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 GouldHasn't it been fun watching Jim Baker's head practically explode as he demands that Al Gore concede, forthwith, immediately and now? Isn't it funny what bullies the Bush camp have become —screaming spittle-a-flyin' for an end to the madness—when the overseas ballots aren't even in yet? Doesn't that seem a bit disingenuous to y'all? Why, yes, it does, since 72 percent of you told Newsweek you would rather wait for actual results than wrap things up "for the good of the country." Seventy-two percent? That would include about half the people who voted for Bush. Congratulations on your sense of fairness and patience, my friends, and your refusal to be ruled by our collective MTV-edit attention spans. I couldn't be any prouder of you if you were a big old closeted queen coming out for a gay-pride celebration.
As you might imagine, I've been stuck on NPR (KCRW-FM 89.9) and KPFK-FM 90.7 like an ouchless bandage for the past week solid, needing fixes like I'm Tony Rackauckas' son. I even watched Moneyline on CNN because it focused on the election, which had caused investors on the NYSE and the NASDAQ to practically wet themselves in girly man nervousness. If I had money and were a capital-C Capitalist, you know what I would do? I would buy all the stock! Markets don't like uncertainty, huh? Well, eventually someone's going to be the winner, and things will be certain again—unless, of course, Baker and Dick Cheney lead a bloody coup d'etat, in which case the market would probably rise anyway. Dictatorships are gold mines for capitalism; just look at the concentration camp that is Burma. See? It's win-win!
The week started badly, of course, with the Nov. 7 Election Night party for the OC Democratic Foundation at the Disneyland Hotel. Not only had the networks just crowned George Bush fils the winner, but a middle-aged woman also screamed at me for a good 10 minutes because I finally got sick of everyone moaning about how Dubya's gonna overturn Roe vs. Wade and mentioned that I'm pro-life. People of goodwill disagreeing? Not on her watch! Finally, pretty losing state Senate candidate/ children's defense attorney Merritt McKeon swept breezily into the conversation, putting her arm around my waist. "Rebecca, what are you talking about? You can be against abortion and still be pro-choice," she said, commandeering the one-woman screaming match and deflating it into a reasonable discussion. She then proceeded to ramble on, as she's been known to do, until the other woman slunk away. It was a wonderful act of kindness. Nonetheless, the networks' pronouncement sucked a whole lot of joy out of the party.
Later that night, when everyone was boozing heavily at The Prospector Steakhouse for Cayt and Wade's Swanky Tuesday, the networks' bizarre backflip to "Too Close to Call" caused much yelling, at least by me, once I realized the legend I'd been reading on the teevee was not in fact a repeat of the news from earlier that evening. A pretty girl in the corner sneered to her handsome boyfriend, "What's the big deal? I voted for Madonna." She must be very proud.
on nov. 11, my homegirl Arrissia Owen and I headed to Santa Ana's Grand Central Art Center for a celebration of the Velvet Hammer's nipples. See? Win-win! The Velvet Hammer is a once-a-year troupe of womyn-friendly burlesque dancers who celebrate real bodies of big thighs and good flabby waists by shaking what their mamas gave 'em while removing sets of pasties to reveal ever-smaller sets of pasties beneath. While the saucy nipples were always covered, I'm pretty sure I saw some well-waxed beaver. In the audience of mostly well-shod and unhealthy-looking Angelenos was a local artist who told me she now remembered why she doesn't like me: apparently I wasn't respectfully silent around her recent show of crucified baby dolls (um, oy?), but rather sped in (at her request) and kind of glanced around, continuing to chat with a girlfriend. I thought it was awfully polite of me to refrain from scoffing out loud, but I've been known to be wrong. Also present were lovely OC Weekly alums Rose Apodaca Jones, who curated the show, and Leslie Caines-Nash. And sticking around for another set—of dancing—was handsome Paul Frank swag man Austin Brown, whose job consists of planning parties and making sure rock stars, actors and contributing editors get free Paul Frank stuff. I think he may be the one!
An exhibit of related paintings and photos continues through Jan. 20.
Whom did we spy at Que Sera later that very evening? Omigod! National-poetry-slam second-placer Derrick Brown!!! The super-Ben Stiller-y singer for John Wilkes Kissing Booth is both yummily awkward (think David Byrne) and lip-quiveringly sensitive. With such lyrics as, "You're a nut/You're a whore/ You're the stalker at my door" and "But then you kiss me hot and big like Mexico," is it any wonder that the audience —consisting of everyone in the entire world and the excellent promoter, My Neighbor, Emily—was one big love puddle, despite the band's meandering intro? Pep it up, boys! On the plus side of the column, I think I finally know what "emo" is.
Scream and yell at CommieGirl99@hotmail.com. She loves that.P>