By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
By Andrew Galvin
By R. Scott Moxley
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By R. Scott Moxley
Sept. 4, 1998 Dale Bozzio and her long blond mane still have some ardent fans. They had to be ardent to sit through her snit at Anaheim's Shack on Saturday night. Her band, Dale Bozzio's Missing Persons (they're known as such because she's the only original Missing Person in the group), came on just after midnight. Bozzio's voice sounded terrible: her songs aren't easy to sing, and she won't bow to middle age and rearrange them in a lower key. Plus, she had "a cold," which presumably is why she seemed so out of it. But Bozzio blamed her fitful croaks on the sound quality and kept interrupting the lyrics to gesture at the sound guy and say: "Can I have more drums? I can't hear the drums!" By the fourth song, her hit "Words" ("What are words for?/When no one listens anymore?"), she shut down completely. She sang half a line and then stopped, said something to the sound guy, stopped, tried to find the beat again, sang half a line, and stopped. Then she started screaming: "What the fuck is wrong with you? I'm not gonna get a sore throat because you won't get off your ass! Do you want to be replaced? Do you? Do your fucking job!" The sound guy and I just wanted her to do her fucking job—be a professional instead of a spoiled brat. Forty-five minutes into the hour-long set, Bozzio left the stage for 10 minutes. Her young band carried on manfully, licking their guitars after their solos. Bozzio returned for two final songs with her hair tied in a knot on top of her head. I guess the "costume change" was the reason she needed a break. Her hair came down again immediately. The whole thing was like watching every episode of VH1's Behind the Music: bleft young band makes it big too soon, succumbs to "a cold," and either blows itself up, reunites to huge popular love, or does a tour of small bars. Everyone winds up washed-up, old and alone. Bozzio is a twat.Rebecca Schoenkopf, Commie Girl
Sept. 4, 1998 Musically and lyrically, the Kottonmouth Kings combine a nonstop party energy with a mostly disaffected spin on issues ranging from politics to prison and the middle class that lives in between. Plus, they say "fuck" a lot.Dave Wielenga, "Konstitutional Krisis: Kottonmouth Kings prepare to sue HB over Op Beach Fest cancellation"
Sept. 18, 1998 New Jersey Governor Christy Todd Whitman, who is poised to someday become the first commander in chief without a penis since Calvin Coolidge, later toured the Nixon's Library's latest exhibit, "My Dearest Partner: Husbands and wives in the White House." She must've nearly peed her panties when she got to the Bill and Hill display. Library officials swear the exhibit's timing is purely coincidental.Matt Coker, A Clockwork Orange
Sept. 18, 1998 Some facts you need to know about Joe Racano:
He sings, writes and plays guitar real purty.
His dad was a prominent New York wise guy.
He lives in a funky RV with two dogs and two crows.
Just for shits 'n' giggles, Racano says, he once peed in a bottle of sun tea that was brewing outside Republican Congressman Dana Rohrabacher's Huntington Beach office.Buddy Seigal, "Our Pal Joey"
Oct. 2, 1998 Bob Dornan was a guest speaker at a U.S. government class at Rosary High, a Catholic girls school in Fullerton. His personal attacks on Tim Carpenter, the teacher who invited him —not to mention his well-documented but, until then, for me, still abstracted politics of hatred and lies—left me, well, in a seething rage. My hands shook, and my heart raced; a ring of acrid sweat formed under my collar. So, finally, I got up—nearly knocking over my metal folding chair—headed for the classroom door, and did something I wish I hadn't but am glad I did: unable to achieve Phil's articulate way of putting things, I seized Dornan's own classroom rhetoric, pointed an accusatory finger in his direction to punctuate my rancor, and said, quite clearly, "YOU'RE A SCUMBAG!"Buddy Seigal, 'YOU'RE A SCUMBAG!' Bob Dornan brings out the worst in me"
Oct. 2, 1998 We're sick of AIDS. Sick of people getting AIDS. Sick of people dying from AIDS. Sick of worrying about getting AIDS. Sick of hearing about Magic Johnson's AIDS. Sick of news about AIDS treatments. Sick of hearing Christians blame AIDS on sin. Sick of hearing gay militants blaming AIDS on the government. We're sick of seeing Tom Hanks with a shaved head and AIDS in Philadelphia. We're sick of books, articles and seminars about AIDS. And we're really, really sick of AIDS in the theater.
Sure, there's beautiful irony in the fact that a deadly disease has produced some of the most brilliant, politically charged art of the past 20 years —Tony Kushner's Angels in America is the most obvious example. But it has also produced a spate of plays that seem to exist solely because they are Plays About Living With AIDS.Joel Beers, "AIDS Shouldn't Feel This Good:The Last Session rocks in a powerful, poignant Laguna staging"