Drinkin for Jesus

And thanks for not hurling on the Indiana Jones Adventure!

Photo by Jack GouldJoy! Frivolity! Goodwill to men and women! Open bottles of Malibu rum being passed lip to lip like it's the party scene in Breakfast at Tiffany's, minus Mickey Rooney's disgraceful turn as Mr. Yunioshi! Should I ever need to take the cure at Betty Ford's posh desert hideaway, I sincerely hope the Weekly will do the right thing and pick up the tab. It would count as a work-related injury, don't you think?

As a matter of fact, though, your faithful correspondent (that would be me) was not the one out of control this fine pre-Christmas week. Those honors go to: (a) an internationally known Angel of Morning Prettiness, (b) one Maveric Fontain, and (c) the Capitol Eye fans with the bad manners to heckle the gorgeous presenter of the Headchange Corp.'s Smacker of the Year awards at DiPiazza's Lava Lounge late, late Friday night.

Whichever shall we address first?

Saturday's GlamROCK Christmas party at The Space was the best they've thrown in ages, except that since they've gone legal (with permits and everything!), they actually take away the booze at 2 a.m. Since the last band didn't start until 4:20 that morning, that meant almost three hours as dry as Phyllis Schlafly's panties. But who was the normally gregarious blonde who managed to offend all and sundry with such gentle queries as the ever-popular "WHAT? WHAT DO YOU WANT?" I'm not telling! But when invited to a gathering at the home of some of Long Beach's more stunning Grrl Power advocates (the trend toward the ladies falling off the lesbian wagon has reversed itself swiftly and decisively this year), she also asked, "If I go to your Solstice party, does that mean I have to kiss chicks?"

With 17 of SnoopTown's finest bands grooving and popping through the night (and lots of glitter and golden tube tops), it was a swell time for everybody, except maybe J, who had to be a dick and tell me not to sneak in beer after 3 a.m., even though he clearly wanted to be cool about the whole thing. Sorry I did that to you, J!

Maveric Fontain had the pleasure of being met by me at Linda's Doll Hut's private Christmas party Sunday afternoon —which, thanks to my vaunted powers of discretion, shall remain so, except to say that the gift exchange was one of the finer pieces of Machiavellian strategy I've seen since that time I overthrew the will of the people and named myself OC's Best Citizen in this very paper. Sorry, Larry Agran. Better luck next time, and happy holidays! But Mr. Fontain? Charming, handsome and quite, quite drunk. The Indiana Jones Adventure almost proved his undoing, as it jerked and clattered through the bowels of Disneyland later that night, but Maveric had the good graces and intestinal fortitude not to hurl. Congratulations!

The Capitol Eye fans at the Smacker of the Year celebration? I'll steal this summation from the pages of Smack Chat itself (www.headchange.com/smack.htm) —though I personally found the boys not at all offensive, but that may have been because I was in the restaurant eating a really good focaccia sandwich while they were playing—"Can anyone enlighten me on the Wet Triscuit knockoffs at the Lava Lounge before Shave? . . . I forgot my testosterone inhaler, so I couldn't really participate in the sweat-sharing mayhem. It was just like the MTV Beach Party show, except without the show, the beach or much of the good vibe of a party. And instead of girls dancing in the sun, it was guys moshing through the crappy, blown sound system. What were the prevailing themes? A) Fuck you, B) LBC and C) Limp Bizkit." Thank you, anonymous slagger! Also, some weird, hairy little kid named Eli, who apparently groupies for 77 Records, called me "Cyclops." Is that the spirit of Christmas, I ask you? Oh, and Smacker of the Year? I had myself a nice little coup d'etat with that one, too. You can just call me President-elect Bush, thank you, and I'd like to remind you all that I've just declared the Soviet Union an outlaw nation. The bombing will begin in five minutes.

Meanwhile, good, appropriate, wholesome, hayride-in-the-park times were had at places where you probably wouldn't have expected them: Club Mesa, where the 12-year-old cuties of The Flip'n Whitey's brought in all their delicious snacks of young friends to watch them open for local heartthrob Derrick Brown as he read at Thee Word Thing (though a couple of their friends were really uninspired hecklers who should have done everyone a favor and begun punching themselves in the faces instead), and the Fabulous Tuscaderos party, where the hard chicks of the hard-chick band of the same name could have been really scary and mean, but instead were as warm and welcoming as a bathtub full of pudding. Plus there were lots of delicious snacks, but in this case, I'm talking about actual food. Muchas gracias, señoritas, y feliz Navidad! Also, good, wholesome fun was had at places where you would expect it, like state Senator Joe Dunn's open house Sunday afternoon to benefit Toys for Tots. But I'm just asking: Isn't it a little bit weird having a Marine Reserves theme party (complete with a World War II re-enactment camp) at a Democrat's house? I like Marines as much as the next Commie Girl—mmmm, Marines!—but these Marines were old and had mustaches.

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