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 such a delight sitting fat and naked in bed, eating Fluffernutter from the jar and watching the Simon/Davis fisticuffs on KTLA Monday. I mean, just imagine: if the LA Times' parent company didn't own the TV station on which the "gubernatorial" "debate" was airing, we might have ended up with KNBC interrupting its soap operas with programming in the public interest and dunderheaded anchor Paul Moyer doing the moderating honors. Instead—and luckily—this fell to KTLA's really smart-for-TV Hal Fishman. I once saw Fishman ask a thoughtful follow-up question of one of his on-air reporters that required actual analysis of and insight into the news story the reporter had just presented. Her answer: "Uh, I'm sorry?"
The debate itself was wonderfully hostile, with even the questioners—like the Times' editorial page editor Janet Clayton—getting in their licks. Her question to Governor Gray Davis boiled down to "Why does everyone hate you?" The dour Gov responded with some flat jokes about how dull he is. "I didn't ask you about your dullness," she spat. I swear, it was like the West Bank in there—without any pesky Jews or Arabs or Green Party candidates, of course. As for Republican challenger Bill Simon (full disclosure: blah, blah, blah, my boyfriend, Simon campaign, blah, blah, etc.), he still isn't sure what causes global warming (a couple of weeks ago, he was questioning whether it existed, but by then, even George W. Bush had admitted as much, with the shoulder-shrug that it's too late to do anything about it now) and so thinks tighter emissions standards would be "ineffective globally." That's why he opposes them; nothin' to do with the automakers 'tall.
But the best part of the debate may have come before it even began, as a teaser for the preceding Jenny Jones begged, "If you think your big-breasted teen daughter is obsessed with sex, call . . ." With all due props to the First Amendment, why is it legal to pimp out your teen daughter on national TV? And why didn't Simon pin that on Davis, too?
Huddle bartendrix Dana Wildes and I couldn't figure out where all the damn Halos fans were hiding Saturday afternoon, as the team prepared miraculously to stop sucking. There were only a couple of old guys at Cassidy's on the Newport Peninsula. There were even fewer at Newport's The Alley. And then we popped into Hooters. Oh, yes. Now we get it. Being in a Hooters is fun (if you're with the right accomplice); it allows you to go undercover (they probably all assume you're lesbians or off-duty lap-dancers) and steep yourself in the world of men without shame. In a titty bar, guys are just creepy and silent; nobody's actually having a good time. But add orange nylon ass-shorts and goofy signs on the wall about all things ta-ta and lots and lots of televisions showing sweaty men grabbing one another and falling, panting, to the ground, and men are creepy and jovial. This is a great improvement. One man with a jaw working overtime sent us over a couple of drinks; a few minutes later, he was downstairs talking to another patron. "My girl's not home, dude," the patron replied. "I'm still working on it for ya." It was only like 3:30 p.m. Who does coke before 8? Gross!
I sped up to the Ketch right across the street from The Big A (if they're still calling it that these days; doesn't it have any beneficent corporate partner?) to watch thrilled Angels fans hoot and holler and occasionally pump their fists in the air after the game. Lovely, it was, seeing all the long-suffering dudes and the wives they'd dutifully brought to the game get a chance to finally go ape-shit, except they didn't really. Of course, the streets were crawling with cruising fuzz. Don't they realize that people in Anaheim just don't riot?
Lake Forest's Gypsy Lounge was crawling Saturday night with tattooed tuffs for what was billed as the Linda's Doll Hut Reunion. Of course, there still is a Doll Hut in Anaheim, but Linda is helping to promote Tennessee felon Unknown Hinson on his first trip through the Southland and had booked him into the Gypsy with bona fide Doll Hut stars Flock of Goo Goo and All the Madmen.
When Unknown had to cancel the gig due to a serious family emergency for one of his band mates, Linda replaced him with Long Beach's The Dibs. It was probably better that way. Hanging out were the same people I see everywhere, including Pauly With the Big Mustaches, La Femme Cassandra (always at the ready with hair-care tips), tall drink of water Cher Greenleaf and oft-crabby Primo. Dibs' girlfriend Kelly O was sexy as hell in a ridiculous top hat, and Darrenfrom Burnin' Groove had a stunning blonde looking miserable at his side. All the Madmen's set lasted four days, so we could only stay for two Dibs songs before the emissions in the club gave us cancer and my new pal Deep Travis and I had to jet. Luckily, the Dibs play every 12 minutes somewhere in Long Beach, so we can catch them any time. But Flock of Goo Goo? They're as rare as Bigfoot sightings. Damn you, All the Madmen!
Friday, after the old man had hit the Angels game without dutifully bringing me (full disclosure: Republican, campaign, ad nauseam), we headed to Alex's in the LBC. He had never been to the punk rock treasure (great jukebox, stylish décor, little kids that make the rest of us feel a thousand years old), and he was embarrassingly excited when Stiff Little Fingers came over the speakers. It took him a moment to realize nobody else was excited because they were all 12 years old, and then he knew what the rest of us have always known: little kids suck all the joy out of a place. We left.
Luckily, Club Broadway, a lesbian bar full of the most-mulleted dykes in history, was ready to rock his world. "I love lesbians!" he told me, after a group of them kept touching him and telling him what good energy he had and being eager to hear about the Angels game in minute detail. "But not in a Penthouse Forum way! Like they're dudes!" While I was out smoking, they all did the Chicken Dance (he denied the Chicken Dance in the morning like Peter denied Christ), and the lesbians two-stepped to everything, including The Clash. Then there was a big chick fight, for reals, but not like in Penthouse Forum. For reals.
WHO'S GOT A MULLET? COMMIEGIRL99@HOTMAIL.COM