By Charles Lam
By R. Scott Moxley
By Taylor Hamby
By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By LP Hastings
By Taylor Hamby
I am not now—nor have I ever been—Commie Girl. I'm not trying to fill her shoes, drive her car, make out with her boyfriend or get into clubs using her name. I would never use her name! I would use my own, Alison M. Rosen, or perhaps the pen name I just decided on, Fascist Pal, as in: Commie Girl and her lovable sidekick, Fascist Pal. Wouldn't we make a great set of Franklin Mint collector's plates? From the Darlings of the OC Weekly collection? I think so, too!
But fans of Commie Girl, don't despair. She's indisposed this week but will be back next week to regale you with stories about, perhaps, why she was indisposed this week. Of course, she won't be able to tell you about the Playboy Mansion like I can. If you want to know what it feels like to be the most popular person in the entire world, score yourself an invitation to Hugh M. Hefner's (or, as the press release mistakenly said, High M. Hefner's) fantastically manicured, sprawling Playboy Mansion in Beverly Hills. Your friends (and even some people who aren't your friends) will jump all over themselves to get a piece of the hot, burning social action that is you. They'll beg, they'll plead, they'll use guilt, they'll go all Lord of the Flies on one another in an effort to eliminate competition and be your new best friend. At least that's how it's been for me ever since I ended up on some list, whereby I periodically get invited to events held there. I've been not once, not twice, but thrice. Thrice! I even have a favorite set of bathrooms!
And so, for this latest ridiculously extravagant wingding, which was some sort of benefit for the Hands 2 India Foundation, featuring real Indian people, India's greatest pop star (who looked like both Milli and Vanilli), a number of bouncy hos, various dignitaries, and Bull from Night Court, I reached down into my group of shameless friends and selected as my escort young and earnest Jonny, whom you might remember from past Weekly appearances as the Guy With Perfect Teeth and, more recently, the Guy Who Couldn't Go to the Hootenanny Because He Had to Work.
"Wow!" he gushed, as we sipped free drinks near the luminous, sparkling pool and tried to eavesdrop on Bull. "If someone asked me what I was planning to do tonight, I would have said I was going to eat dinner, work out, and maybe rent a video. I NEVER thought I'd end up at the Playboy Mansion! Thank you so much!"
By the end of the night, though, he'd turned into a total, greedy bitch, calling dibs on the next time I'm invited to the mansion. You cannot call dibs on me! You can call dibs on a Pop-Tart. You can call dibs on a bag of Funyuns. You can call dibs on that cute little shoe playing piece in Monopoly (as in, "You always get to be the shoe! I'm the shoe this time! Dibs on the shoe! I call dibs on the shoe!"). But you cannot call dibs on Fascist Pal! And I still don't understand how India benefited from a bunch of people drinking at the mansion, but who am I to comment on an extravagant mansion's love for an impoverished country? I'm no one.
The same can't be said for Jamie Thinnes, a somewhat famous DJ who spins all over and has a residence in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, but lives in Orange County and runs his Seasons Recordings label from a tranquil, airy Costa Mesa office. Seasons Recordings will soon expand into clothing as well—but if you want to sound like you know what you're talking about, you have to call it "cloth," as in "Randy Mello, who used to be with the Roial clothing company, was brought on recently to help develop the cloth." I could say a lot more about cloth, whereby I simply substitute the word cloth for clothing and magically sound like someone who makes it a habit to go to ASR, but I think you get the idea. The Seasons Recordings guys (including Thinnes' partner, who runs the Higher Source record store in Huntington Beach) do this thing once a month called Sushi Boutique where Jamie DJs at a sushi restaurant, like Shima in Huntington Beach, while all their friendly hipster friends eat sushi and talk about whatever it is that friendly hipsters talk about. Probably cloth. Still, though, you should go because they're friendly hipsters, not a bunch of bitches.
Speaking of, a bunch of bitches is exactly what my friends and I felt like at Chain Reaction on Monday night when we had nothing good to say about any of the bands because, well, we're a bunch of bitches. And so we renamed the bands. You say Big City Rock? We say John Bon Cougar Van MellenJovi. You say Longfellow? We say Korn the Drive-In.
By the time Thursday rolled around, I was too tired to do anything other than watch Friends while musing about how special and yet misunderstood I am, so I missed Donald Glaude at the Tiki Bar. If you know anything about DJ culture, you know it's a huge deal that he was appearing at Costa Mesa's humble Tiki Bar. I wish I could have gone, but I felt like I was going to die, and no one likes a dead person. Except for maybe Blow Fly, the sickest motherfucker this side of Jim Washburn. The 1970s cult hero—known for such tasteful hits as "Too Fat to Fuck," "Girl Let Me Cum in Your Mouth" and "That's What Your Pussy's Made For"—is the guy who taught fellow sick motherfuckers 2 Live Crew everything they know. The tasteful rapper, who's in his 60s, made a rare appearance Friday at Noise Noise Noise to a crowd of about 20 white kids. All of whom tried to call dibs on me.Think you have what it takes to call dibs on the Pal? Well, you don't, but go ahead and try anyway: email@example.com. Or write to Commie Girl and tell her how much you miss her: CommieGirl99@hotmail.com.