LADD Confidential: L.A. Derby Dolls vs. San Diego Derby Dolls (plus Superfriends) @ the Doll Factory, 3/8/2010
Los Angeles, CA. 7.13pm. Dusk drops over the Doll Factory. Rain beats down like a pervert pissing in a pantry. Fog enshrouds the Factory entrance, thicker than your Aunt Petunia’s peanut butter porridge. A figure emerges from this fog. It is not DF. It is an opossum feasting on Hot Dog on a Stick-related detritus. Near this opossum, however, DF lurks, clad in rain slicker and Bogart-esque fedora, eyes cast earthward, sucking sullenly on a cigarette and soaking to the bone. Why doesn’t DF split for the cozy confines of the factory? Because I’m trying to set a goddamn noir-y mood, if the freaking title didn’t already make that clear enough. Jeez.
All right, screw this, it’s freezing and wet. Or rather: DF ditches the downpour. Derby awaits. This ain’t just any bout. It’s an extra-league installment. It’s another chapter in the growing LA/SD rivalry. It pits LADD’s finest against all-stars from their sister team to the south. And more: Delicious and distinguished derby dames from around America have competed for three coveted additional roster spots on each team. LA and San Diego are each talent-stacked on their own, so piling on the ringers seems almost obscene. It’s like giving Shaq elevator shoes, or letting Pacquiao in the ring with a pair of brass knuckles.
DF skulks skyward into in the press box. Some bozo comes up to him and says, “Excuse me, are you using this chair?” DF sets him straight: “Listen, palooka, if I wanted to chat about chairs with chumps, I’d blitzkrieg Bishop Bartholomew’s billfold. So, scram, bub.” The varmint vamooses, and DF’s left alone with his thoughts and his flask of hooch, which he tipples intemperately. By game time, DF’s higher than a Havana hooker on hiatus from humping. Game on.
The bout begins as a back-and-forth affair. Diego draws first blood. Former LADD MVP Kung Pow Tina represents for SDDD now, and her heavy lifting nets nine points and gives her side lead by quarter’s end. LA can thank Krissy Krash that the score’s that close, both for her bonaroo blocking and for racking six points in her only jam of the quarter. The whistle blows and the South appears to be rising again, 28-17.
Then, quick as a filthy Frenchman’s fetid flatulence, the game turns on a dime. Temporary LADD member Smarty Pants (TXRD) drops fifteen points in two early jams. Damn. That girl’s got more balance than an armada of Buddhist monks. Blockers would have better luck knocking over the U.S. Treasury. And Smarty’s only starting the LA party. Major penalties on Diego facilitate consecutive ten- and nine-pointers by Lulu Lockjaw (Santa Cruz Derby Girls) and Haught Wheels. Like that, LA lunges to a lusty lead, 65-35. Diego’s chances of victory are on life support, but Steely Jan and Estro Jen intervene with extraordinary measures. Two high-scoring jams at the end of the half from these SD stalwarts stem the bleeding. At bout midpoint, LA leads, 65-48.
Halftime, and a boffo blonde bops by. “DF,” she asks, “Where were you last night?” “That’s so long ago I can’t remember,” I tell her. “Will I see you tonight?” begs the broad. “I never make plans that far in advance,” DF retorts. “Well, DF, are you at least going to give credit for your cheap-ass Casablanca plagiarism?” Ouch. This kitten’s got claws. “Can it, toots. Second stanza’s about to start.”
DF once refused a blind man a ten-dollar loan. That blind man then kicked DF in the dick. Point being, don’t refuse a blind man a small-potatoes favor, lest ye justifiably have your ballsac booted. Point also being, DF is cheap. But you know what else is cheap? San Diego’s defense in the third quarter. Try as LA might, the skinflint SDDD blockers simply will not give them any points. And Diego’s jammers take the opportunity to efface the once-mighty LA lead. When Estro Jen tallies seven toward the end of the third, the Angelinas find their thirty-point cushion reduced to a mere three. The final fourth beckons, and the winners will be the women who want it worst.
Fourth-quarter finality’s upon us. The crowd clamors cacophonously. DF sips the sauce to nullify nerves. The quarter starts cagily. Then in the third jam, SD stand-in Varla Vendetta (Windy City Rollers) rocks a six-pointer to put her side in the lead. From then on, the SD D takes over. Did DF say they were stingy before? Sheeeeeeit, that was nothing. In the fourth, San Diego’s as stingy with points as C. Montgomery Burns is with cash. They’re blocking LA like Jim Bunning blocks government aid to the needy. You like the numbers better than the tortured analogies? OK, here: throughout the fourth quarter, SDDD lets LADD score all of ten measly points, and with one jam to go, South leads North, 99-91.
And for the last jam, it’ll be KPT for San Diego versus…. No one for LA. Wait a second—no jammer for LA at this pivotal match? It’s a conspiracy! DF knows the fix is in. It’s a classic LA crime story. Here’s the skinny: rogue LAPD officers formed an alliance with the Fruit Town Brims to get vengeance for Biggie’s death. But at the same time, corrupt elements within the City Council paid off key witnesses so they wouldn’t testify at OJ’s trial to reveal the real killer, who also offed the Black Dahlia. What else could possibly explain why LADD got no jammer at the end of the bout? This thing goes all the way to the top, and DF is in deep. His life’s in danger, but he’s got to tell someone.
DF corrals an LADD official and spills the beans, weaving in additional crucial elements linking the aforementioned derby conspiracy theory to the JFK assassination, tridentine liturgical trends at the Vatican, the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa, general Freemasonic wackiness, and the fools at Juggs Magazine who never deliver DF’s issues on goddam time. “Nope,” the LA rep explains, “KPT skated solo because of a major penalty on LADD in the previous jam.” Holy smokes, they got to this guy too! “How much did it cost to pay you off, pal?” DF demands. Then another LADD official pipes in, “Yeah, that was pretty much it—major penalty means the opposing team gets a power jam. No conspiracy, sorry.”
All right, so maybe everyone followed the rules. Maybe everyone agrees that SDDD earned their 109-91 victory fair and square. Maybe everyone agrees that LADD fought hard in valiant defeat. But DF won’t let his conspiracy theory go. Why? Because if nothing nefarious is afoot, I don’t have a goddamn story line, that’s why. Ah, what the hell—when all else fails, make a big, ridiculous scene, so here goes. DF races out of the Factory into the rain. He’s overcome by the crime and the degradation of this dark city (and, to be honest, also by the need for a big finish). “Nooooooooooooooooooooo,” he bellows, as befuddled onlookers gawk, confused as DF about the reason for his consternation. Conveniently, a stereotype sidekick emerges from the fog and escorts a downtrodden, destitute, and drunk DF from the Doll Factory. “Forget it, DF,” the sidekick simpers, “it’s Historic Filipinotown.”
Send any corrections or encomiums, errata or erotic love notes to DF at losanjealous dot com. Can’t get enough of that smooth DF flava? Then partake constantly of DF’s fractured stream of consciousness via Twitter. You can also befriend DF at myspace, to whatever extent myspace still exists.
Photos and credits:
1. Derby in the gloaming: LA weather conspires to create appropriate mood for DF’s writeup
2. Laguna and Kiki cast long shadows at the line
3. Blood Clottia (LA/Rose City Rollers), Lace N’ Arsenic (LA), and Jawbreaker (SD/Minnesota Rollergirls) hit the deck at high speed
4. Lulu Lockjaw escapes the pack with Trish the Dish hot on her trail (and apparently kinda pissed)
5. Dolls & friends celebrate
Photos 1, 3, and 5 by Stalkerazzi; photos 2 and 4 by Mia More/LADD.
All photos (C) 2010 by their respective authors. Do not use without permission.