
pocket and asked us if we wanted some acid. I commented on the ubiquity of LSD
at this farewell to the Rodeo Grounds party and Handsome went on to explain
that because we Earthlings are in desperate need of some higher vibrational
downloads, the FDA was loosening up their restrictions so that ascended species
from the fourth and fifth dimensions could send us some higher dimensional
wisdom. This shocked me because I didn't think the FDA was all that open to
higher vibrations or even in contact with interdimensional travelers. I was
about to question Handsome's theory when a man wearing a black suit appeared,
presented me with an outstretched deck of cards and proceeded to wow us with
his sleight of hand and well-hidden spades.
Hours later, while taking five beneath the spiky fronds of a
yucca tree, Mr. Magic again approached me.
“I just my washed my hands. Can I touch your teeth?"
Having forgotten that last month found Toilet dangling from
the wrong end of a bogus $800 water bill and that the water had been shut off
for days, I conceded to let the magician fondle my teeth, assuming it was a
trick. His rubbing turned to poking and then escalated to violent jabbing. I
pulled back, finally putting two and two together.
"You took that liquid acid, didn't you?"
He giggled, nodded and scampered off to play in someone
else's mouth.
Frolickers were still arriving as late as three in the
morning, reporting an endless stream of parked cars winding their way up the
Canyon—and not just rusted out Volvos and dented VW vans—new cars, fancy cars,
luxury cars, gleaming SUVs.
The band set up their equipment under the arundo arch, where
the ghost of Toilet's Airstream loomed sad and sentimental. The Animatronics
were amazing—four young white guys jamming instrumental and genius while
hundreds of Rodeo Grounds revelers grooved giddy in the chilly ocean air.
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| Paintings in Toilet's studio. |
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| Wild revels as the Rodeo Grounds burns, metaphorically speaking. |
Log wore red sequins, a strap-on dildo and a feathered
chicken hat. She performed throughout the night, alternately fireside and in
front of the makeshift stage. She writhed and undulated to the Animatronics'
inspired beats, channeling Kali and Isadora Duncan while mugging in unselfconscious
freeform splendor. An astonished and captivated crowd slowly gathered.
I skipped up to Nina bundled in floor-length polar fleece,
mesmerized by Log's graceful undulations.
"She's fantastic!" Nina enthused.
Daisy sidled over.
"I don't get it. I mean, I love it; but I don't get
it."
And still, all eyes were glued to Log, to her impossibly
long fingers, to her shaved head and to her red satin camel toe.
At six in the morning, the Animatronics were still blowing
everyone away, the DJ was still spinning and the revelers were still reveling.
People bundled up in twos around the fire, coming down, cuddling, trying to
warm up, not wanting to leave. The woman next to me, a home team rat with wild
red hair and a satin striped djellaba, caught herself mid-laugh as she squeezed
my waist and rested her head on my shoulder.
"I'm having so much fun, I almost forgot this was a
wake."
