Will the Real Bad Asses Please Stand?

I went to a real live roller derby last night for the first time ever with spouse, brother, and sister-in-law. I was prepared to find some kind of outlaw rigged warehouse scenario surrounded by Harley Davidsons and oil barrel firepits, even though I knew my pre-purchased tickets were awaiting me at will-call at the Salt Palace. We parked in the new underground parking, an asceptic-appearing maze of garages, and although I've never seen the movie "Saw," I had the eerie sensation as we ascended a narrowing, still-under-construction staircase to the street that we were being funneled into a psychopath's lab where we'd be required to undergo seriously demented trials if we were to see the sun rise again. Instead we were spit out facing entirely the wrong direction. With four of us, though, we were able to orient and hike back toward the event building, the palacial Salt Palace. We walked through the front doors, past a grand ballroom. Roller derby in a carpeted ballroom? Nah. We headed down a long ramp past the gun and hunting expo and display after display of taxidermists' quarry. At long length we found a simple sign that said "Roller Derby" with an arrow pointing us back from whence we had come. Completing the loop, we followed a series of signs around several corners, spiraling down to the cement floored basement. No elevated, slanted derby track ala "Whip It," but a duct taped oval with folks camped out around the perimeters on plaid picnic blankets. We took our seats in the convention center chairs and settled in to figure out how in the hell roller derby is played (and why). The why was easy. It's campy, fun, and an outlet for repressed female aggression. Turns out the rules aren't that complicated either. It wasn't long before I was cheering on Honey Delunatic, Alley Kitten and the other rollers for the Black Diamond Divas.

But with a 20-minute intermission while the Jr. League took the track I had time to survey the crowd. Exactly what kind of people frequent Utah Roller Derby? Not all stereotypes applied. A few tats, sure. Nose rings? One or two, but also beauty shop quaffed post-middle agers with grandchildren, young kids with their parents, a handful of overweight teens. In short, the kind of crowd you'd see at a state fair or small town city parade. Where were the punks? Where were the bad asses? This brings me to my point, it's not easy to spot a true bad ass these days.

I'll admit I've never been good at spotting them. In Jr. High I'd been warned about reading The Catcher in the Rye, and so of course I read it. I was prepared to be shocked by evil but instead found a character so human and, I realized, not so unlike me: confused, beginning to see behind the curtain of adult competency. These sorts of surprises have come up again and again. A favored example is scrappy barfly Charles Bukowsky harboring that bluebird fugitive in his heart, letting it out to sing once in awhile when no one else will hear.  I suspect Skatey Gaga and Nico Noir would be less frightening face to face than Senator Orrin Hatch or, say, Glenn Beck. But I could be wrong about these guys, too.  Perhaps.

Tweet, tweet.