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
Once upon a time—okay, last Tuesday—booker-to-the-stars John Pantle gave me superduper, VIP, loge-section seats to Duran Duran at the House of Blues. Why? Because I have all kinds of dirt on him, and he will pay and pay and pay. You hear me, Pantle?
Because I didn't become a teenybopper until well into my 20s, I didn't have any kind of personal sexual investment in the lipsticked boys whose doe-eyed cheesecake snaps (and, no, I don't mean "beefcake," but thank you) graced every seventh-grade locker in 1985. And it's a good thing, too, because I don't care how many supermodels the muy Byronic Simon LeBon is married to, he's still the mayor of Gay Valley. With their extremely sold-out series of shows, the eyeshadowed wonders brought out all the old love and lots of limp wrists. Their own, I mean.
My homegirl Arrissia and I were wondering why so many apparently straight men were in the house (the only women in the audience seemed to come as dates until the guy next to us in the superduper, VIP loge section told us that balcony seats were running $98 and to get onto the floor would set one back $66. Chicks, with their salaries of 73 cents on the dollar—still!—simply ain't got the dough. Then the same guy told us he plays with, like, the Thompson Twins and OMD and, you know, a whole bunch of other people, and he talked some snide smack about various '80s bands whose foibles he apparently knows intimately, and then he broke Arrissia's tender shiksa heart by telling her Roger Taylor, upon whom she had such a terrible junior high crush that she co-opted his nickname—"Froggy" —now weighs, like, 350 pounds and never, ever leaves his farm.
Looking over the edge of our superduper, VIP, loge-section seats onto the floor—or "steerage," as I like to call it—we could see people jammed against one another like a pen full of British sheep on the way to meet their maker (and I'm not talking the Roslin Institute). But with all the humanity to choose from, our eyes were drawn again and again to a creepy guy in a light-colored, silk-like shirt. His head rolled uncontrollably in Dionysian —or epileptic—ecstasy, and he kept fingering his neck and chest. We wouldn't have been surprised if he'd licked his fingers and rubbed his nipples.
It was during the encore rendition of "Rio" that LeBon's microphone went flying out of his hand like an overlubed love toy and bonked some girl in the head. She quickly helped out with the end of the verse, and then he dragged her awkwardly onstage where she danced like Cinderella at the ball—if Cinderella did aerobics. And she was so joy-filled because a dream is a wish your heart makes, and all her dreams had just come true (except for the probable one that Simon LeBon would have sex with her.) But we were all really happy for her, and then the concert was over, and we went home. The End.
Then there was this other time—let's call it "Saturday"—when pretty OC Democratic Foundation executive director Sandra Ramos invited me back to fete Weekly faves Loretta Sanchez and Lou Correa. Happy day!
The party was the in ticket for the peeps peopling the state Democratic Conventionaround the corner, with the floor show at Y Arriba Y Arriba featuring young ladies in slutty, silk-like carioca outfits assing the clearly gay male dancers right in the face. Can you do that in Downtown Disney?
Sandra's new boyfriend, handsome and fun San Francisco TV reporter Steve Chamraz(I approve, Sandra!), was instructed to keep me company since Sandra was stationed outside, shivering and greeting people at the door. What Sandra didn't tell me was that Steve had also been instructed to shield Sanchez and Correa from contact with me. Unfortunately, there is no future for Steve in the Secret Service: Correa —often described in this very paper as "Lou Sheldon's bitch"—came over for a chat before Steve could tackle him for his own safety. We had a lovely interview about the energy crisis, and I was very nice. Until Lou—which is what I call him, even though I can't remember whether he's ever invited me to—began to lecture me on the need for free markets.
Granted, the first thing he said was that the best free markets—take Wall Street . . . please!—are in fact heavily regulated. And granted, too, I was drunk. So when—after we had already discussed the $4.8 billion SoCal Edison has funneled to its parent company and the quadrupled profits President Numbnuts' Houston buddies have been taking home over the past year and the fact that the Republicans are once again cleverly shifting the debate to the need to dismantle all environmental policies—Lou said something pat about the need for free markets, I'm afraid I began to shout at him. "I know that did not just come out of your mouth," I reproved him, mostly because I suspected it hadn't just come out of his mouth, and I was right. Then he shoved me, and I fell into a knot of Central Committee types who had just overseen the victory by less-shrill-lately Jeanne Costales over the ebony-tressed Ray Cordova in her bid for regional chair, and they hit me over the head with a tray of really good empanadas, and then Steve tried to punch Loretta's husband because he didn't like the highlights in Loretta's husband's hair, but Loretta's husband ducked, and Steve accidentally punched the reporter for OC Jewish Singles World Review and Reportinstead, and since she's crazy, she grabbed Lou's glasses and stomped all over them, and since I figured the Mouse Police were coming, I scrammed—running dead into Simon LeBon, who had sex with me.
The End. Again.CommieGirl99@hotmail.com. Thank you!