By Gustavo Arellano
By Aimee Murillo
By Matt Coker
By Vickie Chang
By Matt Coker
By LP Hastings
By Michael Goldstein
By R. Scott Moxley
Since I don't spend nearly enough time in the discos these days—at least, not in the straight ones—I figured it was high time to hit one or two, but probably only one. Yes, for you, I would spend my precious Saturday night at Laguna Beach's White Houseinstead of at the local shuffleboard hall or perusing various estrogen-replacement systems. (By the way: just 38 shopping days left until my birthday! As usual, send gifts care of the OC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627! Thank you in advance!)
While the White House is a perfectly pleasant spot at 9 p.m., one should attempt it after 10:30 p.m. only if (a) one is 22 years old, (b) one enjoys getting pushed in the small of the back so some ho can climb past one onto the stage and point to her coochie and think people don't hate her, and (c) one is wearing $300 shoes. There are many places like the White House, perfectly fine for the Early Bird Special but insufferable at the magic hour when the whippersnappers finish their first line and hit the streets.
There is the slim possibility that it wasn't as bad as all that; at the time, I was taking Wellbutrin, an anti-depressant that is supposed to aid one in quitting smoking. For the clubgoer who wants the insouciant paranoia and edginess and frighteningly fast mood swings of some good Colombian without the nasal drip or chattiness or feelings of euphoria and well-being, I highly recommend Wellbutrin. Still, I'm pretty sure I had a terrible time.
Before anyone got there, the band—Radio Rage; isn't that precious?—was hilarious. Extremely cute boys with extremely expensive hair, Radio Rage played contemporary covers, opening with "Counting Blue Cars" before following with some Enrique Iglesias. The singer looked like DJ Danny Love, but with highlights and an impressive array of poses (including the always popular "Look! My guitar is like a cock!"), and the bassist was wearing leopard pants. They were extremely tight—the musicians, not the pants—and even displayed what a rock critic might call a solid harmonics sense, which is nothing to sneeze at when you're trying to become 'NSync. Here's hoping this is just a lettuce-making side gig for musicians who are a little more musical and a little less Sugar Ray.
Despite the good times to be had when there was still room to do the Hustle, there is nothing so foul as a crowded dance floor, especially when there are enthusiastic dancers (like Cameron Diaz in Charlie's Angels) who are delightful to watch until they clock one in the head four times in a row. Ow! Oof! Ow! Fuck!
Despite rumors that Chuckie the Former Federal Bounty Hunter was in the house, ready to sweep women 'round like the finest Tilt-a-Whirl, I did not dance at the Rosie Flores/Big Sandy show Friday night at the Galaxy Concert Theatre. You see, I was taking this Wellbutrin crap, and you can't drink when you're on it or you'll have a seizure or go into a coma or something, so I was hanging out with some friends who happen to be in AA, and to tell the truth, I just wasn't any fun at all. Hi, could I get a cranberry juice, please? Yeah, it's a real party. Plus, my little anti-depressant friend had given me a headache as piercing as cutesy chanteuse Barbara Ann's voice. Anyway, I couldn't find Chuckie the Former Federal Bounty Hunter, and ever since Li'l Mikey Folmer up and got secretly married, there's nobody else I can swing dance with, seeing as I don't know how.
But not dancing at a Rosie Flores show allows one to spend one's time more profitably: watching her hands. While I'd heard for years about how great the fiftysomething country-billy chick is, it always seemed like she was something good for you, like Life cereal. But spend an evening with her, and you'll want her by your side forever, either as your guitar-shredding wife or as the baby-voiced object of your stalking. Simply, Rosie Flores is the best goddamn thing to hit a stage since the Tiki Tones' goofily gung-ho go-go dancer (my previous pick for Woman I Most Want to Marry) or Jim Morrison's flaccid wee. There's a touch of Bonnie Raitt to her, but she's less staid and more joyfully Peter Pan. And damn, the girl plays guitar.
Hey! What's up with the Raiders winning their slot for the playoffs? I thought the heart-pumping tension of when the team would implode was over for the year after they lost three—or was it seven?—in a row. Now they're back? Don't even tell me I have to watch them lose in the Superbowl. It's too much for my aching little head. Got a Wellbutrin?CommieGirl99@hotmail.com. Thank you!
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