By Charles Lam
By R. Scott Moxley
By Taylor Hamby
By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By LP Hastings
By Taylor Hamby
Photo by Jack GouldYou may think that we are an exceptionally brave young lady. This is true. Also, we only blush about twice a year, but that's neither here nor there. There is one thing, however, of which we are terrified. And that thing is Barbara Coe.
We didn't think we'd panic so badly when we gleefully told our fearless photographer Jack Gould to meet us at the Balboa Bay Club for breakfast on Saturday. That was the day on which Coe and Ron Prince (the unfortunately named—at least in this instance—co-author of Proposition 187) met at the bayside Bay Club to kvell and kvetch about Governor Gray "Red" Davis thwarting the will of the people and negotiating an end to the proposition, which aimed to deny such basics as emergency medicine and schooling to the children of undocumented aliens (we prefer "undocumented" as opposed to "illegal"; we learned that in Catholic school from Sister Mary Claire, who was big on social justice). You know what we always say: whenever you're worried about crime among juveniles, make sure they can't go to school and have to mug you instead just to spice up their long days. No, it makes perfect sense!
But back to our unreasonable fear of Coe. She looks like a nice lady: she's blond, has big glasses like Sally Jessy Raphael, and is very well-groomed. She seems reasonable and says she's not a racist. Perhaps she has even known some Latinos, though we'd imagine it was only in the most cursory-glance kind of way, like perhaps some Latinos brought her water in a restaurant once (taking our jobs!), or maybe she's friends with the Shiva of bilingual education, the blonded Gloria Matta Tuchman, herself a Mexican-American, who once bragged that her own children had to learn Spanish in high school because she wouldn't teach it to them. How do you suppose the two ladies feel about each other? Unfortunately, we're also scared of Matta Tuchman, so if the two were cackling together somewhere, we'd cry into our video camera and start looking for odd bundles of twigs. The Blair Witch would be an improvement.
So did we mention that we never went to the breakfast? How's that for fearless reporting?
But Jack went. He's so lionhearted that he once braved squads of huge goons—who then ran after him and caught him because we were too slow at the wheel of the getaway car —to shoot pictures of dead alien-hater Harold Ezell in his casket. Perhaps you thought this was in poor taste. But also in poor taste were Ezell's statements about skinning and frying and eating undocumented aliens—except he didn't call them "undocumented."
Jack reported back that Leisure World was in tha house—there was a 91-year-old at his table—and that everyone was rambling about the Globalist threat. For those of you not hip to rambling ultraright-wing code, "Globalists" are the environmentalist Satanists who are trying to cede America's divine right and manifest destiny to a bunch of UN bureaucrats in black helicopters. Also, they are pedophiles. So here is Jack's picture of Barbara Coe. Thanks, Jack!
We did make it to Newport Beach's Cowboy that evening to count Latinos, and we can assure you they're not taking our table space there! We did some wonderful eavesdropping over our $8 glass of the house cabernet, though, including a couple who constantly ridiculed each other in front of their friends and then told a long story about how they ran out on a check in Palm Desert once. Or was it twice? Rich people!
We originally wrote this next paragraph in German—just to show off, really—but it wasn't nearly as funny that way (German so rarely is), so we switched back to English. But we're not happy about it. Anyway, not having had enough beers spilled upon us at the Cowboy, we blew up to Old World Village for Oktoberfest. Situation remedied!
Oktoberfest was great fun, though we did witness the least rhythmic conga line ever. You'd think they'd have their marching down. . . . Was that mean?
At any rate, a huge dance party was going on, with our eighth-grade-dance playlist ruling entirely: it was 100 percent "White Lines," "YMCA"and "Shout," with the DJ shouting between each song, "Is this a party or what?!?!" Also, there was an old, scary MC in lederhosen who kept thrusting his wiener at the ladies in a truly horrifying manner. But everything else was great! We'd recommend you go, but Oktoberfest ended Sunday. Is this a great party or what?!?!
We schmooved from there to Shamballa at a supersecret Costa Mesa location, just in time to get some yummy Indian food before the last wave of ambient sound. Except for a PA screwup during Nels Cline's set, the night was like buttered curry. Thanks, Shamballa guys!
Sunday, we flew solo to the Lava Lounge at Java Lanes in Long Beach to catch the Supersuckers from Seattle. Unfortunately, we missed their set, as we were outside making cow eyes at Chris, the lead singer of the marvelous Buzzbomb, which did Willie Nelson covers by way of Judas Priest. Rad!