Confessions of a Transylvanian

Prologue

January 8, 1982

Deerfield Beach, Florida

T
he first time I ever spoke to Donny, I lied to him. And all he did was ask my name.

Minutes after the Rocky show comes down and
I’
m standing in front of him practically kicking dirt clods, staring at the floor and sweating, I was so nervous. I had no idea what the
y’
d want me to do before letting me join up. Was there a waiting list? Did I have to go through some kind of initiation? An elaborate, painful hazing ceremony that would leave me smarting in my hidey-hole? Who knew?

All I wanted was in. Whatever this was—this trippy, freaky, fucked-up thrill show
I’
d just witnessed for the past two hours—this was for me.

Yeah, it was weird. Absolutely. Way weirder than I thought it would be, even. But not granny-in-her-bra weird. It was 16-year-old-girls-in-fishnet-stockings weird, so hey, sign me up. If they wanted me to spit-shine shoes for a few months in order to get in the club, bring it. I got a rag. Le
t’
s go.

By the way, I was doing this—this signing up thing—without prior approval. The Mom had
n’
t yet given me a thumbs-up on this plan and I was taking a pretty big leap of faith that she would be cool with it. But, deep down? I was
n’
t too worried. Basically, it amounted to an irresistible trade-off: If she gave me permission to join the cast, I would guarantee that she would know
exactly
where I would be every Friday and Saturday night. What parent of a 16-year-old boy does
n’
t want that? Besides, she was
n’
t the “say no” type. I knew a few of them. Bitch moms. I did
n’
t have one. Thank God.

So there I was, ready to set pen to paper and enlist. All I needed to know was: Wher
e’
s the recruiting officer?

When the show came down and the lights bumped up, I felt a surge of panic. It was urgent that I find this person
now
. Before they left the theater for the night and my chance was blown. Working against the flow of traffic, I elbowed my way to the front of the theater and approached a girl from the cast as she was packing up her gear. She was one of the minion-looking types in the dark jackets.

“Hey, listen, what do you have to do to join the cast?”

She glanced up at me disinterestedly. “Talk to Donny,” she said and went back to stuffing sequined costume pieces into a bag. Upon closer inspection, this girl was practically spilling out of her top. How could she even stand up straight?

Focus. Pay attention. She gave you a name. “Okay, Donny.” I looked around. “Wh
o’
s he?”

She jerked a thumb at a guy toward the front, murmured, “Tha
t’
s him. Ca
n’
t miss him,” and strolled away, swaying on her heels.

I turned and there he was. The biggest, meanest looking badass
I’
d ever laid eyes on. Two-seventy if he was a pound, and brother, was he a pound. Six-three and
huge
. Hair that practically shot out of his head. Arms like anacondas. Leather biker jacket, combat boots and a wallet strung on a chain that latched to his belt.

But the headline was
size
. This guy was gigantic in every conceivable way. Big like the U.S.S.R. was big.
Jupiter
big, get the picture?

I almost bailed out right there. Who needed this? I was not much inclined to make the acquaintance of a guy who looked like he could pop my head like a zit if I ticked him off.

But as I thought about retreating, I took another look around at the cast members as they swirled around me in a happy flurry of post-show activity. They were finished for the night, packing up and heading home but, even though the movie was over and the lights bumped up full, they had
n’
t lost their energy. They were still connected—talking, laughing, carrying props and costume pieces out the door.

They had purpose. Each of them seemed to know that they were a part of something that was bigger than they were and, clearly, they looked forward to the weekend for reasons that had little to do with simply sleeping until noon. Seeing the contented looks on their faces was all it took to straighten my spine. Whatever I had just seen, whatever this
thing
was, it seemed absolutely necessary that I become a part of it. In a way, I already was. The Rocky heroin had entered my bloodstream and I was hooked. I just needed to figure out how to get my weekly fix.

This, unfortunately, involved going through a gatekeeper who looked like a mountain crammed into a pair of denim trousers. And not a friendly mountain, either. More like the windswept, snow-capped K2 of human beings.

Gritting my teeth, I approached Mount Donny with what I hoped was a confident spring in my step. He was dealing with someone else as I walked up, so I had to wait to catch his eye. I had nothing but time. Finally, he seemed to notice me loitering and turned his bulk to face me.

Now, at this point, I wish I could say that there was this…I do
n’
t know...electric charge when he first laid eyes on me. You know, one of those “Where have you been all my life?” moments, like h
e’
d been
waiting
for me to show up. Hoping for my arrival. I could have been the Rocky messiah for all I knew. The Chosen One.

Turns out, not so much.

“You here to join up?” he said. Kinda bored, really.

I nodded. Speaking was
n’
t required yet, apparently. Which was good.

“Wha
t’
s your name?”

I paused. And no, not because I temporarily forgot my name in all my flustered nervousness. This was
n’
t a sitcom, for fuc
k’
s sake. I knew my name. I just did
n’
t want to
say
it.

Her
e’
s the thing: I had always wanted a cool name. A funky, kickass name. The kind of name that girls scream while the
y’
re clawing at your back. Like that.

My name, sadly, was anything but cool.

Kevin
. Jesus. Could you get any more Irish Catholic dork than “Kevin”? I sure as hell did
n’
t think so. Girls do
n’
t scream “Kevin” unless you spill something hot on their laps. Kevins did
n’
t get their backs clawed. Ever. I was
n’
t about to hang that moniker around my neck.

So what did I do? I lied.

“Jack,” I said. “
I’
m Jack.” And immediately thought: Oooooh. Good choice.

Jack, see, tha
t’
s a
name
. Jack commands respect, awe and admiration. The backs of guys named Jack are a goddamn mess, all the clawing.

Jack is also a no-nonsense, rebellion-is-my-business type of name. An “I had a bowl of anarchy for breakfast. What did
you
eat?” name. It says, “Listen up:
I’
m not
John
. John is what my
parents
named me, see? The real name is
Jack
. Do
n’
t forget it.”

Donny? He did
n’
t blink. He probably knew plenty of Jacks.

“Okay,” he said, and then mechanically recited: “You start off as a Transylvanian. You know who they are, right? The Time Warpers?”

I nodded dumbly.

“Great. Her
e’
s the drill: black jacket, white shirt, black pants. Be here at 11 next Friday. And bring five bucks. See you then.” He had barely looked at me and already he was done. Walking away.

I was jolted by his response. I had been expecting...something. Some resistance. At least a sense that joining up was an honor. A thing to be earned. Was he saying that just
anyone
could hop on board? I had to stop him.

“Wait,” I called out. “You mean...just
show up
? Tha
t’
s it?”

Now he looked a little annoyed. “Yeah. Black jacket and pants, white shirt. Bring five bucks. W
e’
ll walk you through it. See you then.” And he was gone.

Like he never expected to see me again. Like h
e’
d forgotten me the second he turned his back. Like h
e’
d been through this a thousand times before and seen idiots like me promise to show up the next weekend and then...
pffft
...disappear forever.

Which was, the more I thought about it, probably, entirely, completely true.

But still. The event had seemed so...unimportant. I mean, I did
n’
t necessarily want a fanfare or for someone to roll out a red freaki
n’
carpet but...some kind of “Welcome aboard” would have been nice.

No such luck.
I’
d come for information,
I’
d gotten it and now I was being shown the door.

So, for now, there was nothing left to do but...go shopping.

Black pants. Black jacket. White shirt.

See you on Friday, Donny. You wo
n’
t forget me after that. Know why? Tha
t’
s right:

I’
m
Jack
, motherfucker.
I’
m the guy you do
n’
t forget.

1

The Late Night, Double-Feature Picture Show

B
efore we go any further, le
t’
s assume for the moment that if yo
u’
re reading this book, you have already seen “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” once if not several times. I mean, I do
n’
t want to leap to any huge conclusions or anything, but tha
t’
s a pretty safe bet, I figure.

Wha
t’
s more, if you
have
n’
t
seen it, do me a favor: Close the book right now, go see the movie, then come back and start reading. And no, I do
not
mean rent the fucking DVD.
I’
m saying get out of the house one Friday or Saturday at midnight and see the movie in a
theater
, the way God meant for you to see it. With a cast, the flying props, the callbacks—the works.

Why? Because on DVD (and this is just between you and me) Rocky Horror is one
unwatchable
movie. Truly, it is a real test of endurance.

Not that the acting is terrible. It really is
n’
t. Hell, a Tony Award-winning actor and an Academy Award-winning actress are two of the leads, so how bad could it be?

And i
t’
s not that the music is
n’
t worth the price of admission either. It is. The music is fantastic, actually. In fact, the soundtrack is arguably the best thing about the movie.

But yeesh, the
plot
? Gimme a break. All hail to Richard
O’
Brien and all that, but holy God...I would
n’
t write the Clif
f'
s Notes for this flick for all the tea in the busiest tea market in Tealand on “Drink Your Tea Day.”

And you know what?
I’
d be willing to bet that almost
nobody
, if they can avoid it, watches this entire movie from beginning to end on DVD. At least, I ca
n’
t imagine why anyone would.

Sit down and listen to the whole soundtrack? Absolutely.
I’
ve done it myself more times than can be calculated by NASA engineers. Ther
e’
s at least some enjoyment to be derived from
that
experience. And, of course, you might do well to study the DVD to try to get one of the parts down
if
yo
u’
re preparing to appear in the live show. I could see that, too.

But to sit and watch the whole movie alone in your apartment to perhaps enjoy the cinematic nuances of the film? No way, Spanish Joe. Makes no sense to me at all. And
I’
ve seen the damn thing over 300 times in theaters, so I know what
I’
m denigrating here, okay?

I
t’
s no wonder that when the movie was released to unsuspecting audiences back in 1975, there was basically a collective “Huh?” from the movie-going public. And it was a well-deserved “Huh?” The film is ridiculously off the wall and not merely in a John Waters kind of way (though i
t’
s ridiculous in that way, too). Hell, ther
e’
s stuff in it that I
still
do
n’
t get and this movie is in my freaki
n’
DNA.

So, if you have
n’
t seen it and want to experience the whole Rocky experience, do yourself a favor and see it
live
and with a big cast acting it out in front of the screen. Should
n’
t be hard to find. The midnight show is still running in most American cities even after thirty-five years. Freaky, huh?

At this point,
I’
m going to presume yo
u’
re wondering: How did it all begin? How did the whole Rocky phenomenon start?

Well, her
e’
s the truth:

I do
n’
t really know.

Oh, I suppose that if I were so inclined, I could research it for you and give you a breakdown of the whole Rocky Horror history. I could study up, delve into all the historical facts and figgers about the Waverly Theatre and Sal and Dori and the rest and write you a little book report so you could know everything there is to know about How It All Began. Sure I could.

But, see, ther
e’
s just two things: (1) Given its mysterious provenance, my version of the facts (even if I really stuck to the straight dope to the best of my ability) would, more likely than not, be totally and completely inaccurate; and, (2) this is
n’
t a goddamn Rocky history book anyway. If you want to know the complete and total backstory of “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” phenomenon and how the live-show-in-front-of-the-screen thing all started, my advice would be to go to Wikipedia (or Rockypedia for that matter) and geek the fuck out.
I’
m not going to spell it all out for you here.

Instead, this is the story of how the downtrodden Hollywood, Florida, Rocky Horror castoffs became the one and only, high and mighty, Best Fucking Cast Ever inhabitants of the legendary Deerfield Ultravision movie theater in the Year of Our Lord 1982.

I
t’
s a tale of how this cast started from absolutely nothing and rose to...well, not
national
prominence (I do
n’
t want to oversell it), but
regional
prominence anyway.

I
t’
s a chronicle of how a disparate, unconnected band of weirdos, losers, sexy chicks, fat broads, geeks, faggots, dopers, freaks, criminals, complete dorks and goddesses (the underage
and
the legal kinds) were drawn together in the winter of
‘
82 and somehow managed to create something so cool, it would freeze your balls off just to look at it.

So, pull up a chair. Here we go:

I first heard about the Rocky show in about 1979. My Uncle Mike owned the soundtrack album and, due perhaps to my younger brothe
r’
s and my unmistakable maturity, he deemed us—then 12 and 14, respectively—old enough to share in the freakishness that was “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” Well, old enough to listen to the
music from
the Rocky show, anyway.

Uncle Mike, by the way, was not one of those weirdo, creepy, middle-aged-but-still-thinks-h
e’
s-a-teenager kind of uncles. In fact, Mike is only six years older than me, so that would put him at around 20 years old at the time. Still practically a kid himself.

But to be clear, he
was
a geek. Even at 14 (or maybe especially at 14) I could see that. He was a big science nerd, straight as an arrow, drug-free and proud of it. A total Poindexter.

David and I? We thought he was the bee
s’
fucki
n’
knees.

H
e’
d hang with us all the time and show us a bunch of shit the other grown-ups would
n’
t let us get near (though rarely anything truly dangerous or, sadly, explosive). H
e’
d perform science experiments that would amaze and confound our tiny minds. H
e’
d take us on long nature hikes and magically prove to us that being surrounded by the great outdoors did
n’
t have to mean being bored senseless. And, every once in a while, he would open our eyes to some kind of cultural phenomenon of which we had been tragically unaware.

Good example: One summer, Mike turned David and me on to Pink Floy
d’
s “Dark Side of the Moon.”

“Big deal,” you might be thinking, right? Wrong. Because if you
really
want to properly appreciate “Dark Side of the Moon,” there is truly only one way to do it:

First, your Uncle Mike must have a flawless, skip-free copy of the album in its original vinyl format.

Next, he must have a state-of-the-art sound system, including a perfectly balanced mixing board and a turntable that comes with a needle so sensitive that it can hear you
breathing
in the next room.

The final component is the most important, and without it your experience will be inadequate at best. You must have a pair of noise-canceling headphones that wrap around your ears like a giant, Pink Floyd-loving burrito. This. Is. Crucial.

Once all of these pieces are in place, you are ready to begin your introduction to “Dark Side.” Her
e’
s how it goes down:

Your uncle will carefully place the cans over your ears (the volume having been pre-set and the levels balanced accordingly). He will then ease the needle onto the album, dim the lights and, presumably, go have lunch or something with your brother while you close your eyes and experience what can only be described as a sensory smorgasbord.

The notes slowly drift into your cerebrum. The album becomes a part of your circulatory system. Your pulse matches each tempo, changing from song to song. Yo
u’
re
breathing
sound. The world slowly dissolves away until the line between you and the music becomes blurred beyond recognition.

And, brother, when those bells go off at the beginning of “Time,” good luck not jumping three feet in the air and soiling yourself. Fair warning.

My Uncle Mike, for this and for many other reasons, was the older brother I never had. To my little brother, Uncle Mike was the older brother he wished
I
had been. (I was a dick to David back in those days. Gotta cop to that.)

Mike was giving us a leg-up on adolescence and he was doing it at a time when my brother and I were basically functioning as human sponges, soaking up whatever was placed in our way. And among the things Uncle Mike placed in
my
way was a little thing called “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

In doing so, whether he meant to do it or not, he changed my life.

Part of what made our relationship with our uncle so filled with indefinable awesomeness was the fact that my brother and I only saw him during the summer months and at Christmas and therefore never had an opportunity to grow bored with his company. (Teenage boys have the attention spans of kindergarteners on nitrous oxide.)

At the time, David and I were living in Florida with our mother. Uncle Mike—our fathe
r’
s youngest brother—lived with our grandmother in Colorado.

My Dad and Mom divorced when I was still a little, little kid. My brother, just a year and a half younger than me, was just a baby when they split. Accordingly, neither of us have any recollection of our folks ever having been together.

After they went their separate ways, the arrangement our parents settled on regarding visitation was that David and I would spend the school year with our Mom in Florida and then, during academic breaks, w
e’
d go wherever our Dad happened to be.

However, if our Dad was traveling for work (a common occurrence), we did
n’
t stay in Florida and cramp our mothe
r’
s style. We would instead be shipped off to the Rockies to spend whatever time we had at my grandmothe
r’
s place in Colorado.

Consequently, this meant a lot of vacations and holidays with Uncle Mike. And that, of course, was just hunky-dory with us.