By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
I would like to take the opportunity to thank the Right Reverend Richard, who e-mailed me a nice long letter this week, intimating, among other things, that I am a "slutty, self-absorbed, vacuous cupcake bouncing from club to club in the eternal quest for the beautiful people, or just a place with a lot of mirrors so [I] can look at [myself]," and suggesting I take some tips from Monica Lewinsky if I want to get ahead, seeing as how I'm certainly not going to get there with my "scatological masterpiece of weekly masturbating in front of a mirror."
The letter was very well-written, though, with a terrific analogy about me sniveling like a jailhouse punk surrounded by felons with their cocks in their hands-and he also said that since the publishing world is completely retarded, I'll no doubt be writing for national rags like Spin and Rolling Stone soon! And he hipped me to a code I hadn't understood last week when confronted by the short, fat man at the Boom Boom Room. It seems when he asked if I wanted "hype" or "depth," he was asking me if I liked anal sex!
I just love learning new things. Thanks, Dick!
And no thanks, scary little man!
Before we stray too far off the subject, how 'bout that Monica Lewinsky? I only caught the second half of her slutty, self-absorbed vacuous cupcake routine with Barbara Walters on Wednesday, seeing as how I was being wined and dined by some beautiful people in a blatant attempt to bribe me into writing about them (I'm very susceptible to bribes; see next paragraph). And the thing I love about that woman, Ms. Lewinsky, is how very deluded she allows herself to be. She's just like Donna Summerin the brilliantly deluded "On the Radio," wherein the crackpot thinks the love song on the radio must have fallen out of the pocket of the twerp who left her! Yes, Monica still thinks what she and icky Bill Clinton had was a "relationship." Poor dear.
On Saturday night, we traveled to La Mirada-a border town next to the equally happening La Habra-to check out our new friends 21st Century Pirates at a sweet little neighborhood bar called Last Call. They were metalicious, serving up equal parts Joan Jett covers and songs by the late, great Falco. The Pirates also did originals, like "Grunge Rock Girl," which is in no way reminiscent of The Dead Milkmen's "Punk Rock Girl" but is equally rollicking.
I was busy saying yes to the universe because cosmic gifts had been coming my way all weekend-and thank you, I've already had my share of "You're saying 'yes' to the universe? Wanna make love in front of a roaring fire?" quips. (Oddly, every time I answered with, "Why, yes!" they thought I was joking.)
But one of the greater cosmic gifts I received had to be the Pirates and Last Call, wherein drunk bikers cheerily played pool, cigarette smoking is legal, and the fog machine had that nifty fog-machine smell that should be bottled for car air-fresheners.
On Friday, we sought out the La Vida Roadhouse, an excellent honky-tonk in Brea's Carbon Canyon, for Smear and the Creepdowns. The Creepdowns were good but far too loud; we spent most of their set reading in the car (they sounded great from there). And their singer-though he wore a cowboy hat-lost sexy points by singing in a voice as high-pitched as the guy from the Violent Femmes. By the time Smear came on to do their '80s cover-band thing (although we think the song about Dracula was an original), there were enough bodies to absorb the sound-and what bodies they were! But we were wondering: Which nearby college has sororities? Because as we watched delightedly, a gaggle of cute little blond girls took to the dance floor, a-shakin' and a-bouncin' and sexyin' it up-and a rhythmlesser bunch we never did see!
At least until Monday, when we hopped down to the Rhino Room for Deviation, a new night by Jaime MuŮoz and the Busby Boys. As we watched agog from the VIP loft-ha, ha!-a couple of smack-skinny haggard blondes did their damnedest to keep up with the quadruple-time jungle/house by DJ Daniel. Snicker though we did, we really couldn't blame the girls: Who the hell can dance to music that fast? I mean, aside from the five people who were.
The funnest thing about a VIP loft is how people go up there even though there are no crowds from which to escape, nobody working behind the private bar, and nobody important to schmooze. Just the fact that other people aren't allowed makes the dullest place a destination. We did, however, see an under-the-table trade.
The boys? Everyone looked like Dan Cortese but short. They had terrific jackets.
The girls? You had your mix of club kids in kitty ears (who really could dance!) and poor men's Lita Fords who need to remember: when you're doing your roots, just do your roots. Burned hair is a tragedy for girls who make their living on their slums-of-Newport look.