The Horrible Rocky Road Show

The Horribly Rocky Road Show
By Mississippi Charles Bevel Before there was “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”, there was “The Rocky Horror Show”—a theatrical stage production. I was fortunate enough to see the world premiere of the stage production in Hollywood in the early 1970s. This year, some thirty years later, in 2003, fortune placed me in the audience of La Paloma Theater in Encinitas, California, where I was to witness both the movie being screened and the stage production performed simultaneously. I had arrived in Hollywood in 1973 for the release of an album on the A&M Record label, “Meet Mississippi Charles Bevel”. But my stay in the “music business” was to be short lived. One afternoon in 1974, I walked into an office of the studios at La Brea and Sunset and announced that I was hanging up my rock ‘n’ roll shoes. My leaving had nothing to do with a lack of talent, nor with A&M Records, nor my manager, this great guy named Wally Amos-whose face and name would soon grace the cookie shelves of every major supermarket in America as “Famous Amos”. My quitting was about taking a tentative and quite unsure step in the direction of bringing some honesty into my life. I honestly didn’t want to put on a smile and a glitter suit and spend the rest of my life, or any part of it really, being a fantasy fulfillment for teenagers and women—no matter how much sex it would provide. And at the time (and probably still is I reckon) sex for me was one of the greatest reasons to be alive. Beside sex, another perk of being groomed as a recording artist was getting free tickets to “openings”; movies, plays, and shows of all kind. So there I sat one evening in 1973 on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood watching a live theatre production for the first time in my life-“The Rocky Horror Show”. What an introduction to theatre! Thirty years later, for theatrical reasons, I was back in California. I myself would be performing on two different stages in the same month. I had been invited out by professor Quincy Troupe (a literary artist and professor at the University of California at San Diego) to take part in a series of artistic presentations at the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego in La Jolla called “Artists on the Cutting Edge”. The series brought to the public, writers, poets, musician and other artists to exposit or perform pieces of thirty minutes or less--some of the artists were very high profile and others, like me, hardly known beyond their own basements. I also was in San Diego to do a play at the San Diego Repertory Theatre entitled “Fire on the Mountain”; a play that speaks about the pathos of coal mining in Appalachia, yet made palatable by the music and colloquial witticisms of the region. Through both the music and wit of that mountainous area of the country the indomitability of the human spirit shines. Both elements (good music and wit) can always be found among people closely connected to the earth—in this case people often trapped literally beneath it. It was at the San Diego Rep that I met Kate and it was through her that I would see my second ever theatrical staging of “Rocky Horror”. I playfully called her, “Katydid”--which she accepted gracefully, saying it was what her grandfather had called her. I never asked, but 1

wondered if (being the thoroughly urban creature that she seemed) weather she knew what a katydid was. Kate was a big woman, tall, and round; round everything, round eyes set in an olive-to-round face fronting a round head with short blond hair, tinged with green and red here and there--symbols of counter-culture I imagined. She seemed not to be at all self-conscious about her size or rotundity. Unless it was a well perfected ruse, she was one of the few persons whom I’ve met whose spirit is totally accepting of, even appreciative of, the particular body in which it lives. She was the wardrobe supervisor, our “dresser”, the person who took care of our costumes and helped us in and out of them when necessary. Very effusive and talkative (constantly being shushed back stage by Meghan, the assistant stage manager), Kate was totally at ease and could give and take with the best when it came to the sexual banter and innuendos that is common fare among half-naked actors making up and dressing for an evening’s production. An actor herself, earlier in the week, she had extended an invite to the seven of us in “Fire” to catch her performance in “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”. Although I had seen the picture several times, for the life of me, I couldn’t recall anyone who looked like Kate, even a slimmed down version. Nevertheless, I looked forward to seeing Kate strut her stuff on the “big screen”. I vaguely remembered the plot: A young couple while driving through a rain storm gets lost and ends up in a Transylvania-like castle inhabited by a male bi-sexual transvestite and his coterie of outlandish characters of diverse sexual persuasions. The master of the castle, Frank, (a la Dr. Frankenstein) brings to life his own human-like creation, which unlike Dr. Frankenstein’s junkyard monstrosity, is a real muscular hunk. And for two hours, via song and dance, little is left to the imagination in terms of the sexual propensities and proclivities pursued by the cast of creatures. After our own performance that Friday, I was the lone cast member to take Kate up on her invite. We stopped by her house to pick up her boy friend, before proceeding to the screening. I was a bit confused as Kate and Joe scrambled around hurriedly throwing costumes, of the type worn by the characters in the movie, into a large gym-type bag. I couldn’t quite image what or for whom the costumes might be, unless they were for those like me who would be attending the screening without the “appropriate” attire. Though it had been quite a while since I had last attended a screening of “Rocky Horror”, over the years I had attended several, and recalled that it was quite common for most audience members to be dressed just as outlandishly as the characters on the screen. Maybe it would be a requirement at this screening. Not wanting to interfere with their mad scramble to get ready, I let the question ride. But on the way to the theatre, I gleaned from their conversation that they would be performing on stage in front of the screen as the movie played. Viola! I was well aware that the “Rocky Horror Picture Show” had developed a cult following that is perhaps the most unique film “following” phenomena ever, but to have characters performing on stage in front of the movie would be an entirely new twist. “Rocky Horror” followers in terms of zeal, are perhaps a little less enthusiastic than the followers of a Jim Jones or a David Karesh, but their passion and fervor, in an impressive but unimposing manner, centers on the question of life rather than death; death being the most consistent theme among those who take their cults serious. Because of their low key style of 2

interacting with others and each other (accept in matters of dress), it would be easy to miss Rocky Horror followers’ seriousness about their common cause, which seems to focus on sexual autonomy and individuality. If Christianity were the chalice from which they drank, their seriousness would only fit an unbending Calvinist. Politically their favorite clothing store would be the local Libertarian antique shop. Every Friday or Saturday night, and sometimes both nights, in many of the few remaining single-screen movie houses around the country, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” is screened. As Rocky Horror followers gather to repeat the lines and sing the songs in unison with the characters on screen, midnight is always the appointed hour—which seems to be one and only hard and fast rule of engagement. What occurs at the “Rocky” gatherings in different cities can vary quite a bit. And the format for what occurs in a particular city though basically set, creep through a slow evolution in term how an audience participates. Besides shouting the lines and singing the songs along with the actors on the screen, often in the pauses between the on-screen character lines, someone in the audience will ad-lib a witty or sarcastic question or sentence (a “call back”), to which the next line from the screen serves as an answer. Laughter measures the potency of the “call back” and whether it will hence forth become a semi-permanent part of the mid-night happening. And so goes the evolution from week to week. We arrived at the theater, La Paloma, about a quarter to midnight. Kate and Joe disappeared inside, as I waited outside in the ticket line. Perhaps to passersby I looked rather odd, a senior citizen of sixty-five, standing among the high school and college aged children dressed each in a manner that made an unmistakable statements about their individually, or perhaps reflected their sexual state of being--for the moment. The “line” to the box office was seemingly also making a statement just as loud about not being a line. In clusters that defied any description by race or gender or any other classification, the young people gathered along the side walk, talking and playfully flitting from one group to the other. And surprisingly, to me, in this day and age, many more than I would have imagined, were smoking regular cigarettes. I definitely would classify myself as counter-culture, but I have no need in terms of dress or language to make a statement about it. From being totally naked in the company of others to being buttoned down in a three piece suit, I’m totally at peace with and at home in this old body. Yet I’m still quite at ease among those who need to make outward statements in language or dress to confirm their being. Given that, the “Rocky” followers mode of dress (from lingerie to overcoats worn indiscriminately by males and females) meant less to me in terms of judging character or defining sexual orientation than it did about perhaps confirming something else. I could only imagine that “something else” to be a sense of genuine selfhood. Selfhood, for those who are wondering about it, is something entirely different from individualism. Selfhood respects, even enjoys, inter-dependence. Dependence itself poses no threat to selfhood. Individualism however (particularly the brand preached by Ayn Ryan and other neurotics of her ilk) is absolutely terrorized of inter-dependence and would never think of asking another person to scratch its itching back (or front) for fear that its vaunted independence might somehow be compromised. The quiet camaraderie and genderless mode of dress of the “Rocky” followers belies all the myths of “gender”, a word and concept that is (like race) mostly mythological. Much like 3

the powerful influence that mythological dragons and sea creatures held over medieval culture for centuries, the present day myths created around the sexuality of Africans (with their fabled big dicks) and all women (with their sexual prowess through witchcraft) is the life blood of cultural life in America. With Hollywood as the heart pushing out these myths and Madison Avenue as the head determining where they will flow through the cultural body, everything in our lives, from our religious practices, to the clothes we wear, to the food we eat is governed by the myths of woman sex and black sex. Given that no one with even one of their six physical senses intact could not detect the vast array of differences between ovum carriers and sperm donors or the superficial anatomical difference between Europeans, Orientals and Africans, yet the mythologies persist. However, it is not these surface genetic realities, but the culturally invented myths that we perpetuate, or keep recreating, which frighten our children (just as our parent frightened us) into becoming what we are; physically grown adults who are terrorized of our own sexuality. This is not to dismiss or denigrate the essential role of culture, which is just as indispensable as genetics to human life. But nowhere, from the recesses of our inner physical being, where genetics govern, to the outreaches of the our most rigid rituals where culture reigns, can any clear and distinct lines of demarcation be found that divide us along so called “racial” or “sexual” lines. Trying to ascertain character or physicality through the myths of gender and race, is as sensible as trying to appease the gods of wind, rain and lightning by throwing virgins into the flames of a volcanic eruption. Yet the things that we continue to do to appease the gods of race and gender are just as senseless. There are a lot of things that I do not understand about genetics or culture, yet years ago I arrived at a place of being non-judgmental about things that I do not understand. But I’m not a fool. I have a cautious and respectful regard for all mysteries. Life is a precarious proposition; the numbers of things that can interpose themselves between my next breath and death or my next heart beat and life are beyond measure. And I just love the shit out of being alive, hence the cautious respect for all things--even respect for our cultural and scientific myths about gender and race. And believe me, even science and its methods, in spite of being in this age of going to the moon and mapping the human genome, still creates and sanctifies nearly as many myths as it dispels. Personally, though I’m no paragon of scientific thinking in my approach to life, I am horribly inquisitive about everything, and consequently often find myself in the oddest places or circumstances. I am drawn to the word “different”, like a moth to flame. On the other hand I find great comfort in the word “same”. “Different” and “Same” each has its own gravitational field. The evolution of life requires change. A constantly changing environment demands that “living” forms, through random genetic changes, keep pace. In all its forms life depends upon “different”. The slow imperceptible genetic mutations and the allelic rainbow of physical features (like eye color and hair texture) that each of us carry in our personal gene pool guarantees that every new issue from life’s womb will arrive slightly different from every single one that has arrived before. There is an imperceptible pulling away from past forms. On the other side of the coin, the sustenance of life requires stasis and cohesiveness; all forms of life in their day to day existence require that things remain basically the “same”. Life is balanced between this evolutionary need for change and the short term need for stability. In every aspect of life there is the struggle between the 4

“liberal” (those features of life whose duty it is to change things) and the “conservative” (those features whose duty it is to keep things the same). In all of our parts (body, mind and emotion) each of us has both the elements of liberalism and conservatism functioning at all times. (Unfortunately the terms “liberal” and “conservative” are use only in politics, and even there it is used in a most shoddy, imprecise and manipulative manner.) There is no one term or word that can umbrella or bundle together all the change elements or all the inert elements. One can be liberal about bathing, yet conservative about water use. One can be conservative about sex yet liberal about answering any conceivable question that a child might ask about it. The use of those terms has to be very subject and object specific. And in all things each of us must find for ourselves the balance between our personal need for “different” and “same”. Particularly on the human plain, life depends on our ability to discern between what is different and what is the same. All of our physical senses have evolved to that end. Whether we do it well or badly, there is no getting around it; the quality of our lives depends heavily upon our being able to discern in a very personal way what needs to change and what should remain the same. The next thing is to find the courage to stand tall against the cultural illusions blowing often at gale force against our own personal experiences. There are two other offsetting elements in our lives that must be understood, those things governed by what comes from our genes and those things which we acquire from our culture. Our individual genetic make up (nature) and our individual cultural conditioning (nurture), are both composed of a gazillion variables. It is not always easy to differentiate between which one (nature or nurture) is telling us what. Even science isn’t immune from that confusion. To not know whether nature or nurture is speaking at a given moment can not only be confusing, it can have dire consequences. We have to do what nature say, or there will be hell to pay. If we don’t pay, our children surely will, and without even knowing what they are paying for. We don’t have to do what nurture (culture) says, although often it is the wise thing to do. The voice of nurture is the experience of those who have preceded us. What is it that they would want us to know and why would they want us to know it? The most important answer is that they are concerned about our survival. So nurture’s voice on the whole tends to be rather conservative. It keeps us out of obvious harms way. But because of the accumulated changes that nature brings about, and because cultures accumulated wisdom can become moldy and outdated, adhering strictly to the voice of nurture can often lead to personal or community disaster. Nature in its ancient and plodding ways is unrelenting and unforgiving, and has no way to adjust to our individual whims and desires. However much we might dream and yearn to do so, we cannot live outside nature’s authenticity. We can do nothing to change it, so we must constantly be kept abreast of what it is and how it works. It is we, individually and collectively, who must adjust to nature, not the other way around. The function of culture is to acquaint us with all the reality that nature presents, so that we not only are able to just survive, but enjoy all the diverse aspects that nature presents to us. The problem is that we not only have the ability to examine and acquaint ourselves with nature and her requirements, we also have the ability to deceive ourselves and others about nature and her requirements. Culture, because it has the function of interpreting nature to the new born and uninitiated, often gets beside itself, and thinks that its own voice is the voice of nature. Historically the fall and disappearance of cultures is due precisely to this error. 5

Nowhere in the history of mankind has a culture arisen that so misinterprets the “nature” of sex as does American culture. Sex Americana, this child of the witchcraze (the more than two century attempt in Europe to gain complete control of women sexuality), has matured into a freak, a veritable monster, never before experienced on earth. The confusion in our sex lives (and no other part of our lives carry as much confusion) is due to our not knowing whose voice we are hearing; that of nature or nurture (culture). The voice of culture in relation to sex has become so boisterous until, on a personal level, we hardly can hear the quiet but powerful voice of our sexual nature anymore. The lingering effect of the cruelties experienced during the era of the witchcraze, (perpetuated now mostly through psychological rather than physical means) is that the sexual voice of nature has become for us much like the voices heard by schizophrenics—they are perplexing at best and frightening at worse; voices that we hope those around us can’t hear. And like schizophrenics we know at some point we must obey the voices, yet are mortified at the possible consequences. The voice of culture about sex is a droning mantra of just one word: “Silence!” I was thinking about these things as I stood leaning against the building waiting for the La Paloma theatre ticket booth to open. Once inside, the rituals began. Rituals are the glue of sameness. It holds a group together; gives meaning to being together beyond our individual and personal understandings. In fact, one of the “Rocky” rituals had begun on the sidewalk outside. Those who were attending “Rocky Horror” for the first time (appropriately called “virgins”) were pointed out by their friends so that they could be “marked” even before entering the “castle” at midnight. A slight young man, using a tube of red lip stick, appropriately marked the cheeks, foreheads, or other body parts of the newcomers with a “V”. One young beauty had her “virginity” noted by a large red “V” whose point dipping down between her bountiful breasts, whose attire left them mostly uncovered. In the foyer, bags of articles could be purchased which could be used by audience members to enhance their participation in the evenings; things to be tossed about the audience or onto the stage; including a small water pistol, pieces of toast, candy, etc. First to appear on stage before the movie began was the MC for the evening, who read the “Rules of Conduct”. His reading (which included audience rejoinders and which dealt with practical matter like not destroying or damaging the screen, not setting fire to things, etc.) was appropriately laced with sexual innuendos about sucking, fucking, ass- and other holes, etc. ad infinitum. This was followed by the ritual of the “virgins” losing their “cherry”. With a little coaching and encouragement, the virgins were all lined up in front of the raised stage facing the audience. Each, one at a time, was given a choice of who from among the jumping and cheering audience (a raised hand signaled those willing to do the do) would get to “bust their cherry”. The choosing went on, seemingly with total disregard for what the keepers of the myths of gender and race would have accepted, until each virgin had chosen a “cherry buster”. With their chosen by their side, a real cherry was popped into each virgin’s mouth and their heads lolled back to receive a healthy topping of whipped cream over the maraschino. The cherry busters’ duty now was to suck the cherry out through the whipped cream and eat it. This

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being done, each virgin was required to bend over the first row of seats to dutifully receive a simulated humping from behind. Virgin initiation being done and over with, the movie began. But not just the movie; along with the screen characters, a full cast appeared on stage replicating the screen characters in dress and manner. With the use of spot lights, the stage included practically the whole auditorium, and they used it. But it wasn’t just a matter of replicating what was on the screen. At La Paloma, the performances require a theme, and each live character, within that theme, is free to ad lib as they sees fit. This particular night, each of the live characters, was killed of by a “tranie” (short for transvestite, I assumed), who would then take over the role of the dearly departed, which meant that twice the number of live actors were involved. As the plot unfolded-on screen and on stage, with interaction between the both sets of characters, as well as with audience participation-- mock birth, mock death, and mock sexual mayhem of all kinds played out for about two hours. Afterwards, as I waited out front of the theatre for Kate and Joe, it became apparent that most of the actors as they emerged were waiting around in front of the theatre also. When enough of them were gathered, a post production meeting and planning session for thing to come began right there on the sidewalk. Things discussed were very much reminiscent of post rehearsal meeting in regular theatre. The group itself I learned is called “Crazed Imaginations”. On the way back to San Diego, Kate talked a little about her three years of involvement. Over the years, she said, there had been a continuous metamorphosis in the group of players as people came and went, for all the reasons that people come and go. “In the beginning there was a lot of ‘white trash’ intent on sexually getting off with each other after the show.” I was struck by Kate’s use of the word, “white trash”. Having lived with, beside, over and under the word “nigger” all my life, I am always a bit sensitive to words that can carry a derogatory or demeaning connotation. From all that I had experienced of Kate during the run of “Fire on the Mountain”, it seemed quite unlikely that her use of “white trash” would be intended as something malicious or contemptuous. More than likely her use of the concept would be inclusive of herself, much in the same way that African-Americans of all classes use the word “nigger” when alone with each other and no “white folk” are within earshot; when the word takes on a purely pronominal quality—meaning no more than “we” or “us” in a rather warm and comforting manner. “White trash”, in this light could refer to anybody (of whatever imagined gender) who doesn’t buy into the beatified, Mary mother of Jesus, concept of sex which demands that all feelings, thoughts or actions concerning sex must reside permanently within the confines of holy matrimony—an attitude about sex that is nowhere in the world more exemplified than here in America. And, consequently, a concept and notion that is nowhere in the world more violated or dishonored. Permanently set in the concrete of chauvinistic religious fundamentalism, our rigid, but false, nose-in-the-air attitudes about sex are surpassed only by those of the Taliban and the puritanical wahabist of Saudi Arabia--the zeal of both sects being exemplified by the words and deeds of God’s latest self-appointed Johnny on the spot and interpreter of Her word, Osama Ben Laden. We in America are trapped in our common dungeon of sexual horrors because if any individual among us makes an effort to escape, we all must set upon them less we ourselves be 7

accused of aiding and abetting in their “deviancy”. Any thoughts or mention of sex outside of the pretended norms that we all falsely profess to adhere to leaves our stomachs churning with the queasiness that most of us get while watching snake-handling Baptist of Appalachia kiss and caress rattlesnakes. Psychologically, nothing is as forbiddingly fascinating and horrifically attractive as a snake—except sex in America. Our feelings about and reaction to sex and snakes, if not synonymous, certainly run on the same well maintained tracks. The feelings that I recall getting in the pit of my stomach when as a child I was “caught” by some adult while engaged in sex-play with other children and the feelings I still get on seeing any kind of snake, without a doubt are the same. Within every religious denomination of our culture, any thought or mention of sex outside of holy matrimony seems to produces the same unease and queasiness. Fortunately, the culturally induced fear of sex that I acquired during childhood has long ago been got rid of. But believe me, it wasn’t easy. From wherever or however we acquired our personal fear of sex, I would suspect that shedding it could for some be as difficult as my trying to shed my inordinate fear of snakes. As irrational as I know my ophiciophobia is, the imaged barrier between me and being rid of it just seems impossibly insurmountable. Now that is insane! All the wonderful explanations I’ve heard of how to overcome it; such talk as, “Just hold it, or touch it”. Shit!! Forget it! I am not touching no fucking snake! Both, my fear of snakes and our cultural fear of sex are shrouded in overpowering and disapproving myths. Being aware and open about my fear of snakes at least allows me to guard against passing my personal mythologies about snakes onto to my children (and grandchildren)--maybe. When visiting the zoo, I have always made sure that they availed themselves of the opportunity to handle snakes in the Reptile House. I, of course, generally spend the time waiting anxiously by the exit. But, getting back to “white trash”, how can we ever know, what someone means when they use a conceptual term? The meaning of it (all meanings, of anything) is attached to images in our heads. No matter what words are spoken, however common, the images produced in our heads can be radically different from those of the speaker or other listeners. Say a single word, “snake”, “pussy” or “God”, and watch the faces and body attitudes around you. From disgust to laughter, they will reflect the different images in all the different heads. We disagree, argue and go to war as individuals and nations over differing images--hardly ever anything else. There is no specific universal image that appears in our collective heads when we hear a particular sound. There is no specific feeling that occurs within all of us when we view a particular scene or image. All of this makes communicating with others the most imprecise adventure in which we will ever be involved and can make living with others quite a shaky proposition at times. So how was I to be sure of what meaning, or image, Kate’s use of ‘white trash’ carried? Perhaps Kate did mean it in a derogatory sense, a sense that always brings such strong mental images to my mind of rundown trailer parks, afternoon TV shows with flabby mothers and underdressed daughters fighting over some skinny guy with voluptuous ladies tattooed on his body; “white folk” whose only sense of self-worth is wrapped in the flag of the Confederacy and being “at least not a nigger”; ignorance and superstition. These things I thought about riding back to San Diego. 8

Finally back in my apartment at about 4 AM, I didn’t flop into bed, but sat in the living room still thinking, and finally turned on the laptop, to write a little about it—the whole “Rocky Horror following” thing and my reactions to it. “What does it all mean Alfie?” There were no doubts in my mind of what was at the core of it. Sex. But where did it all fit in the total scheme of things sexual—particularly here in America? Was it just about “white-trashy” sex? In the poles between “same” and “different” where do the Rocky Horror followers stand? Why were all these young people across America doing this “same” thing, if just a little differently? Is it in some vague way connected to the lingering latency of the witchcraze? I even began to question myself. Why was I thinking about all of this? Was my own sexual revolution not complete? Was I becoming obsessive about the witchcraze—connecting our every aberrant, different, or dysfunctional sexual attitude in America to that little discussed phenomenon of European history. As mentioned earlier, I had come out to perform in the “Artist on the Cutting Edge” series at the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art. My presentation consisted of an original reading (sandwiched between three original songs that related to the paper I was presenting) which in twenty-five minutes attempted to (more so than providing answers) open up several questions about sexuality in America. Namely: 1) Why do we continue to misplace the focus concerning child molestation on dirty old men in funky raincoats hanging around school yards and the few true sexual psychopaths who kill a few children each year, rather than on the reality that 96% (yes, ninety-six percent) of children in America who get sexually molested are being “done” at home by an adult relative or close family friend? 2) Why do we as a culture live continuously under a cloud of shame, guilt and embarrassment about all things sexual, while in these hard economic times the fastest growing industry in the country is internet pornography? 3) Why are we so terrorized of (and will use any method between the gates of hell and heaven, to prevent) our children knowing or learning anything about “real” sex— including clinging to the outmoded Freudian concept of children between four and twelve years of age having no interest in sex (sexual latency its called)? The answer to those questions and many others around sexual dysfunctionalism in our culture, as I see it, are rooted in the witchcraze that rolled through Europe (and America) for a little over two centuries, from about 1550 through 1750. For a little over two hundred years, the women and children of Europe descended into a hell that was, and still is, unimaginable. A hell that, through the use of torture, attempted to banish from the hearts, minds and bodies of women, every positive feeling and thought that they might ever have about sex. Compared to the psychological and physical torture that some women endured around the issue of sex during that era, the travails of Africans under chattel slavery in the Americas was a cakewalk. And I sincerely mean that. In slavery, having your ass kicked and your body scarred, or having to endure unwanted sexual aggression (including rape) around the concept of extracting physical labor for economic gain, even if clearly immoral and nonsensical, can at least be conceptually 9

reasoned through. But having your tits cut off, a red hot poker rammed up your vagina or your ass, being submerged in freezing water, being stretched on a rack, having body parts squeezed in a vice until unconscious, being quartered by horses, being burned at the stakes in front of loved one, all for the purpose of extracting false confessions from you and your children about being out in the woods literally having sex with the devil, cannot in anyway be made sense of. It was, and still is, madness founded on one thing, the fear of sex, woman sex. Even if the concept of reparation for blacks scares us shitless, we at least as a culture are beginning to have rational discussions about slavery and its psychological aftermath. On the question of the witchcraze, we have not yet begun to entertain any discussions of that psychological quagmire and the legacy it has left. Yet everything that relate to sex or reproduction in our culture is imbued with some sense of shame, guilt, embarrassment or fear that is an unrecognized holdover from the era of the witchcraze. Even “breast” feeding babies, although making a feeble comeback, is still hiding under a blanket of shame-tinged fear parading as modesty. If not literally against the law (and in most States it is—with penalties ranging from fines to being persecuted as a morally unfit mother!), for a woman to expose her breast in public to feed a baby is highly inappropriate. Most of us have never thought to ask why; we just succumb to the feeling that there is something sexual and vulgar about it. Exposed breasts are only legal in strip clubs, where peering through a beer-drunken haze, men (and women) can pay to see women (and men) undercover their body parts. Drunkenness (or some other method of altering our state of mind) is almost a prerequisite to sex in America. Although I personally can’t think of a sexual thing that I can do better drunk or “high” than sober, striding into the sexual arena in America, being well oiled or high is a must. Of our sacred legal principals, just below the crock of malarkey which goes by the name of “innocent until proven guilty” (doing the deed makes you guilty, not some jury’s opinion) is the concept that imbibing enough alcohol absolves us morally and legally from most things—including vehicular murder. Being drunk certainly does provide us with a comforting disregard for the nervous tension that accompany our efforts to pursue sex (or beat up women, assault children, harass immigrants, etc), as well as providing the perfect excuse for any and all sexual dysfunctionalism, whether physical or psychological. But, was it fair or rational for my mind this late at night (early morning really) to be attempting to make some connection between these young people having fun on a Friday or Saturday night and the centuries-removed sexual atrocities of the middle ages? Were the Rocky Horror followers doing nothing more than participating in their own sophisticated sexual rites of passage from childhood to adulthood—in a culture that has no such rites or rituals? Kate had mentioned that the group now included quite a few actors who were serious about learning the theatre craft. However I still got the feeling that the tenor of the group was one of providing a milieu for defining, encouraging and exercising sexual freedom in a highly personalized way. As written in the program, from the pen of Amy (the cast director for this nights performance of “Rocky Horror”), “…Frank sums it up best when he sings Don’t Dream It, Be It…Gay, straight, bi, curious or confused, all are welcome here.” What many (even most) in our culture would see as a form of teenage rebellion (the use of raw sexual language and the pantomiming of sexual activity of all sort during these midnight rituals in theatre across the nation) I see as just one part of a multi-faceted, necessary, healthy, hopeful and eventual escape from the shadow of the witchcraze—a shadow that hang more 10

ominous over America than over any other European derived culture. It hangs heavier over America for several reasons. The people of Europe coming to this continent were isolating and insulating themselves from the rest of the world (and reality) both physically and psychologically for a long time to come. In most cases, this isolation was not only deliberate, but had a highly significant religious focus. Although many were escaping from religious persecution, others were consciously attempting to isolate their community of “believers” from the influence of the “infidels” surrounding them. Religious fundamentalism, the fight against sin, particularly sexual sin, was the core of most of the new branches of Christianity flourishing after the trans-Atlantic crossing. It is easy to lose sight of the fact that the “church”, both Catholic and Protestant, were the most powerful forces behind the sex-negative bias of the witchcraze. The power and momentum of ecclesiastical intolerance of woman-sex was enough to distort and obliterate many historical facts that would be replaced by mythologies that supported its disposition and despotism. A case in point is the celibacy of the Catholic Church priesthood. Most Catholics are unaware of the fact that celibacy of the priesthood has naught to do with Jesus’ supposed celibacy, but was instituted to curtail thievery. During the 12th century, Catholics priests (most of whom were married just like everybody else) had begun to steal so much church property (converting it to their own names so that it could be passed to their children) until the Pope, in an effort to halt the practice, forbade marriage for all new priests entering the priesthood. The magic of twisting this historical attempt at halting larceny into a mythology about celibacy being a sacrifice to purity and holiness was solidified by the anti-sex bias of the witchcraze. Not only was the physical isolation (created by the vast oceans separating this continent from the rest of the world) highly significant, but the cultural isolation was even more pronounce, and still lingers over us. Again, religious fervor tinged with denouncing anything that might cause sexual stimulation (dancing, singing other than religious songs, etc.) put a lid on most artistic endeavors. Work and religious piety were the watch words for this culture of isolation. Most of the energy of the enforcers of the ethics of piety (white men) was focused on work—creating an economic base for themselves and their families. In one of the paradoxes of the ages this alloyed ethic of work and religion saw and accepted the killing of Indians, the enslaving of Africans and the continued dehumanizing of women as justified by their false religious piety which used biblical text to argue and justify this trilogy of horrors. Americans today, in spite of a cultural need for less and less physical labor, still have a Calvinist attitude about work and would feel horrible pangs of guilt should everyone be granted four to six weeks of vacation each year, as do some Europeans. No people on Earth still take the text of the Bible as literal truth to the extent that we do. Living in isolation from the rest of the world, our sado-masochistic sexual ethic solidified itself without any challenges or stimulation from other cultures. Although physically we are far removed from the Pilgrim’s mode of dress that forbade a woman exposing any skin of her body except that of her face, psychologically we have moved little. To get beyond the dilemma of living in a culture driven by factual knowledge but whose ethics are grounded in the mythologies of fundamentalist religious beliefs is not going to be an easy task. 11

Whether information (knowledge about how things relate to each other) is physical, mental, emotional or economic, human society is left with this dilemma: Everything that we must know in terms of how to accommodate nature for our own survival must be learned after our birth. That which we internally bring, call it instinct or genetic programming, is nature. Even those instinctual things must be guided in their interaction with that part of nature which is external to us; and that means everything external! All of that learning and guidance, perforce, must come through culture. And by giving such a powerful role to culture, I am not putting forth some stupid or sophisticated neo-blank slate argument. Should I alone possess and die with all the presently extent knowledge about electricity (the interaction of magnetism and electrons), if I do not impart or pass-on that knowledge to others, society has to start all over again at some point to acquire and use that knowledge. When and if that occurs, it will be by accidents fuel by curiosity just as it was in the past for Joseph Priestley, Ben Franklin and others. Education--the passing on of culturally acquired knowledge—and our understanding of the process is the key. Beyond mouthing platitudes, we don’t take education seriously, or broaden its scope; simply because we do not understand the process of how babies (or even adults) assimilate information; nor do we consider how important it is to cultural survival for individual members of a society to have as much cultural awareness about as many things as possible. One of the processes that aids and hastens the down fall of cultures is that the acquisition and distribution of knowledge becomes elitist. There are those who think that they alone, or their class, should be the one to possess certain knowledge. With sex, we feel that only adults (however that is defined) should possess this knowledge to the total exclusion of children. Presently in our culture, the overwhelming majority of adults do not want children to have any knowledge at all about sex, human or animal. That is a fact, not garnered by polls (because people for a vast host of reasons will quickly lie about their sexual feelings and knowledge), but acquired by observing how people react to their children’s becoming aware of things sexual. With neighbors, parishioners, family members, schools, government agencies and police departments (the list is endless) roaming around in the back of our minds, even the most “liberal” parents with nervous grins begin the mandatory “shouldn’t” and “don’t” lessons on sex when their children’s questions begin. On the cultural level, we create barriers between individuals and specific knowledge in every field of understanding. But these cultural barriers are usually related to safety and determined by or related to physical or psychological maturity; coming of age. Those who refuse to recognize the barriers or adhere to the restrictions are in endless ways subject to approbations and punishments. The most powerful tool in a large array of instruments used for the impediment of knowledge is fear. As it relates to sex, fear hangs over our heads like a guillotine, composed of a harden alloy of shame, guilt and embarrassment. In our legal system, no other subject has more prohibitive laws inscribed on the books than those related to sexual activity, and no subject has harsher punishments for violators. Strangely enough (or not), rather than these sexual edicts being effective in protecting us, their overall effect is to drive sexual activity underground. Like with satisfying our need for mind altering substances--from alcohol to cocaine--no amount of legal mumbo-jumbo is going to impede our genetic drive to engage in sexual activity. Hence the fastest growing industry in 12

terms of gross revenue (most of it untaxed) is pornography. Prohibition didn’t work for alcohol; it isn’t working for marijuana, cocaine and other mind benders, and isn’t going to work against sex. Tragically and sadly, in the same vein, all the laws created in the name of Polly Klaas, Megan Kanka and other child victims of sexual murder will do nothing to stop the formation of the Jeff Dahmers, John Gaceys and other psychopathic sex offenders. Culturally blindfolded, we do not recognize who these psychopaths are. Although living in adult bodies, they are still children whose natural psycho-sexual growth was ended or twisted years before by parents or other adults--themselves psycho-sexual victims living under the centuries-long shadow of the witchcraze. Nothing can or will be done until we recognize that the problem is our cultural attitudes and behaviors concerning sex; a legacy from the witchcraze era that has as its fuel the fear of sex and consequently the hatred of women. These sexual psychopaths, “monsters” as we like to call them, are like feral children forever trapped beyond learning and using language. Frustrated and angry, the “language” that our psychopaths could never learn in their “abandonment” was the language of human sexuality. Again, somewhere in their past, their genetically driven need to acquire sexual knowledge and to travel a safe path toward sexual sanity was thwarted—again, generally by well intentioned parents. As I began to write (what turned out to be this essay or whatever it is) about the midnight Rocky Horror phenomenon, I found my thoughts ranging across the whole landscape of human sexuality, “American style”. What I see in the midnight “Rocky Horror” phenomenon is our children (while for the most part not even aware of what it is they are struggle against) fighting a guerrilla war against the shadow of the witchcraze. And just as the hollow words of “liberty” and “freedom” (so emptily ballyhooed by white men for centuries now) were not made inclusively real for others until those “others”, ex-slaves and women, struggled to make it real for themselves, so it is that true sexual freedom for all, whether for reproductive purposes or just for fun, will not be realized until our children begin their struggle for sexual freedom. Whether they be “tranies” performing their “Rocky Horror” rituals, or rappers sarcastically insulting all of our vaunted and false sexual sensibility--and with displaced anger, degrading their mothers, sisters and daughters in the process--our children must finally rid themselves and us of the burdensome psychological and physical weight of the witchcraze. And it will be “children” who will free us, because children will never (can never) be free from the genetic imperative to pursue sex. And among those children seeking sexual freedom are the million of “children” among us trapped in our adults bodies and in our individual personal, secretive and oppressive sexual hells; who, until we can find a way to escape, will continue to beckon more children into the fire. The whole of Sex Americana is trapped inside a self-made prison, now fortified by the thick walls of race and gender. By the very percepts and concepts used (all religiously fortified), Sex Americana, can never exist outside the boundaries of race and gender. From a global perspective, Sex Americana is something culturally unique, both in time (historically) and its influence on its citizenry. Nowhere else in the world are these mythological barriers--constructed out of the bricks and mortar supplied by the witchcraze--so insurmountable. We are all inside, 13

locked in our solitary cells, ignorant and sorely afraid of sex and each other, depending upon superstition even more than upon our meager knowledge of sex for our personal survival. No one knows better than Hollywood and Madison Avenue about the advantages afforded them vis a vis ignorance and superstition about sex. Using the same psychological jujitsu on us as would a snake charmer with his “deadly viper” (whose poison sacs have been removed) bobbing and weaving in a basket, the moguls of Hollywood and their minions, playing on our fascination with sex, keep our eyes glued to the screens in the hopes of seeing someone get bit by sex, or to see them handle sex without being bit, while the producers, without protest from us, clean our pockets. But maybe, just maybe, Hollywood in creating the “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” has created one of the few vehicles that will be used to free our children, and possibly some of us adults, from the tyranny of the legacy left over from the witchcraze. Long live the ritual of the midnight showings of the “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”! May your lines be long and your “virgins” willing!! Mississippi Charles Bevel 2003

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