I’m emotional and I’m embarrassing. Ask anyone who has spent fifteen minutes with me when I am discussing the more gnarly points of how much I hate the circus, or perhaps catch me on the tail end of a show about Boy George, and chances are...I’m crying. I’m not an annoying crier, just a crier. So, I try to take precaution. When I hear that godforsaken Sara McLaughlin song, I know that horrible Humane Society commercial is coming on (you know the one I mean, with the dog with one eye, WHY?!?!?) And I promptly flee the room. However, sometimes I am caught off guard. Sometimes I lose it. Sometimes, I cry at the Night Gallery.
So the hype on the Browns is spectacular. The legend of two adult Goths living in our midst and keeping it real definitely got me aroused. I had heard all about the sculpture, the cars, Tamara’s hair and subsequently Robert’s as well. I had heard various different takes, all with the sweet cynicalness we have come to expect from downtown Santa Ana. Some would say Tamara is more Goth than Rob. Others would say no one can be Goth and work for Hot Topic (why...I thought that was like their Mervyns?) I had no idea so many people were still worrying about the "real vs. faux" debate on Goth and Goth issues. I guess I have a lot to learn.
My first trip to the gallery was made as a sort of pilgrimage, to set my sights on all this action and be my own judge. After all, I felt I had the qualifications, having attended more than three Nine Inch Nails tours and having had both Bauhaus and Sisters of Mercy phases, respectively. I too had a long bang at one point. I think we all did.
I was accompanied by Gina, my best friend and huge fan of the Browns and the Night Gallery. Our first few moments inside were intense, navigating our way through a bunch of kids with backpacks until we hit the epicenter of what seemed like the house I may have designed in tenth grade. Everything is dark. There is a low rumbling coming from the corner which could be a Tool song, or perhaps the crazy energy reverberating off this huge wooden box with a spinning object inside. I attempt to focus but I am overwhelmed by catrina Christmas ornaments. I try to regain my footing, only to be introduced to Tamara and Robert. I want to nominate these two for the raddest couple in the world. Fuck Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. Fuck that bitch from the Princess Diaries and her weird boyfriend with the big nose. I want an US Weekly packed with these two. What are they eating? Where are they going? What dope-ass bat vase is Robert working on today? Oh my god.
After introductions, Gina gives me an inquisitive look. I say, "They are so nice." She looks at me again. I begin to notice a sculpture of a robot holding a baby. My chin starts to quake. Gina gives a more serious look, as if to say, "NOT HERE." I look around. There are old photos of grave sites. Then, I realize there is a massive lump in my throat. Gina kindly thanks everyone and escorts me out, just as my eyes begin to well up and my voice starts to break.
"It’s just so rad, " I say.
"Well, I guess if you’re going to cry over something, it might as well be the Night Gallery," she laughs.
She is totally right.
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