Photo by Debra DiPaoloWednesday, Nov. 24: a really crazy woman at San Clemente's The Beefcutter kept crowing—somewhere between a rooster and one of Peter Pan's Lost Boys—at a certain young man, who politely withstood it even though he was very, very frightened. "Let's go back to my house and 'Keekirikee!'" the woman would say to the cowering man, who smiled and nodded noncommittally. Others in the party got the lowdown on Guns N' Rosesfrom GNR keyboardist Dizzy Reed, who was present in some capacity with the crazy woman, and those who got to hang out with Reed haven't stopped talking about it all week. They deny that they've been talking about it all week, but everybody else confirms: they've been talking about it all week, and everybody involved thinks Daymon Ekedal, who hasn't stopped talking about it all week, should start writing a weekly column called "The Lowdown on Guns N' Roses." Also, Ekedal hasn't stopped talking about the lesbians who were making out in the bar for, like, two hours. That was days and days ago. His wife, Sarah, says he still has not shut up about the lesbians. Or Dizzy Reed.
Thursday, Nov. 25: a group of revelers witnessed a party in someone's pants outside Laguna Beach's White House. The hummer in question was committed in a dark-colored, new-looking Mercedes-Benz (model unknown, as the witnesses were disgracefully drunk; still, they know a public hummer when they see one). Unable to get a taxicab, the revelers then knocked over an ashtray thingie and used the 5 pounds of sand to spell "HELP" in 4-foot letters. Laguna Beach police came to the aid of the stranded party peeps, driving them all the way to Matt's house in Aliso Viejo.
Friday, Nov. 26:excited about seeing the hip, critically lauded The Negro Problem with brooding Johnny Jones and the Suffering Halosat Java Lanes' Lava Lounge, we headed to the world-famous Reno Room for a quick pre-show beverage, oh, around 6:30 p.m. We then became disgracefully drunk and soundly slapped an Irishman across the face. From what we could piece together later, he was wholly deserving of it. Sometime after 2 a.m., having been tossed out of the celeb-packed Reno Room (all kinds of Sanctuary hairdressers and former Air Force chicks with mean bank shots were in the house), we got a ride home, as the foggy streets were uncannily reminiscent of video games and the silent vortex of outer space. There were lots of lesbians there, too, proving the old adage, "Hey, how come we've been seeing so many lesbians around lately?" Indeed, we now have more lesbian friends than gay-men friends—and you'll be pleased to know lesbians now come loaded with wit, good haircuts and hip personal style.
Saturday, Nov. 27: with seminal (ovular?) chick rockers L7 flipping their hair mightily around Santa Ana's Galaxy Concert Theater, there was bound to be some hot lesbo action. Unfortunately, the best breasts in the house belonged to the saggy Marilyn Manson-clone boy singer of the middle act The Newlydeads, a stupid, stupid band that no one seemed to like. Did L7 kick ass? Is our Mom a Commie? In addition to L7's crunchy estrogen goodness and sexy Linda Hamilton in T-2 biceps, there was a big, muscular, handsome man we'd never seen before who insisted on rubbing our shoulders for a good 45 minutes. And the nice, aggro lesbian girl on the smoking patio, who had never before attended a concert, reported that she and her girlfriend were having a marvelous time bumping asses with other lesbians on the floor.
Sunday, Nov. 28: TheX-Files kiss between Mulder and Scully was a shameful anticlimax after they'd been telling us all season it was gonna happen, and then there it was, nothing more than a New Year's Eve peck. But did you see last week's episode, which was based in Costa Mesa and Irvine and featured a sad monster boy who felt really, really bad about eating people's brains? Wasn't it exciting when you saw the captions and they said, "Costa Mesa" and "Irvine"?
Also on Sunday, Ekedal was spotted wearing a Guns N' Roses T-shirt.
Monday, Nov. 29: and everyone went back to work, and nothing very exciting happened.
Tuesday, Nov. 30:due to the vagaries of a weekly publishing schedule, Tuesday, Nov. 30, hasn't happened yet.
Wednesday, Dec. 1: as of press time, it hadn't been determined whether ClubMesa's Wednesday-night poetry reading, Thee Word Thing, starring Commie Girl, was a triumphant smash hit or a rather pathetic rambling by someone who, after all, is not a poet and never said she was anyway. But since no poems had been written at press time, we're betting on the latter.