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 GouldMiss me last week? Yes, you did! Would it make you feel better if I told you I was off having a fabulous vacation protesting the bombing of Vieques in Puerto Rico? It would? Well, I WASN'T! I didn't have a vacation at all! My boss just didn't like my story! Write a letter! Might I suggest using the following template?
Why Commie Girl gotta be so sucky all the time? She boring and lame and need a slapping! Please have Nathan Callahan write all the stories she would normally write from now on, yo.
Yours in the revolution,Not Nathan Callahan
Don't pretend you ain't gunning for my job, Callahan! You think I can't tell when someone is marching on my half of Poland? Huh? Bitch gonna get smacked.
The astute reader has by now noticed that I am no longer utilizing the "Royal We." It has gotten tired, and I think using "I" is more honest and open, plus it gives me the opportunity to overuse and abuse my very favorite word, a word I've missed for a very long time now: "me." Me, me, ME!
Perhaps I will begin referring to myself in the third person, like a World Wrestling Federation stud. The Girl is open to suggestions. Oh, yes, and while she's at it, if you get in the ring with her, the Girl will have you for dinner and floss with your innards! Or somesuch unpleasantly visceral and violent threat! (Visceral, like "eviscerate," from the Latin "viscera," like innards! Get it? No? Never mind. But just know that somewhere a grad student is spitting milk through his nose in joy at discovering a pun of that caliber! Try to match that, Nathan Callahan!)
Speaking of Hitler, I had the honor of meeting a deranged fan at the benefit for the Arthur Carmona Legal Defense Fund on Sunday night who told me I didn't look like someone whose name sounded like a sex slave in a Gestapo camp. It occurred to me that my new friend might have some very intricate and well-developed fantasies into which it would behoove me not to delve, and that reminded me of my own screenplay-worthy daydreams starring (a) the Canadian Mountie from the brilliant (so, naturally, long-canceled) Due South and (b) me throwing myself in front of a speeding car to save the lives of adorable-moppet schoolchildren. I'm like that, you know. Many thanks go out to Gary Folgner and the Galaxy Concert Theatre for providing the venue, waitstaff and security staff free of charge—and to the cute, 'N Sync-movin' ska band Suburban Legends (I still haven't decided whether they were being ironic); the rocking hick-hop band Wax Apples featuring folks from Cadillac Tramps and One Hit Wonder; the fabulously grizzled Chris Gaffney and the Cold Hard Facts; the ever-hypnotic 00 Soul; and the very loud Big Fat Dragster and Throw Rag.
The event raised more than $3,300 for Carmona's defense. For more info on how you can help the 18-year-old Carmona, who has 11 to go in the joint for an armed robbery only Deputy DA Jana Hoffman thinks he committed (I hope she believes it, since otherwise she will be rotting in hell for all eternity and then some), visit www.freecarmona.org.
Speaking of going to hell, one of the most interesting things about the benefit for Art Carmona was the opportunity to juxtapose it with all the rich folks attending the black-tie gala for the Orangewood Children's Foundation held just the night before in a big ol' tent in the farther reaches of the Irvine Spectrum parking lot. Didn't get that "hell" transition? I would direct you to Jesus' admonitions (Matt 19:24) about rich people, heaven and camels. You should really pay more attention to The Word, yo. Word.
Bounded on all sides by freeways (a fitting metaphor for our vibrant county), I and my new gal pal Brigette (just like Madonna and Sandra Bernhard, except without the $1.99-per-minute hot lesbian action) gawked happily at all the hot young rich guys who didn't talk to us, and at Orange County Business Journal executive editor Rick Reiff, who did. That act of aid and comfort to the Communist threat should be enough for some decent, red-blooded Americans to pull their advertising from the OCBJ, as it's affectionately called. Heh. Heh.
The Orangewood Children's Home has seen its share of catastrophes, including the walking punch-in-the-face to decency and humanity that was one of its psychiatrists—a man who once wrote in a report on a teenage child molester that his 4-year-old victim had acted "provocatively." County Youth Servicesadministrators ignored complaints for years.
Still, the fact that some administrators at the home and at the county have about as much class as imprisoned socialite/coke hog Tina Schafnitz (she's done her time) doesn't detract from the worthiness of the cause. And watching rich people par-tay! is even more fun than watching retardo OC Supervisor Jim Silva try to form a coherent sentence, which in itself is a hoot and a half.
But, people: while it's very easy for me to make fun of rich peeps who go to benefits and give themselves presents (in this case, cute li'l sequined teddy bears and live Siamese fighting fish, which I accidentally left in my car in Santa Ana with all the windows rolled up on a very steamy Sunday; I am a fish murderer), it's my duty to remind you that these people managed to cough up a minimum of $300 per person—raising more than $250,000—and you did not. In fact, last time I checked, Orange County (home of those who swear charity should be the province of individuals rather than the government; Thousand Points of Light, anyone?) was averaging $1.38 per household per year in charitable giving—far lower than the national average. So these beautifully gowned debs and tuxedoed men are way ahead of you. Don't make me remind you again.