By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Photo by Jack GouldIt wasn't like there were no straight men at the 15th-annual—and final—Big Splash party to benefit the AIDS Services Foundation Saturday night. There were two. And they were breathtaking. And they were holding the hands of two beautiful blond women.
Ladies: Looking for a date? The Big Splash is not recommended.
The four-night fund-raiser with the big-top theme—Hey, kids! Let's put on a show! —netted more than $800,000, or as much as the entire AIDS Walk Orange County (whose director, Pearl Jemison-Smith, is the beautiful, blond mom of OC music-scene queen Linda Jemison—and I mean "queen" in the female sense of the word).
The show was six months in the making, with a lip-synching extravaganza featuring the voices of Cher, Whoopi and Lauren Bacall (who sounded just like Bea Arthur but apparently wasn't). Lip-synching and medleys: yup, it's gay! By 8:10 p.m., I'd been kicked out of my oversold seat—where was I, United Airlines?—while the boys in front of me on the balcony drank Perrier and giggled.
While the boys onstage (all pecs, all the time) pulled a train to "In the Navy," a gaggle of synchronized swimmers adjusted their falsies and got all Esther Williams on our asses. I used to live in the same town as Esther Williams in her dotage and she was extremely sour, but I guess that's neither here nor there. And speaking of old witches, one number featured ancient platinum blondes with false eyelashes the size of Liza Minnelli's dancing around on their canes. Brava!
The choreography and costuming were stunning—do you doubt the choreography?—but some of the numbers, like "I Am Woman" with the ugliest drag queens on God's green earth, did leave me melancholy, wondering: If they are woman, where does that leave me?
By the end of the night, despite the prophecies of friendly folks like the Reverend Fred "God Hates Fags" Phelps, the gorgeous hilltop home of Ken Jillson and Al Roberts had not fallen into the Laguna sea, the coastline of which twinkled below us with breathtaking majesty as it only does for the very rich or the very poor. But since I saw only one tanned homeless guy wandering around, your chances of the view are probably better if you're very rich.
When in Laguna Beach and surrounded by gorgeous gay men, go to the Boom Boom Room. It's the law. But I was walking past the Sandpiper (a.k.a. The Dirty Bird) when it hit me: thar be straight folks! After two hours in the company of charming men in eyeliner, I thought it would make an interesting comparison. Subculture jamming, if you will.
I lasted 12 minutes.
Yes, the disco band was absurdly bad—even though they played terrific songs like "Tear the Roof Off the Sucker (Give Up the Funk)," they were as ear-splitting as a Gloria Matta Tuchman/Jeanne Costales cat fight. But absurdly bad bands? Those I can stand. It was the straight people. It was the long-haired, soul-patched, handsome drunk who almost knocked me off my barstool when he fell into me. And it was the same guy who knocked my Budweiser out of my hand and clear across the room when he decided to toast me from my obviously blind side. And it was the same guy—duuuude!—who then proceeded to school me on how I ought to hold my beer. "You should hold your drink tighter," he informed me—really rather snottily considering he was the one who'd just knocked it onto the ground.
I hate that guy.
So I wandered off to the Boom, but I still didn't get there because I passed Woody's on the way and decided to stop in, and the bartenders were so smiley and friendly, and Dale, a big, preening fag who was feeling up his own pecs and batting his eyelashes, started to tell me how beautiful I am and how perfect my breasts are, which is true, and somehow I ended up showing him because he was just so sweet! and then I met an ungodly beautiful Russian man, who I thought at first was German (and he spoke flawless German, anyway, because his wife, whom he married for a German green card, is German) and who asked me to marry him for a green card, and I didn't say no. And hey! Isn't that former OC Democratic Party chairman Jim Toledano? Why, yes, it is! So Jim and I went to the Boom.
The Boom, as always, was lovely, and we had a delicious time. But then I lost Jim, and the mean owner, James, who was very drunk, wouldn't let the cute, straight bouncer escort me to my car, even though I was going to have to pass the Sandpiper on the way. He sent someone else to escort me, just to ruin our fun.
No fun was ruined at the OC Weekly's fifth-anniversary party, held Sept. 5 at the Galaxy Concert Theatre. Really, we throw a lovely party. I'd talk more about it, but I was busy being accosted at the Sandpiper by that awful, long-haired, soul-patched, handsome retard. You know how it is. Instead, look at the picture to the left. Isn't that all you need to know?