New! Hot!

Hot and new!

Perhaps you were missing us last week? Oh, yes, you were. Well, the sad fact is our menses have now aligned themselves with the full moon, and like a werewolf who begs you to lash him to a pole and not let him loose no matter how sorrowfully he bays, we donned our moose pajamas and barricaded ourself inside our house. We were simply too much woman for one woman's body.

[Becca, the new guys upstairs are kind of creeped out by all the menstruation talk, unless you can maybe link it with some kind of new pharmaceuticals with big advertising budgets?—eds.]

Unfortunately, that was the same week we saw Senator Dianne Feinstein address a big klatch at Costa Mesa's DoubleTree Hotel, so we had to wait until this week to note that Feinstein, in her surprisingly mellifluous voice, managed to excoriate the standings of Los Angeles Unified students without once mentioning that 70 percent of the district's students now live in poverty. Seventy percent! So while we all dined on a lovely fettuccine with roasted asparagus and other vegetables in a dainty cream sauce, Feinstein (herself possessor of more than $100 million—and that was years ago, when $100 million meant something!) came up with all manner of lovely solutions for our schools . . . except for any kind of solution to the fact that kids can't learn because they're hungry.

[Becca, the new guys upstairs want us to remind you that poor people are not our target audience because they don't buy anything except government cheese, and don't they get that for free? Can we move away from all the bummer poverty stuff?—eds.]

Well, so, enough about that. We've got more important things to talk about, like the Sun Theatre's big, bad Chris Isaak show, where Isaak mysteriously neglected to fall in love with us.

[Bec, we love hearing about your whimsically pathetic love life. Really, we do! But the new guys upstairs think it's more important to give a pat on the back to the folks at the Sun than to indulge in your sad little Isaak stalkings. Remember, they advertise with us—eds.] [Guys, I was going to pat them on the back: they gave me front-row tickets, the theater is decadently plush, and the show was both rocking and titillating, with all the ladies old and young swooning while Isaak promised to make them scream. And since Ken Phebus, the booker, moved to the Sun from the Coach House, it's the only venue in the county that can get Isaak to play there. But, Jesus, you guys! It has nothing to do with the fact that they advertise! We've never done that!—Becca] [Becca, it's no big deal; just be a team player. You like them anyway, right?—eds.]

So our thanks go out to the folks at the Sun for putting on another in a line of ass-kickingly groovy shows. And remember: Patti Smith will be rocking you there on April 12! Call (714) 712-2700 for more info and to order your tickets!

On March 25, we indulged in a little Swallows' Day action, first taking in San Juan Capistrano's famous parade (it's the biggest non-motorized parade in the country, according to itself—and you know what that means! Horsies!) and then kicking up our heels at the Swallow's Inn along with seemingly several thousand other folks.

[Did you buy anything?—eds.] [Well, I bought some beers—Bec.] [Okay, that's good enough, we guess. Just try to buy more stuff, okay?—eds.] [What are you talking about? I'm a Socialist, remember? It's the whole point of Commie Girl: nightlife seen through the filters of someone with a conscience? Mindless, sheeplike consumerism is absolutely what I've always been trying to get people to stop. What is going on?—Rebecca Fucking Schoenkopf] [The column isn't called Commie Girl anymore—eds.] [WHAT???] [The new guys upstairs wanted to fiddle with it a little bit. It's Consumie Girl now. Go ahead. Look at the top of the page—eds.] [I can't do this, you guys. I can't. This is FUCKED—Bec.] [It's only three letters, Rebecca. Three tiny little letters. Of course you can do this. Just think of that old Pet Shop Boys song. You like the Pet Shop Boys. Go ahead. Hum it a little bit. Let it seep in: "I love you; you pay my rent." Get it now?—eds.]

After buying several beers—and you should, too!—we made lingering eye contact with lots of cute cowboys and Coast Guard boys and generally had a swell time rubbing through the crowd, which was packed into the bar like Ford Expeditions on the 405 at Magnolia around about 4:21 p.m. Unfortunately, there's a really vicious strain loose in the Swallow's sometimes; we've borne the brunt of it before, when a former Green Beret was poking us (all 5-foot-2 of us) and getting in our face, and the bouncer, who was standing right there, did nothing about it. It's a slight misogyny mixed with a thudding racism; in the women's room, high up on the wall where you don't notice it unless you've got a long wait, is a silhouette portrait of a stylized African woman with a baby in a sling on her back. Painted onto the baby's silhouette are white googly eyes and two huge buckteeth. It's the baldest thing we've ever seen in our short little life, and we're not going to be able to patronize the Swallow's until they get rid of it. We love the Swallow's. But we love grapes, too, and we haven't bought those since 1984.

[So now you're threatening a boycott? Listen, Rebecca, you're not getting it. There are other people who can do this job just fine. What about that girl from CoolGrrrls.com? Barbie, the one who covers Orange County nightlife. You're the one who pointed her out to us. She goes everywhere; she's at all the parties, all the concerts, and she seems to know a lot more DJs and promoters than you do. Don't you have a little Citizen of the Month to feed? Didn't you say hunger was bad for children, right in the very first paragraph? Hmmm?—eds.] [Yes, of course I did. Of course. You're right—Becca] [Just stick to the goddamn script, Rebecca. Tell people where they can get their manicures and their prom dresses. Go ahead. Tell them. Stop crying. Stop it!—eds.] [But I don't know where they can get a manicure. I do my own . . . I do my . . . I do my own nails. And anybody who takes fashion tips from me is a moron. I don't know anything about clothes. I'm a terrible dresser. I'm a terrible dresser.] [Listen, Becca, why don't you take another week off and pull yourself together? It's okay. We'll find something else for the last page, just for this week. It's okay. Shhh.] [No, I can do it. It's okay. I can do it. But I don't have a transition from the last paragraph to prom dresses.] [You don't need a transition; just start a new paragraph and make up the fashion tips. That's what all the fashion reporters do. It'll be fine—eds.]
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