By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
I had to leave the Christacular early to head to Estudio Zumbido in Santa Ana's Santiago Street studios. I'd been prevailed upon to supermodel a Skeith DeWine creation-un sac de pommes de terre in natural fibers in shades of oatmeal and cinnamon-at Zumbido's annual Christmas party. Unfortunately, working conditions were sub-par, and the models were forced to strike, refusing to come out on the catwalk. We chanted, "Models of the world, unite!" and, "Scab!" at the unfortunate fellow who was about to break ranks.
With nothing to do but shoot heroin between our toes, talks resumed-although Zumbido break-dancing czar Seth Wilder wasn't helping matters with his baleful threats-and a boombox was found. With the models' demands therefore met, the show continued. The standout creation was worn by Chuck: a leather G-string/penis pouch, fur kneepads, and a mattress upon his back on which rode Leslie while Chuck pulled himself along on his hands. It was too fabulous, darlings.
But nothing is more fabulous than an empty club and a dance floor all to yourself-on a Friday, even!-while ultratalented Next Big Things like The Violet Burning and Johnny Jones and the Suffering Halos play moody, Church-y, U2-y love poems. It was a travesty that the Foothill wasn't home to 1,000 screaming fans, but all the better for us. And for those of you who left after the very good Violet Burning: idiots! Johnny Jones' romantic noodlings were haunting and sexy as hell. (Jones also played the Preacher, replete with Gene Simmons-style makeup and flickering tongue, in Safe House's Harold & Maude. Do you understand now the kind of geniuses who call Long Beach home?)
Merry Christmas, my friends, and happy new year. Now go do something fun, for God's sake!