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 James BunoanI'm dumbfounded. In awe. Perplexed. And apparently, I'm also channeling Cindy Adams. This kind of news can do that to you. Attorney General Bill Lockyer, who's old and fat, done went and knocked up local beauty Nadia Davis! And she married him this week! Nadia, the former Santa Ana School Board member, is more lovingly remembered for representing Arthur Carmona after constipated District Attorney Tony Rackauckas and his minion-whores locked him away for two years for being a Latino kid in a white hood.
Reports suggest that Nadia will stay in Santa Ana (unless she wins Lou "Hapless" Correa's Assembly seat after he's termed out) and Lockyer will remain in beautiful downtown Sacramento. With a baby due this summer, we hope the pair make their home somewhere together so Lockyer can do the right thing and nurse his lovely new bride and their doubtless lovely new baby—at least if the baby takes after her—back to full strength.
* * *
It said it right there in the Weekly's ultra-fab Calendar listings: Jeff Stone's Kick Ass 420 Celebrationwould be celebrating itself all over Fullerton's Back Alley! I had already picked a nasty little scab of a fight with my boyfriend, who then kicked me out of my own house.
A kick-ass 420 celebration was just what I needed!
Half an hour and 23 miles later, the goateed bouncer was just being an ass. Now, I'm not Riviera editor Kedric Francis: I don't need special perks and privileges. It was just the bouncer's tone; he was a hectoring, wannabe cop—and not a courtly, affable one like our favorite sheriff, Mike Carona. "Why don't you have your wallet?" he asked arrogantly. I could have been listening to state Senator Dick "The Skipper" Ackerman. "I left it at home," I pleaded. "But I'm 30."
"Why can't you just go home and get it?" a guy who said he was the manager asked, and now he was sneering, too. I was reminded of a much-less-attractive Deputy DA Susan Kang Schroeder.
Because I live in Long Beach!
They said they were sorry, but they were about as sincere as Assemblyman Todd "Ready for My Closeup" Spitzerin front of a camera. "If the ABC comes in and does a sweep, and they find people without ID, we'll be in a lot of trouble," they lied piously—good morning, Ari Fleischer!—and I didn't argue. I could have crossed the street to the Continental, where, in addition to knowing I'm 30, they have the grace and gallantry to bribe me with the occasional free drink, just like the odious (but entertaining!) Young Americans for Freedom. I declined to throw down with threats; I am not Los Angeles Times society reporter Ann Conway. Instead, consumed with bitterness, I drove home to Long Beach to get my ID. Though it may seem like a long way to go for a simple case of spite, I was menstruating.
* * *
Something more than an hour later, it was unclear whether the band bouncing around inside was actually Jeff Stone and his celebration; the blackboard said, "Squeegee," but then one of the guys from Mirainga said Squeegee was no more because somebody in the band had been tapped to play with former Judas Priest screamer Rob Halford, who penned the irreplaceable "Jugulator," which went a little something like this: Decapitator! Agitator! Menstruator! Good fellater! But he didn't seem too sure of his facts; he kept calling Squeegee "Squeeze." Perhaps it was the 420 band who was no more? I didn't care either way; whatever the Sublime rip-off band was called, they were mellow and musical, and they weren't at all screamy, and my agitated hormones began to unclench. A superfat Mexican dude pumped his arm in the air, which was sweet, and the people inside weren't nearly as unpleasant as the walking attitudes without. Plus, the Back Alley has a really good pinball machine, the kind where the two flippers at the bottom of the machine aren't too terribly far apart so the ball doesn't just fly right down the middle every time while you're as helpless as a helpless crack baby. Also, it has a lot of different ways you can freeze balls for later, so all of a sudden you're playing five balls at once and the adrenalin's kicked into "meth" mode.
Before Mirainga came on to do their Latin-rhythm thang, the between-sets DJ was terrific—he even had a request sheet, and when, with the DJ-as-arteest movement, is the last time you saw one of those? Once Eminem's "Without Me" came on, though, and a white dude with his sweat shirt hood up began skanking next to the turntable, and a tight-bodied little redhead with really good makeup began shimmying sexily for her circle of friends while mouthing all the words with a blasť look, my bile began to surge forth. Honey, I'm sure you're very proud, but we all know the words. M'kay? The bouncer didn't let in Mirainga's drummer, either. Ass.
* * *
"Now I remember the real me," my homegirl Arrissia mused, drinking a Heineken and feeding five-month-old Chloe in the shade of the tent while we watched The Supersuckers from backstage at Fullerton's Earth Day festival. "I'm a VIP!"