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
Photo by Rebecca Schoenkopf Oy! Such a week! The large lovely ladies I lauded last week—Jesus, I'm starting to sound like a CSNY song!—did not take kindly, apparently, to my calling them chic, pretty, with the cleavage of five strong women, with a little more of her to love, Rabelaisian, active, driv[ing] the men wild with unspent lust, sexy, juicy, with slits cut to the farthest reaches of the upper thigh, and nymphs escaped from Bedlam.
Nope. Letters have been pouring in by the several, and every one of them but one called last week's column on the ButterFly Lounge at Costa Mesa's Lion's Den Saturday nights ($10) insulting, degrading, mean-spirited, and you obviously have food issues.
They said stupid stuff too—like why was I teasing them about brownies?—when in that passage I was clearly making fun of sorority girls, not fat chicks, and if I can no longer make fun of sorority girls, I will quit in protest! Nope, as far as the Big Beautiful Women, I was nice! I was funny! I couldn't have been any more BBW-affirming if I were Oprah Winfrey! Like this: You go, girls!
Obviously, the BBW are merely playa-hatin' on me for bein' so fine, and, you know, skinny and slim and slender and stuff. I call reverse discrimination meanness on that!
Meanwhile, in the week's other major time-suck, Senator Trent Lott got himself in a big kosher pickle for allegedly, possibly being a big, dirty bigot at a time in the news cycle when people had tired of hearing about Michael Jackson dangling his son off that balcony. The little contretemps took a few days to pick up steam, as it had completely slipped the minds of the media and Tom Daschle that they are in fact permitted under our constitutionally endowed freedoms of speech and the press—for now!—to criticize members of the majority party. Does Supreme Attorney General Overlord Ashcroftknow about this? And mightn't it be time to re-enact our old friends the Alienand Sedition Acts? I think it might!
Enough about beeyootiful bountiful honeys and big, fat Trent Lott! How about a little Lo Fi Champion? Everyone's favorite wanna-Mods played to a crowd at King Neptune's Friday night that was half hipster and half Rohypnol.Neptune's is a fabulous, compulsive-obsessive bar with personality, but it's also about 80 percent man. They can stare disturbingly when you're as fine and skinny and slim and slender and stuff as I am! Luckily, there were some Lo Fi girls there to take the pressure off fine ol' me; Veronica Escobar was there in a fresh, new Pat Benatar haircut (but sexy!) and a cool Flashdance man suit. I waited for her to take off her jacket to reveal a braless dickey beneath (not to mention that slutty way she tongued her lobster; remember?), but sadly it was not to be. Other girls were pretty too.
Preceding the Champion, R Scott's Helmut Stein Experience was all musical and tight, playing something suspiciously jazz-like. People liked them.
At The Pizz's art opening at the StarlightSaturday night, Costa Mesa's way-more-famous-than-Mossimo designer Paul Frank got his picture taken by a little Asian dude from Thrasher Magazine, and people stood on the cool little patio out back and drank good punch. I didn't see any other famous people—what, no lo-art-lover Nicolas Cage sans the tiny and pinch-faced Lisa Marie?—and the lo-art crowd was terribly interested in the Starlight's vintage matchbooks and vintage hats and vintage end tables, but they liked the Pizz's work too. It's very T & A, like Robt. Williams, but without the fart jokes.
And is a weekend complete without the underground partying of The Space? Deep in the dirtily belching port, the warehouse-away-from-home hosted its seven thousandth party Saturday night since its inception, oh, three years ago? This one—The Space: The Final Frontier—had much worse music than usual and fewer girls dressed in theme, though I blame the non-nudity on the threat of rain that kept most people sensibly covered up. But with the much worse music (I don't know what or who the Satan-on-chili screechings were supposed to be, but they were boring through sheetrock) came a much lower price! For just $5, you could come in and make friends with beautiful girls in glittery body suits and a woman who looked like a member of KISS—not Gene Simmons or Peter Criss because Peter Criss was the cat and everybody knows what Gene Simmons looks like, ew!, but we couldn't remember the other two. Right. And I looked very stupid and people were laughing at me because the latex body paint I'd put on my face had directions saying not to put it on your mouth, so I drew a rather large circle around my mouth to keep it latex-body-paint-free, and you know what? Under the black light, it looked totally Al Jolson. But not like, you know, Trent Lott.
Happy Christmas, y'all! Last in a terribly helpful series on what to get cheap and late. All items can be purchased at As Seen On TV at the Block at Orange: