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 was awfully hard to decide: Go inside the Blue Cafť and gaze dreamily at roots crooner Jimmy Intveld? Or stay on the patio and watch the drunk, bantam Norwegian try very hard, again and again, to twirl his way past J the bouncer. He feinted left. He faked right. How drunk was he? He had already tried to give me his wallet, and he'd already tried to give J his wallet. And J had already put him in a cab once. But he ditched the cab within a block, and here he was, back for more. As far as I know, the cabby wouldn't accept the wallet either. But if Rich Gannon had had a blocker like J three weeks ago, it would have been the Raiders embarrassing the New York Giants in the Super Bowl instead of the odious Baltimore Ravens—at least, if the Ravens defense were all tiny, very drunk Norwegians. Rich Gannon's blockers? Fired! Hoying? Fired! Andre Rison? He got himself fired four times that day—a day I apparently am having trouble moving past. And that big, fat Ravens motherfucker who jumped on the Cannon with both feet after he was already down? He is very ugly, and I hope he never finds love.
I could have watched the li'l Norwegian indefinitely. His focus in the face of adversity was a thing of single-minded beauty. But then Intveld started playing "Wild Places," and I decided to go and watch him instead of taunting the Norwegian by sitting where he could clearly see me but couldn't reach me to give me his wallet. As I left, he was doing his best to kick the board out from under a guy skating by—who almost pounded him but instead decided to punish him by letting him borrow his board. The Norwegian wasn't very good at skateboarding. It looked like it hurt.
Inside, Intveld was laying down all manner of swoony goodness, but it must be noted that in jeans and a plaid shirt, he doesn't look very much like the devil anymore. The devil is a good look for Intveld. I do hope he'll go back to it.
Earlier, local country legends Chris Gaffney and the Cold Hard Facts had all the old drunks—my very favorite kind of drunk —hollering. Danny Ott, especially—who bears a striking resemblance to a linebacker himself—wields his guitar in the prettiest manner I've ever seen—ever. And then there's "Fade to Gray," which features both lyrics about living in Riverside and your loser brother who's got a kitchen for his farm and the almost-perfect line, "You're looking for a man who wouldn't love you if his life depended on it." Why won't John Hughes make another movie so I can create the world's perfect soundtrack?
Gaffney and Intveld play the Blue every Sunday in February—um, every Sunday in February except this first one, so don't even try.
You know, it's been 285 words since I've talked about football. Please to forgive my lack of focus. Sunday's ball game was pathetic and ridiculous, but I did manage to glare at it during the most fantastical Super Bowl party I've ever had the fortune of working my way into. The home of Lora Roberts and Doug Sweeney nestles cozily into the beauty of Silverado Canyon, but the very best thing about the party—better even than the 40 nice folks who were there; the table of meats, egg rolls and spinach dips that was still full even after the game ended; and the band (who apparently didn't care for football, as they played Neil Young songs, loudly, throughout the entire game)—was the televisions. Perhaps you needed to go outside to smoke or refill your beer from the keg of Sierra Nevada? Never fear—there was a television so you wouldn't miss any of the game. In the kitchen while getting a snack? There was one next to the sink. Upstairs, waiting to pee? A TV and three chairs were there for those in line. Shortly after the game ended, the fuzz arrived, but Sweeney sweet-talked them so eloquently they were soon wishing him a pleasant party and agreeing that for the great number of people there, it had been very quiet indeed.
Saturday night's Chinese New Year at the ever-hipper Din Din at the Bamboo Terrace in Costa Mesa found the Tiki Tones laying it on thick for those lucky enough to be at the show. Ignore everything I said about the punk rock go-go dancer having thick legs. She is perfect in every way, and if it were legal in this state, I would ask for her hand in marriage.
It is shocking and appalling that this band doesn't have a coterie of young, hip, Hollywood stars following them around to bask in their reflected grandeur. Where's Winona Ryder? Where's Ethan Hawke? Why is Ethan Hawke famous, anyway? If I looked like a fetus, could I be famous, too? The only celebrity spotted was Barry Diamond, the kung-fu-fightin' singer formerly of Tex Twil, which was always on my list of three best OC bands—until that fated European tour. The hot (but dated) rumor is the band broke up when a wild-eyed Dallas—a beautiful, young Chet Baker double (in more ways than one)—was seen driving the group's van off for parts unknown.
And finally, we will miss Deirdre O'Donoghue of the radio show Breakfast With the Beatles, who was found dead in her Santa Monica home last week at the age of 52. With whom shall we spend our lazy Sunday mornings now?
And God rest Hal, the crusty old bartender at the legendary Foothill. He was mean, and he made customers cry, and he really, really hated it when I called him Hank. He reportedly took his own life in a room outside Las Vegas. Peace be with you, Hal, and godspeed.
CommieGirl99@hotmail.com. thank you!