By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By Nick Schou
By Gustavo Arellano
By Gustavo Arellano
By Steve Lowery
By R. Scott Moxley
It was a dark and rainy night, and I was weary and had a really painful post-facial pimple in the middle of my chin, though the rest of my skin was shockingly soft and positively glimmery. I was traveling all the way home from Target, in need of soup. Sure, it sounds like the beginning of a Christmas-miracle story, and it was, if you really want to stretch the definition of miracle—you know, like the planners of the El Toro International Airport stretch the definition of safe.
Nonetheless, as I was passing diPiazza's Restaurant, I remembered that they had soup, though it was most likely to be minestrone. I was more in the mood for a nice carrot-ginger, but it would have to do. Well, aside from the miraculousness of the diPiazza's minestrone soup (it was chunky with herbs, and I've never had its equal), the place was packed with parties of 16 or 20, stuffing themselves with fancy pizzas and yammering happily. There was an odd mix in the restaurant of George Argyros-size fat old guys watching the Ravens game (boo, Ravens!), mop-topped Mods, and damn dirty hippies. And onstage, a band was lilting away like they were The Monkees—or maybe Paul & Lara. Quiet is the new loud, you know. I read that somewhere, so it must be true.
The foxy singer of Scarlet Crush was stressing, though. They were up next, yet he was the only member of his band present. D'oh! But I wasn't too concerned: I was thoroughly enjoying flitting back and forth between former National People's Gangsters Deyo and Chad (also of The Fuzz) sitting at the bar and a bunch of damn dirty hippies holding court on the smoking patio. Deyo and Chad were telling awesome tour stories involving Washington police with guns drawn, a motorhome that had run out of gas, and a speed freak in a stolen Toyota. The cops, after having them assume the position, prone on the ground, apologized in a friendly manner and escorted them to the nearest town, sirens blazing, to ensure they would make it all the way. Then we talked about Jewish singles mixers and drank scotch.
The damn dirty hippies, in the meantime, were talking about drum circles and Rainbow Family gatherings.
Both groups had many tales about the weed.
The diPiazzas, by the way, have found a terrific method of emptying the joint at the ridiculously early time of 11 p.m. (a curfew courtesy of the SnoopTown City Council): they played Britney Spears' "I'ma Slave 4 U" at decibels once reserved for driving Manuel Noriega from his Panama City compound.
I was going to do this really funny thing and review Disney's Jungle Adventure on Ice at the Arrowhead Pond of Anaheim as though it were a dance program. I was going to be all academic and unreadable and shit. But then I remembered that the only dance term I know is pas de deux, and I couldn't figure out how to make that a plural. However! I did take many notes on the program, like "The monkeys are doing that boob-shakey thing." And "Simba dances very gaily, and I mean that in a homosexual way." And "Tarzan looks like Anthony Kiedis and not nearly as gay as Mowgli." And "Nala resembles a dead slab of beef during arched-ribcage overhead spin." Don't get me wrong: Nala was hot, with a flat, lean upper body and a high, round ass. If I were a dude—which I'm not—I'd be all over that lioness. It was just the color of the costume (kind of a mottled pinky gray) and the graceful way all her bones stuck out. Yup, definitely dead. Thanks to the folks at Disney; my young buttercup of a son was in an ice castle in the sky, even though "My Own Home" from The Jungle Book was updated to sound like an Enrique Iglesias song. He liked the elephants best.
The 12 Bars of Fullerton was a raging success for the Hawaiian Shirt Club—a gang of roving electricians and talent bookers who take their drinking seriously. The French people at the Cellar (No. 2 on the route) were very rude and wouldn't let us in, but the bartender at Mulberry Street (No. 5, or maybe it was 6) bought the first 30 beers for the group when we walked in. And the singer at Stubrik's kept doing this George Clinton thing in which he'd chant things that either didn't make any sense or were really veiled references to cunnilingus. I believe one was "Who likes to eat his woman's pussy out?" but I may be wrong. Also, I think he may have said something about muff-diving. If he didn't, he should have.
I was going to find out what some famous peeps resolved for themselves this fine New Year's (and were you ever happier to get rid of a year in your life?). Since finding out would have involved calling them and reporting and such, I chose instead to offer you all this humble list of what they should have resolved. (Plus, in former Santa Ana Councilman Ted Moreno's case, actually finding out would have required calling a state prison and, given the anti-crime hard-on of politicians like Moreno, it's now legal for state corrections officers to refuse media inquiries! Ewww!)Ted Moreno: Since born-again Christianity led directly to him going up the river (he only took those bribes because he needed the money to defeat the degenerate homosexuals who were taking over Santa Ana), ol' Ted should take advantage of one of the prison industry's strengths—converting people to Islam. Santa Ana Artists Village: This is the year to stop licking Don Cribb's ass. There's nothing left to name after him. Me: I resolve to be even more perfect in every way.