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
Babe-raham Lincoln was sitting next to the fire pit, gal-pal Albert Einsteinat her side. The two, who couldn't have been 22, were sopping up the love at the Dead Celebrities Ball.
Long Beach's favorite underground warehouse on the industrial-port side of town was having another debauched party. How debauched? Well, not that debauched, really. The days since one of the small rooms in The Space held nothing but a filthy mattress on the floor are long gone—about the time the Space went and got actual permits and had to start checking ID and hiring private security to hold back the thuggier element that was starting some minor gangland shit. To further infuriate the artists and rock stars who run the place, the gangstas were picking their stupid fights without coming dressed in theme!
Saturday night's ball was love-festing all over the place, though, with not two but four stages populated by folks such as the omnipresent Wonderlove, whose lead singer, Chris Paul Overall, a dandy Freddie Mercury, started the set with an a capella "Bohemian Rhapsody." On the second stage, Lo Fi Champion wore matching suits and got epilepsy during their new song, "She's Electric," which had every girl in the place testing the strength of her bra as she pogoed.
The main stage presented folks such as the Jay Buchanan Band and a reunited Ruby Diver, who unfortunately have shed the funk like gorgeous, tan singer Paula shed whatever was left of her baby fat. She's toned like Madonna now, though she's considerably less old. Only on "Kill You If You Leave," which is the best song in the world after the lilting Dolly original of "I Will Always Love You"—no, not the bloated, graceless Whitney Houston massacre of the song—did the band get its yowls back. The rest of the time, they acted weird and arty, like they were Diamanda Galasat Irving Plaza, with a little Nina Hagenthrown in.
In the crowd, a fetching Carmen Mirandamust have felt like four-day-old Krispy Kremes after seeing luscious and extravagant Dibs girlfriend Kelly O dressed as the same, but better and homemade. There were at least three Andy Warhols, too (including a chick), and a wonderfully pudgy and effete Liberace, several Kurt Cobains and Sid Viciousae, a wrestling-suited Andre the Giant I mistook for Andy Kaufman, ethereal-voiced LBC backup singer Oracle as a pitch-perfect Lucille Ball, and a dead-on Veronica Lake, though everyone thought I was Marilyn Monroeinstead. At least they were sort of in the ballpark this time; last time, at the Space's TV party, I was a Powerpuff Girl, and everyone thought I was Minnie Mouse. It was totally demoralizing.
"Are you an Angels fan?" Lisa asked coolly, holding court on the patio at Garf's during Game One. It was a trick question, and we answered it correctly. "We're jumping on the bandwagon," pretty Haley and I said, rather than trying to pass ourselves off as long-suffering bleeders of Angel red, and as long as we admitted it, we were forgiven. Lisa, a pretty brunette, fielded our questions for the rest of the game. What's a breaking ball? A sacrifice? Is Ben Weber having an attack of some kind when he pitches that way? Will he be all right? When she wasn't patiently explaining the game, Lisa was yelling at one of the many, many televisions. She would go purple whenever she saw a celebrity on the screen. "Breaking your ankles jumping on the bandwagon?" she screamed at Danny DeVito. "Funny, I don't remember seeing you at any Angels games before this, you little shit!" She clarified her remark, as friendly waitresses came out to sit down for a smoke: "And I mean that literally!"
Love for various players was physical—and even-handed. Someone remarked on what Barry Bonds would be like in bed. Contemplative, satisfied silence followed, and I wouldn't have been surprised if someone started purring. Pouty-lipped Tim Salmon was universally admired, even though we all acknowledged he's fat. David Eckstein was adored, but Benjie Molina—not so much. Mostly I wanted to go have beers with Giants manager Dusty Baker (I have tons of experience drinking with the Enemy). He looks fun.
Game Two was better, but I watched it at home, and I'm not allowed to write about watching TV at home—like last weekend, when I sat home on Friday night and watched the Mrs. America pageant, the most totally rocking part of which was the state-costume contest. Mrs. South Dakota came out in leather to represent the Sturgis bike rally, and Mrs. Nebraska was dressed as the country's largest underground aquifer. I was so excited I almost dropped my bong.
Last Tuesday, I threw up all over the John Anson Ford Theaterwhile Patty Griffin was playing her beautifully crafted story songs. It's a good thing I'm not allowed to write about things that happen in LA—like when I went there on Friday to see terrifying, toothless felon Unknown Hinson at the Key Club. We had been promised a debauched party afterward, but we wouldn't have wanted to have a debauched party with any of the invite-only crowd at the club, except for this one brunette girl who looked like she'd get totally good coke and then have girl-on-girl makeout sessions. Hot!CommieGirl99@hotmail.com.