One Man’s Trash Is Another Woman’s Treasure

Friends who knew me during my Dave Matthews obsession jokingly called me “stalker.”  I’m not a fan of that term as it describes crazy people who actually stalk…at night.  Borrowing a line from one of my favorite movies, “Almost Famous,” I considered myself a “band-aid, there for the music.”  A big deterrent for going full “groupie,” was the fact that I was married. Regardless of labels, one could say I was passionate.

Growing up outside of Philadelphia with a brother into broomball, roller and ice hockey, watching the Flyers win back to back Stanley Cups was enough to make anyone a “phanatic.”  The once  depressed city was ecstatic to celebrate “The Broadstreet Bullies” and although we didn’t attend any parades, we whooped it up wearing our Flyers gear.  I even wore black and orange yarn hair ties in my pigtails.  When I turned 9 years old, the Flyers played in their 3rd consecutive Stanley Cup finals, the City turned 200 and “Rocky” was released.  It was a good time to be in the City of Brotherly Love.  Rocky Balboa posters soon replaced all the Teen and Tiger Beat magazine pull out ones on my bedroom walls.  I collected iron on t-shirts, magazines and newspaper clippings of all things Sly/Rocky.  I even collected Rocky trading cards.  In 1979, after Rocky 2 was released, we moved to Southern California, where I kept up my passion for Rocky, Rambo and collecting Stallone memorabilia.

Settling into the Valley in the early 80’s, another fanaticism began brewing in our home, daytime soap operas.  My stay at home mom had watched the ABC lineup for years.  And when “General Hospital’s” Luke and Laura’s popularity exploded, we were right there.  I mean right there!  I’m not sure when or how my mom found out where “GH” was filmed but once she did we spent many afternoons waiting for the stars of the show to come out the gates of the Sunset Gower Studios.  We got hugs, photos, autographs and even dined alongside them at Alphy’s Restaurant in Gower Gulch, before it turned into a Denny’s in 82.  The time we followed one of our favorite actors was a little stalkerish but it wasn’t at night and we eventually lost him somewhere on the 101 Freeway.

Once we decided to take our “fangirling” to another level, we focused back on my first movie star crush, Sylvester Stallone and his trash.  Again, without the internet, my mother figured out where he lived and when it was trash day.  I’m guessing we had help from a “Stars’ Home Map,”   probably bought somewhere in Hollywood.  We concocted a plan that my mom would take me and my best friend, who were about 16 years old at the time, on a ride to Amalfi Drive in Pacific Palisades to pick his trash.  We left my little brother and the family car at home and took my other brother’s 70’s Buick Skylark as the getaway car.  Looking back maybe we thought the windows would roll down better for easy access to trash cans. I was excited to see what kind of treasures were in the trash barrels but didn’t give much thought to the actual rubbish and how we’d deal with bringing that home to sort through.  And that might be the real reason we borrowed my brother’s car, my mom didn’t want stinky trash bags in our good car.

Driving up the street after dark we thought we should practice swiping someone else’s trash before heading to the big mansion and prize.  So fumbling through our map, we found Bobby Vinton’s house.  On top of one of the trash cans was an old suitcase.  We figured that’d be an easy target until we started to pull it in through the windows and felt it was wet from the sprinklers that had just turned on (I suspect to scare us off).  Getting the moist tossed out luggage on us was enough to send us into hysterics.  “Ewww, get that off my head,” triggered the flood gates.  We were laughing so hard, my friend started peeing her pants.  A brand new pair of “Esprit” capris were now “peed in” pants.  Since they were new for “back to school,” she was anxious to rinse them off and ring them out.  After quite a detour, we composed ourselves at a Sunset gas station and re-focused on our mission, to bring home another man’s trash. 

As a person that declutters constantly it’s crazy after all these years, that I saved almost 40 year old torn invitations, envelopes, receipts and notes with no known value.  However, what I’ve discovered is the true value of these things is they cause us to reminisce about that crazy time.  We’re reminded of all the fun and laughter we’ve shared over the decades.  That night was the first of many “in-action” pees.  Other times included running away from teepeeing someone’s house and laughing so hard you end up peeing “in action.”  Over the long course of our friendship, an underlying and understood goal of most of our conversations is to make each other laugh so hard someone pees.  And that is most definitely the sole purpose of our Mad Lib games. (Yes, we still play!)  I told my mom, who used to play Mad Libs with us as kids, that I’d be sharing this story and without further detail, she remembered and laughed. Having such a memorable, good time is truly the treasure we took home from the “Amalfi host” that night.

Sidenote* Bobby Vinton’s home was previously owned by Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., Cary Grant and Barbara Hutton.  It is now currently owned by Steven Spielberg. Estimated value is 31 million dollars.

“Let me tell y’all what it’s like, being female, middle-class and white.” Ben Folds

It was my first and last time to the Magic Castle.  After quickly perusing the almost 60 year old dress code and consulting my friend, a repeat guest, who’s only worn dresses there, I opted for slacks and a nice, sparkly top.  I wanted to be comfortable, since I just had oral surgery and my face felt achy and puffy.  I didn’t want matching puffy feet from high heels.  I figured the only thing puffy that night would be my hair.

My friend and I arrived early and checked in at the door but were told we had to wait for the rest of the party unless we could get a confirmation call from the person who got us on the guest list.  I thought the staff, who was definitely annoyed with us for not knowing the rules, was also suspicious of us too. We sat on a bench and watched the guests arrive in limousines.  Young, pretty girls stepped out in dresses cut so low and slits slashed so high, us 50-somethings started to feel really out of place.  

Debbie whispered, “Are you feeling underdressed or what?”

“Maybe a bit overdressed, if you know what I mean?” I answered, closing my eyes to avoid catching a glimpse of a crotch as a limo door opened in front of us.

The call finally came through vouching for us moms, grateful we had boys, because we’d never let our daughters leave the house dressed like that.  We stood in line, trying to blend into the sea of flesh, applying a last minute coat of lipstick.  We joked about pigs and lipstick, trying to brush off how puffy and fluffy we both now felt.  

“I’m gonna have to ask you to see the ladies at the front desk for a jacket,” the huge doorman said as he examined my non-“dressy tunic (hip length)” top.  The sparkle satisfied the dressy part, but it definitely didn’t cover my hips.  

I laughed, “Excuse me, you’re joking right?”  I watched 1/2 naked girls walk right in and wondered if they also decided to only peruse the part of the dress code that read, “Prohibits ‘Excessively revealing or provocative clothing or attire that could be viewed by our membership as generally offensive.’”  I pulled my shirt down, trying to stretch it to an acceptable “tunic hip length,” but the burly doorman wasn’t falling for it.  Debbie’s tunic barely passed the imaginary line and she was saved from further humiliation.  

We stepped up to the desk and were met by two rail thin girls, whose weight put together added up to one of us.  We were met with looks of disgust as we tried to defend my top as a tunic.  I thought if my butt weren’t so big the top would fall down further.  Or if I had more money, I could’ve gone shopping for the right kind of clothes, and we’d be drinking cocktails and watching magic with the provocatively dressed “in crowd”.  Instead I was being handed a little jacket to try on.  Begrudgingly, only because it was kind of cute, I thought to myself, “I’ll just  conform to their outdated rules, forgive the two Barbie dolls and try to have fun.”  After failing to get one arm in, I handed it back to the millennial and said, “Can you find me something closer to a Size 10?,” whispering the Size 10 part.  I was handed a bright, white, blazer that must have come from the  costume closet.  I reluctantly slipped it on, wanting to crawl up the closest magician’s sleeve.  Embarrassed, I felt like David Byrne.  They must have known how unflattering it was.  Was this their way of penalizing me?  Was my butt in a pair of slacks more “offensive to the membership” then the bare legs and cleavage of the girls who were squeezing past my shoulder pads to get to the bar?  But that wasn’t the end of the punishment, as we tried to follow the arm candy to the bar, one of the “plastics” had the nerve to ask me for my driver’s license as collateral for the hideous jacket nobody wanted to take home.  (“I was pissed off, but too polite.”) I held back the tears, handed her my license and gave up the fight.   Humiliated, I knew the two, mean girls couldn’t wait to laugh at me behind my back about my poor clothing, puffy face and fat ass.  

By the time we got to the bar to order a much needed drink, I couldn’t hold back the tears that fell down my swollen cheeks. I ran to the bathroom to sob.  I called my boyfriend who calmed me down a bit and encouraged me to not stay somewhere I wasn’t comfortable. I washed away the tears and most of my makeup and immediately told my friends that just arrived that I was leaving.  I couldn’t wait to to give the Miami Vice jacket back to the “Bewitches” and get my license to drive off onto Sunset. 

This happened in May 2019.  As a white, middle-class female, I struggled with writing a story of my grievance about a dress code but I think it was meant to be shared this year.  In recent weeks we’ve seen video of minorities being discriminated against for “dress codes”.  And as embarrassing as it was, I can’t really compare my tale to the struggles minorities have faced for more than just they way they dress and for more than just the past few weeks, years or centuries.  I, at least, was still allowed to enter the club as long as I felt comfortable dressed as a man from the 80’s.  I understand the establishment had strict rules and looking back the easiest thing I could have done was wear a dress or better yet, politely decline the invitation to a place with such detailed guidelines.  The doorman’s job was to look over the patrons to make sure they’re following the rules and grant them privilege to enter the private club. (Another reason I should’ve declined).  Anyway, I’d call that discernment.  But when he bent the “generally offensive” rules for the girls with perfect bodies and perfect hair and not for me I felt discriminated against.  I was set apart for being different.  And their remedy only highlighted that and made me feel worse.  My clothes, imperfect body and hair were all being judged even though I was a white, middle-class female.  To tell you the truth, I wasn’t specifically paying attention to the scantily clad girls’ colors or sizes, I just know they made the cut and I didn’t and that was not a good feeling.  But only now can I view the experience as a minor glimpse of what it’s like having unbendable rules to follow and how they can be used against you for any reason.  Generally, dress codes are establishments’ way of keeping their clientele white, rich, skinny, pretty or whatever.  I just know for me, I’ve learned I don’t ever want to go somewhere with dress rules unless those rules are “No entry without face mask.”