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
I don't want to denigrate OC's starfucking possibilities—all you have to do is read the near-brushes with near-fame in "Celebrity I Saw U" from Seattle's fabulous alt.-weekly The Stranger (www.thestranger.com) to realize we have it a lot better than most. Here, if we go to the right hotel openings, we can usually at least spot John Stamos and one of the coppers from Law & Order reruns a couple of hundred yards away. And of course there's Dennis Rodman and, um . . . Well, that's about it. I don't think Mamie Van Doren leaves the house much anymore.
But take a small jaunt up the 405 to the 710 to the 5 to the 101, and wangle yourself an invite to the private pre-opening for Marilyn Manson's watercolors at Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions, and you're in a whole 'nother galaxy—the kind of galaxy where every guest used to be in The Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Tall drink of water Cher Greenleaf and I ran into Long Beach lowbrow artist The Pizz, who wasn't above blindsiding people like Manson's lovely (and snowy-pale) pinup girlfriend, Dita Von Teese, or bizarro actor Crispin Glover. He drew the line, though, at my suggestion that he accost the Red Hot Chili Peppers' Flea with the anecdote of how my high school best friend once spent a weekend with him and was so traumatized by the ensuing events that she wouldn't even tell me what happened. And she'll try anything. "He's here with his wife," the Pizz noted. But if she doesn't know about Flea's freaky sexings, who does?
As Cher stood by the door, Chris Cornell of Soundgarden touched her on the arm and asked how she was doing. Luckily, he kept walking after the brief contact so she wouldn't have to come up with a witty rejoinder between her blushes and giggles. Apparently, Cher feels about Soundgarden the way I feel about Luke and Owen Wilson. Mmmm, brothers.
Also perilously close to us as we waited for the bathroom were Nicolas Cage and Lisa Marie Presley, Andy Dick (who was terribly sweet and very gay and gave my little brother his home number), and a short, round young man with curly hair and glasses. "I don't know who that little guy is," the Pizz said, "but he's getting his picture taken a whole lot." That's because he's Jack Osbourne, Pizz.
Several glasses of expensive but gross champagne later, I had graduated from refusing to gawk to actually trotting after famous people as fast as my fabulously chic spikes would carry me. "You look famous, but I don't know who you are," I told a cute, clean-cut, blond guy in a natty black suit and red tie. "My name's Matt Sorum," he said. It sounded familiar. "I used to be in a band called Guns N' Roses." Then he told me I wasn't wearing a bra. You know what? He was right! Having correctly assessed the state of my breasts, he asked what we were doing there. "Starfucking," I said. "But not star fucking. Just, you know, starfucking!"
"Where does that leave us?" he asked.
"Uh, er, ffffl," said I. Mmmm, witty rejoinders.
The opening was emptying, so Cher and I followed some of the folks around the corner to Nacional. "Are you with them?" the bouncer asked. "Yes," said we and glided right in. But they didn't have Bud or Coor's Light, and our Red Stripe and Amstel cost $6 apiece, and all the folks in the twee bar were snooty and unfamous, and we really might as well just have been in Newport, so we decadently left our half-drunk $6 beers and scrammed.
Oh. And Manson's watercolors were surprisingly good.
"Why are you girls leaving?" the longhaired guy on the cell phone outside Lake Forest's The Drink was moaning Saturday night. Well, we had stayed too long at La Jolla's The Spot, where we had gone to escape the Museum of Contemporary Art San Diego opening for the Christoretrospective because it had viscerally pissed off my sister, as his wrapped trees and islands and Bundestags suggested secrets, and she doesn't like secrets. But his umbrellas that killed a guy? They were okay. At the Spot, we ate an expensive, wilted dinner and chatted with a Border Patrolman who had converted to Eastern Orthodox and didn't like his mother; Joe was complex. So while we were interrogating Joe about the worst epithets the Border Patrol has for illegal aliens ("Tonks," from "Tonkinese," or Chinese people crossing the Mexican border), we just missed Wonderlove at Gypsy Lounge. Linda Jemison, Wonderlove's manager, assures me it was the best show they've ever had. Ever? "Definitely top three," she averred. Stupid Christo.
But the longhaired guy in the strip mall housing not just Gypsy Love and the Drink but also Captain Cream's house of flesh was not one to let go easily. "Let's go smoke some weed and do some blow!" he shouted to us, not the least bit temptingly. He was doing his best, but even his avowal that he was The Lizard King wasn't enough to get him starfucked. Anyway, isn't Ian Astbury the Lizard King these days?
We popped in to Captain Cream's, but that pissed off my sister, too—although not as badly as Christo had. Mostly, it just made her sad.
Friday, I checked in to make sure that several of my favorite places are still standing despite my absence last month. Bamboo Terrace? Check, and brimming with cute, well-heeled little kids making an appearance for the poppy Psychic Heart. DiPiazza's? Full of tired rap/rock from the Bredrin Daddies, who are practically the Stones they're so old and married. And the Blue Cafť? Preparing to receive the terrifying Unknown Hinson onto its stage next month. And who's got a blind date with the toothless, white-eyed felon responsible for such country gems as "Put Out or Get Out," "Fish Camp Woman" and "Pregnant Again"? That's right! Moi! Let the starfucking begin.CommieGirl99@hotmail.com. Thank you!