By LP Hastings
By Michael Goldstein
By R. Scott Moxley
By Gustavo Arellano
By Gustavo Arellano
By Matt Coker
By Nick Schou
By Bethania Palma Markus
Photo by Jack GouldYou know, there are quite a few people in the world I've never slept with—including my purported lovers Huntington Beach Republicans Scott Baugh and Dana Rohrabacher (see last week's Letters section). And believe it or not, I've never slept with surf legend Kelly Slater. I'm pretty sure this is just a simple oversight on both our parts. He's not dating Pamela Anderson again, is he?
It takes a special kind of retard to go to a surf awards party, be seated at the next table to Slater and be unable to recognize him. I am that retard. I knew he was someone when people kept taking pictures of their kids with him (being a professional journalist and all, I notice those little details). But he's a little more rugged-looking, a little less pretty, as though he has broken his nose a couple of times. Don't worry—it looks good.
I didn't talk to him or anything. That would have just ended badly for everyone involved. Someday, when I'm less ashamed, I'll tell you all how very, very stupid I was the day I talked to Chris Isaak.
At Duke's in Huntington Beach on Feb. 2, sunshine streamed in through the patio windows and onto a bunch of surfers I didn't know and some editors from Surfing (whom I did know, thanks to a long-standing and unrequited crush on former editor Jamie Brisick, whom I also haven't slept with), who were sitting and drinking the new Smirnoff Ices at OP's T3 Tag Team Tournament awards ceremony. That's pretty much all that happened, except that the winning foursome from Rusty featured a tall 13-year-old girl named Anastasia Ashley, who is still in that darling, 13-year-old-girl hipless state. Slater's Quiksilver team, finishing second, was home to a small 14-year-old boy (though he looked about 10) from Puerto Rico named Dylan Graves, who was so beautiful—with perfect olive skin and big ocean-colored eyes—that one couldn't tell at first if he was a boy or a girl. Of course, I had just finally caught Boys Don't Cry on HBO, so I was in the throes of not being able to tell if anyone was a boy or girl. I was pretty sure about Slater, but you never really know, do you? All this talk about people I haven't slept with is kind of a downer. I hate the Sex issue.
There was so much sex going on at the Action Sports Retailer (ASR) convention all weekend it might as well have been a Candy Apples gangbang. Was there sex for me? No. But I did see someone's scrotum Saturday night. The vile little Newport Beach creep throwing down had already lifted someone's skirt (and been resoundingly slapped for it). "I just wanted to see if you were shaved," he told her sulkily. Well, by all means, then! I believe that's his right as an American, nyet? That was about the time he started bragging about the size of his balls—generally a mistake, as the love of big balls (like the love for rimming) is not one that crosses over from the gay world to straight women—so we made him take his pants down. A pretty, extremely lit blonde poked scientifically at his sac, as though she was touching a slug. The crusty little asshole's embarrassed friend was Wee Man, the famed midget skater from the MTV sensation Jackass. You wouldn't think Wee Man would be capable of embarrassment after being dressed up like an Oompa-Loompa to skate on the show, but his mama obviously raised him right; his own manners were lovely, and he didn't want his friend's blatant prickishness to reflect badly on himself. And besides, his friend was severely impeding his chances for pussy.
The scene in Wasabi—just up Pine Avenue from the Long Beach Convention Center—was teeming like chlamydia spores on a cheerleader. Mmm, chlamydia! Later, riot police swept through the corner of Pine and Broadway with what we hear were really big nightsticks. Compensating, guys?
By then, we'd already commandeered Wasabi's company limo (for the record, I don't believe in limos, but since I'd been at Wasabi for seven hours, the chances of my successfully operating heavy machinery were as slim as a Long Beach cop's willie) for a ride to the Marina Seaport Hotel to catch Ugly Duckling. Naturally, Ugly Duckling was nowhere in evidence, but the happening LA Breakestra was throwing down solid grooves while a really sweet young'un with foot-high (but falling) Liberty spikes stood onstage, looking bewildered. He really made me miss my hometown mall.
Sunday's hangover was its own sentient being, chilling around the house and staying for what seemed like months—like an out-of-work rock star who just needs a place to crash for a couple days, man.
Um, there was lots of other stuff, too, but I seem to have lost the sushi menu on which I wrote my notes. I probably somehow managed to drink it. Sorry.
And finally, is it gay prison sex for former Santa Ana City Councilman Ted Moreno? I sure hope not, but I'm inescapably reminded of Shaggy's "Wasn't Me": "Picture this—we were both butt-naked/Banging on the bathroom floor." I love that song! The very rude Moreno, sentenced Jan. 31 for a host of charges including, like, extortion and bribery and stuff, told the courtroom he had to take the bribes in order to finance his campaign to keep gays and lesbians out of the city. (Naturally, the Artists Village—which Moreno has opposed loudly for five years—is overrun with those damned homosexuals.) The Los Angeles Times quoted the thuggish Moreno thusly: "I just know that the gay lifestyle is a sin and offensive to God, and it is wrong to take this city in this direction. I was just hoping to make Santa Ana a better place to live." Oh, except the Times accidentally forgot to put "God" in boldface. Silly Times! No respect!
Share the Word with the Girl: CommieGirl99@hotmail.com.
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