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
Photo by Keith MayFun with eavesdropping, circa Sunday's Front End Custom Car Show. The scene: Front End's benefit for Kids 2000. There is asphalt. There are cars. There is fresh fruit. There is a cool mix of people, including lowrider guys, a bunch of greasers, and Laguna Beach painter Jorg Dubin. Sadly, there is no El Centro. There is, however, DJ Danny Love. And Creepy Nice Guy are there: they're nice; they're creepy—what more could you ask?
The players: Dream Guy With Wifebeater and Greased Hair(DGWWAGH) and Thin-lipped Mad Girl in Pedal Pushers (TMGIPP). We wonder whether this might be an acting-class assignment ("Okay, guys. You need to make a public scene with your partner. Maybe you're on a bus, and you tell him you're pregnant. And people? I want documentation!"), but they are off to the side, and they are kind of whispering through clenched teeth. You have no idea how hard it is to eavesdrop under these conditions. But we do it for you, people! (Warning: some people will think the following passage is sad and not real funny and that we're a horrible schadenfreude type of person. Nonetheless, it's True Life, and not everything's funny and happy all the time. But we'll tell you this: after our first few moments of shocked embarrassment, we got downright chipper and felt like pointing a big sign at the modern-day Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor (in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?) that read, "Look, everybody! Not me!" Sometimes you just have to take joy in the fact that you're not always the crazy one.)DGWWAGH [real ironic and mean-like]: Baby, why don't you shut your stupid, ugly mouth, you fat piece of shit? TMGIPP: Why don't you shut up, you stupid, ugly, fucking faggot? Why don't you stop being a fucking homo? Gonna go fuck your faggot friends up the ass? Huh, you fucking fag? Big man! Big man! You're a fucking joke. You're a sick fucking joke. Why don't you go call your bitch drug-addict ex-girlfriend? That's a good idea, huh, you fucking loser? Why don't you go do some fucking crystal with your loser girlfriend? Huh? DGWWAGH: You think that's cute? TMGIPP: Yeah, I think it's real cute. No, I think you're cute. Take me home. I want to go home. DGWWAGH: I think you're finding your own ride home. How do you like that? That's what I think. TMGIPP:How come you can get out of bed to go to a car show but you're too fucking hung over to go to work, you fucking drug addict? Can't get out of fucking bed. Finis
There are days even we don't want to get out of bed and go to "work." When that happens, we either (a) don't get out of bed and go to work or (b) find a drag club with 7-foot-tall gay men who can't restrain themselves from petting us as if we were a cute li'l gay schnauzer when we walk by, and we do our work there! We love being petted!
We rolled up to West Hollywood (that's us talking "street" like Will Smith because we're cool like that) to pick up Santa Ana artist/size queen Skeith DeWine from the Ramada Inn, where he was staying for the Christopher Street West Parade celebrating the 30th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots in Greenwich Village (New York, not London), which precipitated the modern gay-rights movement. Suck on that, Lou Sheldon! (Oooh, and speaking of right-wing nut jobs, we hear from a confidential source—whom we're actually going to keep confidential this time! No, really!—that scary presidential candidate Gary Bauer's "Bauer 2000" stickers at our pal Jim Righeimer's Assembly-run fund-raiser last week were not approved by Righeimer, even though they were plastered on everyone there down to his supermodel wife and their darling little girl. Indeed, Righeimer was allegedly heard irkedly wondering after the event from whence the offending adhesives had come. Hmmmmm. We bet he's a George Dubya Bush guy; what do you think? Oooh, Part II: Jim, you being behind the Doris Allen recall and all, perhaps you could give us some advice on recalling Sheldon's bitch, Anaheim "Democrat" Lou Correa?)
Anyway, the Ramada was as full of shirtless gay guys as a Ricky Martin video, with a tantalizing banner out front reading, "www.thegayhotel. com." Yup: it was Commie Girl heaven. Don't like gay people? Then you have a friend in our pal Young Americans for Freedom state chairman Brian Park, who just e-mailed us this lovely note: "AIDS is a cure, not a disease." Go ahead and send him a congratulatory note at Bpark@chapman.edu. Those wacky YAFers!
Anyway, after some attempts at enriching ourselves via an honest-to-Betsy art opening (featuring Santa Ana gallery owner Ed Giardina, among others) in someone's Laurel Canyon home, we found our way to Dragstrip at Rudolpho's, a hip Silver Lake eatery with all the tables cleared out for the aforementioned 7-foot-tall drag queens and the buffed supermodels who love them and each other. But we were shocked—shocked!—by the sheer number of straight men who came to have uncontested dibs on all the glamorous straight women (like ourself) escorting their homo friends out and about. We weren't standing at the edge of the dance floor more than five seconds when we were swooped upon. Why did no one publish this sooner?