Excerpts: Part 1

Remember the ad for John Carpenter's They Live depicting Quayle as one of the Rolex-wearing power-elite aliens that enslave Earth? I used to view him that way, but that's no more honest than the Hillary-bashing his side engages in. Somehow, we've forgotten that we're people, all sharing that vast, dwarfing sky overhead.

Jim Washburn, Lost in OC

Sept. 27, 1996 Liberal friends often ask me if I hate the Register's editorial pages. I should, but I don't. And part of the reason is Ken Grubbs. For all the boneheadedness of some of his opinions (and I know he'd say the same thing of mine, which he has variously called "comic," "bizarre" and, more simply, "wrong"), there's also an edge to his thinking that I like. Grubbs is at his best when he's wielding that keen blade in the direction of the left and pissing off his conservative readers—arguing as he did at the Nixon Library one night in June, for instance, that the government should stay the hell out of saving the family, seeing as how it had pretty much botched everything else.

Will Swaim, "You Hate This Man: You'll shout. You'll snarl. But you'll keep readingRegister writer Ken Grubbs"

Sept. 27, 1996 The letter opened "Listen, Jizzbag" and closed "Blow me." Signed: John Hughes. In between, words like "shitsucker," "fuck" and "dickwad" peppered the typed, single-spaced, one-page letter, which disavowed official sanction from our local family-values guardian.

It concluded with this enlightened jab at the gay community: "May I close with the sincere hope that you and all for whom you fake a microfiber of pathos develop cancerous polyps and die in slobbering froth." Perhaps this display of warm-heartedness and professionalism has already earned Hughes employee-of-the-month honors at the Register.

R. Scott Moxley, "'Listen, Jizzbag':Register Family Values, Part III"

Oct. 18, 1996 Bob Dornan won't budge from his professed military bona fides, telling OC Weekly this week that he has never misrepresented his record. Nor will he acknowledge that as a young man, his greatest ambition was to act, not to fight. "I have bled for my country," he told reporters in February during his failed presidential campaign. "I came as close to death as Bob Dole."

There are crucial differences, of course, which Dole diplomatically pointed out. Dole faced enemy fire on foreign soil. Dornan bloodied his nose ejecting from a training plane he crashed in the Arizona desert.

R. Scott Moxley, "The Secret Lives of Bob Dornan: Inside the fevered imagination of OC's most infamous congressman"

Oct. 25, 1996 The first time I saw 2001: A Space Odyssey was as a revival at a Lakewood theater when I was 10 and already a sci-fi nerdling. I persuaded my dad to take me, but when we got to the theater, we knew something was wrong. It was a porno theater fallen on hard times, and in desperation, the owner was alternating skin flicks with art films in an attempt to draw in the kids from the nearby college. The seats were ripped and squeaky-springed, the floor was sticky with spilled soda and the ancient sperm of lonely men, and the air was thick with sleaze and shabbiness.

Then the film started, and it took me to Jupiter and beyond. From all of the special-effects books I'd read, I knew the opening "Dawn of Man" sequence was filmed on a sound stage in front of projected African backdrops (that's why the leopard in one scene has that freaky eye shine), and I knew the monkeys were just actors in rubber suits. I even knew that a quick shot of a mama ape breast-feeding her child was accomplished by an actress in an ingenious costume that lactated real cow's milk so she could feed a real baby gorilla. I knew all the grungy details, and it didn't matter: what I saw in that film was true. Even on that yellowed screen in that sad, musky room, 2001 was the biggest thing I'd ever seen.

Greg Stacy, "The Big Picture: The AFI Fest and LA Freewaves offer too much and not enough"

Nov. 1, 1996 If you are a devoted Republican who believes I'm scum for posing as one of you, I have a couple of parting gifts. I worked my ass off on behalf of your nominee, and I left South County headquarters with one of the worst migraines ever, one of those throbbing, pain-in-the-eye-sockets jobbers where the only cure is a power drill through the temples. It hurt so bad that not even Bill Clinton could feel my pain.

Matt Stanfil is a Republican. Matt Coker is a Marxist. Like Groucho, I refuse to belong to a party that would have me as a member. I vote for the person, not the party, but for the life of me, I can't recall ever having voted for a Republican. I honestly don't know who I'll vote for Tuesday, but I'd be real surprised if it was Mr. Dole.

Win or lose, the Dole-Kemp ticket got my help. More South County voters may go to the polls because of my alter ego. I guess the sting's on me.

Matt Coker (& Matt Stanfil), "Dear Congressman: AnOC Weekly Sting."
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