By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By Nick Schou
By Gustavo Arellano
By Gustavo Arellano
By Steve Lowery
By R. Scott Moxley
Photo by Jack GouldIt's too bad "battle" doesn't rhyme with "Washington"; it leaves us without a pithy moniker with which to commemorate the melees on K Street, the "accidental" gassings, and the hair-trigger tempers of the D.C. storm troopers. Why do we always have to miss the fun? There are so many great nouns to stand in for "battle" (like "rumpus") that someone should introduce legislation changing unwieldy "Washington" to something wieldier—like "Bumpus."
Luckily, coverage of the demonstrations provided a treasure-trove of good tips for protest chic; one of the most popular accessories (after the never-waning Hacky Sacks and knit Rasta caps) seemed to be a billy club at the neck and gas masks, gas masks, gas masks. You should be seeing them all over the runways this summer.
Some might find the OC Weekly hosting a fashion show to be utterly bourgeois; the more serious among you would even consider it shallow and trite. Sure! But remember: a well-turned-out radical is a radical with a much better chance of winding down with some free love after a long day of throwing rocks in the streets, though there are apparently two schools of thought on the subject. One hypothesis, encapsulated on the back of our Toyota, states that Marxists get crazy laid—a bumper sticker courtesy of our editor, and we wonder if that's sexual harassment. The second opinion on the matter comes courtesy of The Beatles: if you've been carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you ain't gonna make it with anyone anyhow. You might as well bolster your chances by remembering to put on deodorant, keeping your eyebrow piercings pus-free, and neatly grooming your Che mustachios. Also, a natty sweater from The Gap never hurt anyone's chances. Oh, wait. Never mind.
Oddly, we didn't spy many Leftists at Fabrik, the Weekly's tribute to sartorial entrepreneurism. But we did spy Dial 7's hotty lead singer, Mike Lord—who emceed this benefit for the Environmental Nature Center—flanked by lots of hot blondes from Chase Models who looked like they'd had their bottom ribs removed. Ribs are important, ladies!
Last year, we got a mess of nasty letters for neglecting to mention all the designers who contributed to the show. Hmmmm. Don't care! Fashion shows tend to bring out the worst in us. It may have something to do with the Howard Stern idjits saying things like, "Woooo. I'd get busy on that." Herewith, some notes: "Cute boy in cargo pants. Looks dumb as toast. Did somebody have ribs removed? Someone surely had a nose job! Somebody has anorexic thighs! Just about everyone's blond. Oooh, those are fake!" See? All those comments were mean!
In fact, the girls were beautiful; they had the faces of angels, even if most of them had the bodies of boys. And the designers all had really cute clothes, except for a couple of ugly leisure suits. But we really aren't going to mention any besides Paul Frank (whose pajamas were the highlight of the show, if you don't count the girl with the Sarah Jessica Parker hair who was getting all the love) because we didn't care enough to write down their names. We wear a size 2 or 4 bottom, Paul, and a medium top.
Jay Buchanan and his friends are as much a buzz band as the corn-fed Square right now, so we braved the 5 through Anaheim to hop up to Linda's Doll Hut (they're there every Wednesday this month) and see what all the fuss is about. Is the scruffy, Beck-like singer/songwriter potent? Is he whimsical? Does he sound kind of like Tracy Chapman? Yes, a thousand times, yes. But what most impressed us was his shoes. (When one lives in New York City—now there's a battle waiting to happen—it is impolite to stare at people on the 4/5/6. It's considered an invasion of personal space—a commodity of which there's a rather limited supply. So when one has finished off all the Poetry-in-Motion placards and the ads for VD clinics and podiatrists, one turns one's attention to all the neighboring footwear.)
John Wilkes Kissing Booth opened for Buchanan. Were they lyrical and melodic, filled with pretty guitar chords and front man Derrick Brown's incisive and witty words and wrenching, delicate howls? Yup. But Brown—though he looks kinda like Ben Stiller and was the No. 1-ranked poetry slammer in the country last year—was wearing slacks, a button-up shirt and tie . . . and tennis shoes. Everyone in the band was wearing tennis shoes. The horror. The horror.
Luckily, Buchanan and his boys had a better handle on their manly footwear. Shoes can be old and scuffed—it gives them a certain piquancy, especially when one is a rock star. But after 6 p.m., they must be leather. Buchanan had on a pair of brown leather slippers, while his boys all favored serviceable combat boots (under, not over, their pants; no Seattle anarchists here, oy!). We applaud your footwear, sirs! Thank you!
On the night of April 15, following Sandow Birk's mind-blowing "In Smog and Thunder" exhibit at the Laguna Art Museum (where we managed to execute a really spectacular fall down a flight of stairs, dead sober), we hit the Boom Boom Room. And while all of you were charming, we expect the torsos of our shirt-free gay boys to be much more sculpted. Fashion mandates a few more trips to Jump-Start Fitness, friends! Do as we say, not as we do. By the way: Do you really need all those ribs?The Man's got Commie Girl down. And we mean "down." Won't you contribute to the Commie Girl Tax Relief Fund? Cash only, please. No, really. We're serious. We're in big trouble here, people. Send small bills care of OC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627. CommieGirl99@hotmail.com.