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
Illustration by Bob AulSend anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to "Hey, You!" c/oOC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247, or e-mail us at firstname.lastname@example.org.
I was minding my own business, driving toward the heart of Main Street in Huntington Beach in my modest, mid-1980s station wagon. The A/C is defunct, so my windows were rolled down. You—you handsome devil/wannabe lead singer of STP with your shirt off, riding your beach cruiser with your friends—you declare out loud, so that everyone can hear, that I'm an "old lady."
If I really were an old lady, I would grin and bear it. But I'm not. Reflex took over. I flipped you off.
My Irish parents would have been proud. "The cheek of that young bastard telling a woman she's an 'old lady,'" they might have said. "The gobshite," I'd say. I consoled myself by having a pint of Guinness at Gallagher's.
In the future, watch out for redheads behind the wheel of large, dangerous vehicles; we sometimes swing wildly, uncontrollably, unpredictably out of our lanes. And when the time comes that I am reduced to a walking cane, God help you: watch out for your shins, then, laddie! "Granny" remembers your face!