By LP Hastings
By Michael Goldstein
By R. Scott Moxley
By Gustavo Arellano
By Gustavo Arellano
By Matt Coker
By Nick Schou
By Bethania Palma Markus
Photo by Jack GoldThe mens were in force like an army of locusts this weekend, laying waste to the crops and eating their own heads, and we don't care whether locusts actually eat their own heads or not. We shall not back down from such a vibrant metaphor.
The reason the mens were out in force? Valentine's Day is over; those who had been hiding beneath their beds for most of February (lest they meet someone who dared to yearn for a bouquet of daisies and all that implies in the quiet hollows of her hopeful heart) figured the pressure was off. Men are so transparent. Pah.
But the danger passed, as danger does, except when it kills you instead in terrible, terrible ways. And so, on Feb. 18, the men came forth from their hiding places and converged on the Swallow's Inn in San Juan Capistrano and began their grabbing and leching and general unpleasantness. The Swallow's is almost never boring.
As Dark Rider played good-rockin' Clapton covers and a bevy of really cute fat girls lined up and did the Tush Push and Springer on the TV in the corner showed the legend, "My Uncle Was My Pimp," we stood beneath the bar's brassiere-festooned rafters and reflected on our life and said, "It is good."
We were by our lonesome, which is really never a good idea at the Swallow's, but our lovely and talented sister had chosen to fall asleep on someone's couch instead of showing herself in San Juan. It happens.
But our solitary state was the most irksome invitation to manhandling. No one (this time) grabbed our breast or threatened us; instead, it was those faux-jolly grabs where drunks haul you up by their sides in jovial, fraternal hugs and then tell you they wish someone would invent something "that does the opposite of what Viagra does." They have. It's called "chemical castration." Or for the weaker-kneed, there's saltpeter. It's been around since chastity belts. But we guess saying, "Boy, I'm so virile, with such a perpetual hard-on, that I shore wish I had me a chemical castration," wouldn't have nearly the effect with the ladies as the clever intimation that "the opposite of Viagra" has. Surely such men have to throw the pussy off!
Generally, the best-behaved men at the Swallow's are the methed-out ex-cons. They treat a lady real respectful because they're grateful-like, and they throw you around the dance floor like you're on a Tilt-A-Whirl. The next-best-behaved are the Law, if they're nice Law, which lots of Law are, instead of bad Law, which also some Law are. We met a very nice detective and had a wonderful conversation about the Rampart Division and the young, wrongfully prosecuted Costa Mesa boy Arthur Carmona, now serving 10 for an armed robbery he couldn't possibly have committed. OC prosecutor Jana Hoffman is a shameless slut, and we mean that in the worst possible way, though of course for libel-suit purposes, we have to point out that we know nothing of any possible sexual peccadilloes on her part; we mean "slut" metaphorically. We're just saying.
(Since we're on the subject, we'd like to note that women are generally targeted for their looks or their sexuality —i.e., Jana Hoffman is a shameless slut —although looks and sexuality are very rarely the issue. While we recognize this tendency, we would tar any prosecutor—man or woman—who so despicably targeted Carmona with the same epithet. But in the spirit of gender equality, we think more men should have their looks mocked. We the media spend far too much time denigrating the hairstyles and weight of women we don't like, and we for one think everyone who made fun of even such horrors as Linda Trippand Paula Jonesand congressional candidate/ dismantler of bilingual education Gloria Matta Tuchman—okay, we take responsibility for that one—should be ashamed of themselves. The point isn't that they're as ugly as tapeworms if tapeworms wore their hair big; the point is that they're dreadful, horrible people who should be cut on the street when encountered. If you think that is an incitement to violence, go read some goddamn Regency romances. And also, Jana Hoffman is a shameless slut.)
So the detective was very nice, and he is going to ask us on a date, and we are going to accept.
On the night of Feb. 19, we took our friend Tigerlily, who's new to the neighborhood, on a bar tour of the LBC. Were there mens? Is our mom a Commie? We started at the world-famous Reno Room at 6—that's p.m., not a.m., though they do have a good happy hour as the sun is rising.
But though the Reno Room is generally a good time, on this occasion, there were simply too many men; the ratio was uncomfortable, like in downtown Huntington Beach. It was enough to cure us of our well-established boy-craziness, though unlike is usual in Surf City, no drunks stood on balconies and whooped at us, thank the good lord.
From there we stumbled upon the Prospecter, which people have begged us not to write about, thereby inundating the place with a bunch of goddamn scenesters. But if we didn't, we wouldn't have anything to write about except for Lucius Fauntleroy later that same evening at the bitchen Que Sera smashing a guitar into the head of Zackfrom Thu Winners, who smiled and shook it off even though, said he, "I almost crapped my pants!" Apparently, Lucius hit him really hard.
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