But the real stars that night were Wiskey Biscuit, seven guys (as my homegirl Arrissia Owen pointed out) who didn't even look like they should know one another, let alone be in the same band. Their country-flavored rock, spouted by a frail-looking guy who was either too shy or too loaded to look at the audience, was very Some Girls-era Rolling Stones, but not in a derivative way. Plus, they had a guy whose job was just to play bells, and he witched it up with a gourd for a song; gourd players are neat!
So I'm at beautiful, hip artist couple Jeff Gillette and Laurie Hassold's pad for Halloween, and some artist guy is dressed in his dad's old clothes-the tackiest ones he could find, he said-playing "art critic." Did I fight him or get sad and weepy, like my best friend, Greg the Fireman, when he drinks Jack Daniels? (Greg was a darling Marlboro Man, by the way, hooked up to his oxygen tank and all.) No, I'm just biding my time until he has a show. And I can wait forever, heh, heh, heh. After some terrific turkey kielbasa, we headed over to Gallery Paradiso, where big fluorescent-colored plywood polka dots hung from the ceiling, making a big scary obstacle course for my uncoordinated, roller-skating self. (It's okay, I told Commie Mom: Roller Girl is only a fictional porn star.) Some of my very favorite people were there among the hundreds, including Man in Black Ed Giardina and his lovely wife, Denise, as well as Blanca Apodaca, the prettiest little wood nymph you'll ever see, even though I thought she was a snowflake. I can't always be right.