Bitches on Wheels: L.A. Derby Dolls @ The Doll Factory, 11/17/07

’Laguna

6:47pm. November 17, 2007. DF prowls the streets of Echo Park on a brisk Saturday eve. This time, however, my goal is not to find a bodega that sells my favorite brand of imported Oaxacan mescal, but something even more exotic and forbidden. I take a quick left off Temple, and – oh, glorious! – dead ahead lies The Doll Factory, the steaming, teeming site that will house tonite’s contest involving the fierce yet somehow also adorable ladies of the L.A. Derby Dolls.

6:50pm. Outside the venue, a helpful gentleman security professional reminds us that guns, knives, or other implements of violence are prohibited inside. Dang. I return to my vehicle, dump off assorted assault weapons, and retrace my steps, feeling far less safe. When will the lefty-loon gun control commies learn? Guns don’t kill hard-hitting rollerchicks; bullets do.

6:58pm. Back on-site, a long line snakes around the building, but I scorn it, as befits my lofty status as a member of the fourth estate. The crowd parts as DF strides directly to the security checkpoint. I eye the plebes with a heady mix of pity and disdain while a security guard makes extra-sure I don’t have weaponry or booze stashed away in my crotchal regions.

7:10pm. Upon being credentialed by the Dolls’ PR jefe, the amusingly-named Judy Gloom, I begin to wonder why more people don’t invent cool alternative nomenclature for themselves. Especially now that parents increasingly give their children bizarre names designed mainly to show off their own ingenuity (e.g., “Alabaster”, “Verily”, “John”), why not take control of one’s identity and self-select one’s handle? For instance, rather than Dingo Farkus, I could become “Danny Diamant”. Or is that too porn-y? Perhaps not porn-y enough?

’Derby

7:23pm. I briefly stop off in the VIP area, marked off by an elegant felt sign, for a refreshing beverage. The VIP area’s main draw is not, as I had hoped, free drinks, but rather VIP-only bathrooms that save one the indignity of using the outside porta-johns.

7:47pm. A delicious chaos brews as we await the start of the derby. The Dolls’ infrastructure keeps the event well enough in check, but there’s nowhere near the antiseptic organization one experiences at a major sporting event. The DIY vibe leaves for just enough disorder that you feel like a really cool riot could break out at any moment.

8:03pm. The juice is loose! Seconds after the ref whistles for the first jam, a dramatic pileup ensues. There’s blood on the banked track and fishnets a-tangle everywhere. The crowd roars in appreciation of the unbridled violence. My god, this rules. You’ve heard of tackle football and ice hockey? Those sports are for the timorous and risk-averse.

8:17pm. Q: why is it that normal cheerleaders are insufferable but goth cheerleaders are captivating? The L.A. Fearleaders circumnavigate the track, performing routines and stirring up reminisces of Nirvana’s timeless “Smells Like Teen Spirit” video. My fave is the one who looks just like Amy Winehouse, by which I mean all of them.

8:31pm. In the interest of full disclosure and (far less importantly) journalistic integrity, I should emphasize that despite perceptions to the contrary, this is a real sport with real rules. The basic idea is that one wispier skater from each team tries to skate through a pack of three or four burlier skaters from the opposing team. I can’t claim to understand the scoring completely, but the skill with which one “jammer”, Mila Minute, eels her way through the opposing blockers is easy for even a novice to appreciate and brings roars from the crowd. Mila leads the Sirens to a big lead over the Tough Cookies by the middle of the second quarter.

8:40pm. Dolls, please note: The music is excellent but one conspicuous omission is the 80s industrial/goth classic “Sex on Wheels” by My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult.

8:48pm. During halftime, I retire to the VIP lounge and challenge myself to think of possible names for sk8er chix. My best efforts: Thunderella; Scarlett O’Scara. Hm. Pretty good, but I’ve got work to do before I come up with something having the same quality as Gori Spelling, Thora Zeen, Titty Titty Bang Bang, or (personal fave) Gia de los Muertos.

9:11pm. As I make my way back to the bleachers, a mean girl briefly attempts to refuse me (or others) passage through the crowd. “This is my space” she claims. Right, except that it’s totally not. And also, a good rule of thumb is: on the banked track, being all aggressive is cool and bad-ass; in the context of crowd dynamics, it is surpassingly retarded and impresses no one.

9:17pm. Second half begins! The competition continues apace, and I begin to understand why women tend to be attracted to charismatic male athletes. During the third quarter, I realize that I have developed an enormous crush on all of these girls. “But DF, they’re all sweaty and bruised!” Um, exactly.

9:25pm. Could it be that the nascent roller derby phenomenon is part of a nationwide phenomenon that seeks to revive the old-style quad-skate aesthetic that peaked in the early 80s right around the release of Olivia Newton-John’s magnum opus, Xanadu? God, I hope so. Consider the evidence: In addition to SoCal’s Derby Dolls, there are roller derby leagues all over the U.S., including in Minnesota, New Orleans, and New York. Also, DF’s friend Crazy Renee has reintroduced the classic rollergirl look in the guise of an headbanded alter ego, Super Skater. Check it.

9:33pm. Relatedly, I am reminded of FIFA president Sepp Blatter’s observation that women’s soccer would be more popular if it was sexed up a bit. He was widely derided as a misogynist and fool, but maybe he was onto something. The reason that the Derby Dolls are infinitely more entertaining than the WNBA or the Women’s World Cup is that they bring theater as well as skill, and part of that theater is sex appeal. There’s this widespread belief that you can’t be both a hot bitch and a bitchin athlete, but as the Dolls amply illustrate, that is horseshit.

9:51pm. The final whistle blows, much to my disappointment. Final stats: Sirens – many points, Cookies – far fewer; serious injuries – 1; pileups – too many to count; ejections for being kind of a bitch – 1; breasts fallen out of very low-cut uniforms – astonishingly, none (NB: this does not include various instances where competitors intentionally flashed the crowd).

10:02pm. I wait outside the dressing room hoping for an autograph or two, but sadly the Dolls have disappeared into the night, and I make my way through the mean streets of Echo Park back to my vehicle.

2:46pm, November 19, 2007. DF reminisces about the evening and is hard-pressed to think of an event that offers so much bang for the buck. In addition to the main roller derby event, there are punk bands, vendors selling crazy crap, and a general atmosphere of Dionysian good-timery. Unless you lack a pulse, or a soul, or both, you will love the shit out of this crazy spectacle.

’Derby

April ’07: Tough Cookies vs Fight Crew photos by Boss Hogg courtesy the Los Angeles Derby Dolls. More photos TK.