Absolutely Fabulous! : Night life: To those in the know, they’re Club Kids, distinguished from other regulars by their dress, their dedication and the celebrity status of their alter egos.

Flanked by a giant in a crochet tube dress and a petite pinup in leopard, Rockie Raccoon flashes a knowing glance to the club crowd. Tonight, Rockie’s fashion statement flirts with the “Like a Virgin” look: pounds of pearl strands of varying lengths and piles of pure white tulle. He reveals his thigh-high, black vinyl boots with each step.

Most patrons at Metropolis in Irvine are obviously astounded--much to the delight of Rockie and Co. The clued-in know them as Club Kids, distinguished from other regulars by their outlandish dress, their devotion to night life and the celebrity status they’ve cultivated around their alter egos.

Though the night draws some of the trendier locals, their metallic shifts and dyed hair pale in comparison with the Club Kids. About 15 of them have assembled tonight, some traveling two hours in support of their friends in Dimension 23, a Costa Mesa techno duo.

So many of them in one place is undeniably a record for Orange County.

Thrilled at seeing Rockie are four skinny young men in full ‘70s glam rock regalia--satin jeans, boas and Ziggy Stardust makeup. All, however, are too young to have lived through the original wave. One has glued steel-wool pads to his bald head and stretched them out to look like ringlets.

The four are a little disoriented, having lost their way in Irvine after the hour drive from Watts. But this is fitting, because their destination is Lost City, the Thursday night, 18-and-over house and techno fest at Metropolis.

If only there were better landmarks in this practical ‘burb.

“Don’t worry,” Rockie tells them, “even the natives can’t find their way around here.”

At 24, Rockie (Raccoon) Martinez of Santa Ana is an 11-year veteran of night life. It shows in his command of the room.

Club Kids consider themselves integral to the club scene, as essential to a nightclub’s success as a good deejay. Beej Ryan, a longtime deejay and promoter in Los Angeles and Orange County and the co-founder of the wildly successful Disco 2000 on Thursdays at the Empire Ballroom in Costa Mesa, says he always extends VIP status to Club Kids.

“They’ve always been mucho important to the underground, to setting the clothing styles and the ambience,” he says. “Without Club Kids, clubs would be nothing. It’s a good omen when they show up. You know you’re doing something right.”

Their pageantry is part Mardi Gras, their masquerades part Halloween. Each outfit is a grander production than the last, or, at the very least, something completely different. Feathers are glued on eyelids, hairpieces carefully attached, fantasy makeup deftly painted. Days are spent stitching elaborate costumes.

As the Purple Princess (Jamie Kausch of San Juan Capistrano) says, “You can’t be a Club Kid and not know how to sew.” It’s no surprise that the 19-year-old and many other Club Kids are fashion students.

Like Kausch, all have monikers to further immortalize them in club lore. Younger players such as Ernie Omega (Ernie Magana) and Atom Bomb (Julio Naranjo) expect to someday be as widely recognized and revered as Richie Rich from New York or the Wonder Twins from Los Angeles, who have made careers out of being the best.

Promoters hire them for atmosphere work, to show up and galvanize the crowd with their presence or to host the party. Their payment covers some or all costs incurred for transportation, meals and lodging. In return, hired Club Kids can forgo long lines and the cover charge and get an unlimited guest list and free drink tickets. Rockie has seen San Francisco, Denver, New York City, Chicago and Salt Lake City this way, and this summer he will join the Wonder Twins in Ibiza, Spain, with most expenses covered by Spanish promoters.

“Club Kids,” notes Rockie, “are the self-made celebutantes. They’re the stars of the scene. They can be straight, gay, male, female, anything. But they have to have it . Anyone can put on a freaky frock. But if they can’t work it--that is, make the people believe it--they’re out.”

Unlike conventional celebrities, most Club Kids attach themselves to photographers and reporters with a savvy coerciveness that makes them their own publicists from hell. All efforts in image and identity are geared to generate more attention, more mentions in magazines, more appearance requests and more frequent-flier miles.

New York City nightclubs hold massive competitions to name the It Girl of the year. Once awarded, he or she receives a salary, an apartment, free clothes and the title of being the Most Fabulous Girl in the World. Rockie holds the West Coast titles of Girl of the Minute 1992 (L.A.’s first, he notes) and Queen of the 1994 Style Summit, a convention-style event held annually that draws promoters, deejays, Club Kids and club crawlers from all over.

So why the she title for a he ? Gender-bending is part of the scene. At the Summit in San Diego last year, Glitter Girl (Andrea Sykie, twentysomething, of Costa Mesa), was crowned princess. And the self-proclaimed Purple Princess says she never considered taking the top title. “I can’t be a queen,” she quips. “Only boys can.”

Though Rockie, the Wonder Twins and several others may dress in full drag, they deny they’re drag queens. “I’m not trying to live my life as a woman,” insists Rockie. “It’s all theater, the same way if someone was doing Kabuki.”

There are few female Club Kids, says Glitter Girl, a seven-year clubby. “A lot of females are afraid of being labeled drag queens. I get asked whether I’m male or female all the time.” Her teasing response? “Why don’t you figure it out?”

“The truth is, a lot of these guys aren’t drag queens,” she says.

Predictably, Club Kids have become TV talk show fodder, paraded in full, fantastic garb before a national audience hungry for anything weird. But show hosts never get it right, lumping them in with gangbangers and Deadheads while trying to uncover some seedy secret life filled with drugs and sex.

The reality, however, is Club Kids have a relatively normal life. The ones who don’t support themselves as Club Kids (only an elite minority can) hold regular jobs or go to school. With demanding going-out schedules that run Wednesday through Sunday until dawn, most are conscientious about healthful eating and getting enough sleep.

Heroin, speed and ecstasy are easily available and popular in the scene--but Club Kids say they are increasingly turning away from drugs. Some among the younger generation are avoiding alcohol and caffeine too.

As Rockie puts it: “Why would you want to spend all that time making yourself look fabulous, only to end up passed out on the floor?”

Los Angeles is the regional capital for night life, but as several Club Kids like to say, “it’s a nice place to party, but who would want to live there?” For them, it’s back to the tranquil, neat suburbs. “(Orange County) is just part of the metropolis that is Greater L.A.,” says Rockie, who’s moved between Hollywood and Santa Ana several times over the years.

Eddie Demon (Eddie DeBarr) recalls life growing up in Orange as incredibly healthy and average. Becoming a Club Kid a decade ago afforded the Rancho Santiago College fashion student a positive and highly creative outlet, he says. “It’s a nice shake from the normal. It helps me stay even.”

Living in Los Angeles is too crazy, continues the 26-year-old from Huntington Beach. “I play there and everywhere. But this is home base, where I can return and get away from it all. I work hard on my career, and if I was in L.A., I’d never get anything done.”

Orange County is considered short on “real” clubs.

Lost City at Metropolis and Disco 2000 at the Empire Ballroom are the current contenders for Club Kids’ attention. Glitter Girl has a regular gig as a go-go dancer at Disco 2000, a few miles from her home.

On the blood-rare occasion the L.A. Club Kids trek across the county line, it has to be for a good reason, such as the Dimension 23 gig at Metropolis. Atom Bomb (18-year-old Naranjo from Watts), says, “The building was marvelous,” but it wasn’t much of a scene. “Just a lot of college-type people. One guy on the floor was throwing out insults at us. So Ernie Omega had to give him the Vulcan neck hold. It worked!”

“We’d come down if another band we liked played,” he adds. “But in L.A., we feel more at home.”

“It is very conservative here, and in L.A. it’s easier for a club that’s not completely mainstream to succeed,” says Dina Dominguez, a 19-year-old from Anaheim and a contributor to Clublife Magazine.

As Dinalicious, she has overcome her reluctance to extroversion through signature winged costumes: a fairy, an angel, a butterfly. “When I dress really big, people approach me more, and it breaks some of the ice. I do it because it comes naturally. I’d feel strange showing up in jeans and a tee.”

Tramping around in 12-inch platform boots can also give a gal, or guy, a sense of empowerment. A pair of shoes stacked five to 15 inches high is required gear. After Dimension 23 finished its set, the Club Kids marauded the stage, giving everyone a better view of their stacked shoes and their enviable skill in maneuvering in them.

The shoes can cost about $100, plus another $100 to $150 for the stacks--if you can find a shoe repair shop that will do it. Most refuse, fearing responsibility if there’s an accident. Shoes or boots are then personalized with faux fur, battery-operated lights, plastic gems or glitter.

At Lost City, Alex77 dominates a go-go platform in his buttery smooth six-inch platform boots. His black chopped hair is pinned back with several silver barrettes matching his silver wrap sunglasses. His Adidas sweats are cut off at the knee, exposing striped athletic socks. Tonight, there’s no fabulous dress, no wild makeup.

“Thursdays is a kick-back night,” says the 21-year-old from San Juan Capistrano. By day he is Alex Lopez, clothing store salesman and international business student at Cal State Fullerton. He shows up regularly at Lost City out of support and admiration for DJ Doc Martin.

“People in O.C. are sort of freshman (to club culture). You can’t hit them hard, or (the costuming) will scare them away.”

Besides, he adds, Lost City shuts down at 3 a.m., and it’s not worth all the effort to dress in full finery for such an early evening. Alex77 hits Los Angeles Wednesday and Friday through Sunday, and he never leaves the house before 1 a.m.

“We don’t even think of the drive home,” he says. “When the club thing is over, I like to change mood and scenery. It actually feels nice to come home to Orange County, see the green, the ocean and relax.”