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
Looking for the hot new trend? Look no further! We at the OC Weekly DataLab have crunched the numbers and identified summer's must-do: leaving your baby in the Plymouth with the windows rolled up. It's such a relief to open the California section of the Los Angeles Times (formerly the crime-lovin' Metro section) and not see any expired babies after their crack moms left them in the crib and went on three-day missions. No, that was the cool way to kill your kid in '97. Now you can just leave them strapped into their safe little car seats while you go inside for a nice, refreshing nap.
Forgive me if I'm still a little crabby—you know, like Pol Pot was crabby. It's been a rough week, filled with butthole surfers and Ted Nugent. Add to that I'm still feeling poorly following my harrowing battle with an ovarian cyst I assume was the size of my head. And that only, like, five of you even wrote in to cluck sympathetically at me—although, to make it at least tolerable, one of you was famous author/smart guy Mark Dery. So you can see, since I'm keeping busy by feeling very, very sorry for myself, why I had little time for the Aussie charmer who told me—unsolicited, I assure you—that he'd have sex with me even though I only have one eye. Isn't that sweet?
It should have been a delightful week, except for the whole internal-bleeding thing. But was it? It started well: since the world's surfers were swarming on Huntington Beach like maggots on a forgotten pork chop, there would be plenty of parties—like the one the nice folks at the clothing company Rusty hosted Aug. 2 at Main Street mainstay Hurricane's—to which I could drag my aching self. For those unfamiliar with the beauty that is Hurricane's, it mostly involves soused retards leaning over the balcony and hooting in a completely resistible manner at the wimmens walking on the sidewalk below—and is the main reason I avoid Surf City. Little did I know! Once I got to the bar, I discovered it is one of the last places in this Great Nation of Ours that still hosts the clever little gadgets that allow one to play NTN (network trivia) on the monitors overhead. I overcame the temptation for a solid seven minutes until a question was displayed that blazed itself onto my one good cornea: What character from a 17th-century French play became a synonym for hypocrite? Oh, my god! Tartuffe! MoliŤre's Tartuffe!Why have I no game set in front of me, dear sweet Jesus?
For the next two hours, I spoke to no one, and I liked it like that. Unfortunately, there were no more questions on French theater or currently popular forms of infanticide, just ones on 1950s Western serials, which is not my genre of expertise, and I proceeded to suck. But I didn't have to talk to any surfers! I usually have about as much fun at surf events as I have at rockabilly dos, and the careful reader knows (at least, if the careful reader's short-term memory ain't shot to shit) that I would rather have a roiling case of scabies than hang out with hepcats and kittens.
I did have to hang out with surfers at the Waterman's Ball at Dana Point's St. Regis Hotel on Saturday night. But there were drinks and marvelous hors d'oeuvres, plus I looked smashing, so except for the smashed wallaby-muncher who would fuck me despite my hideous disfigurement, everything was all right. And who was seated at our very table for the marvelous salmon tartare? None other than my hero: Los Angeles Times society maven Ann Conway! Need a lesson in how to handle that PR twit who won't kick down with proper seating arrangements? Learn from a pro! Distressed to learn that she and her husband wouldn't be seated at the same table for dinner, Conway allegedly threw down like she was Hollywood Reporter columnist George Christy, fiercely reminding the poor li'l flack that her article on the event was set to run on a first-run full-column doodad of some kind or other. Left hanging in the calm afternoon air was the threat that if her svelte ass wasn't thoroughly licked, there would be no first-run full-column anything. I wonder whether she demanded a limo, too, or maybe a nonexistent film role? As of Monday's press time, I hadn't seen a first-run full-column piece, but maybe I missed it. The publicist took care of it, giving Conway the Weekly's extra seat. And everyone was happy.
Sunday's Ted Nugent show at the Anaheim House of Blues was summed up cogently by a friend of mine: the odds were good, but the goods were odd. Indeed, there were mens aplenty and far fewer mullets than I'd expected, but still. You know. The most joy-filled point of the evening came when they all got to sing along raucously as the Nuge told Jesse Jackson to kiss his ass. Deep.
Nugent may be a right-wing nut, but he looked surprisingly good for 70. I'm sure it's all that good, clean militia living—though I did have to wonder if the zebra that died for his vest was free-range organic.