By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
Photo by James BunoanOh, the week I had! The dream encounters and rampant fabulousness! Go ahead: be jealous. Be very jealous.
I spent the week in bed.
Now, before you send me any of your smutty, filthy letters (send those to Steve Loweryat email@example.com!) know that I was in bed alone. My mother thinks my general sickliness is because I'm a Pisces. "You and Liz Taylor!" she keeps clucking. "Weird things happen to you!"
Some of you may remember my death-defying encounter with a harrowing ovarian cyst a year or two ago. The very careful reader will also remember I managed to break my middle finger dead-sober after dining with Little Richard. (It was the very insensible—okay, hookery—shoes.) This time, I've managed to beat both those things.
I sprained my back. And how? Sitting at my computer, working on my book.
I'm really out of shape.
Oh, the book? Thank you for asking! Well, you'll be shocked to learn it's about me, and when it is completed and the bidding war has left me wealthy and unable to deal psychologically with my skyrocketing fame and probably addicted to cocaine and Colombian pool boys—ah, the sweet memory of Newport Beach socialite Tina Schafnitz fills my being like warm maple syrup—I will leave you all behind in a hot second. Ciao, darlings! Bye-bye now!
By Friday, as-yet unwealthy and not quite addicted to the Vicodin and muscle relaxants the goodly ER doc had prescribed in copious numbers (but getting close!) and despite my general bedridden-ness and dishevelment, the siren call of work raised its voice. It was the police siren of work, actually, not the good kind with the half-naked hot chicks sunning themselves on rocks in the sea, half-naked and hot and singing and stuff. In fairness to my editor, lest you think that I am a child sweatshop worker and he is Kathie Lee, I didn't mention to him I was sick and needed the weekend off. You know me: I'm not one to complain!
Here are all the ways work sucked, and I mean really, tremendously filled me with loathing and hatred for all of humanity, the wormy scourge of this beautiful orb God so stupidly placed in its slimy little worm-scourge hands. Stupid God!Jumbo Size.The excrementiousness of this band is unfathomable; it even defies my powers of description, and everyone knows that I am fabulously describey. Opening for The Dickiesat diPiazzaFriday night, the "punk" "band" mangled eardrums with its putrid attempts at sound until I was finally, despite the warnings on the bottles of Vicodin and muscle relaxants, driven to drink. Did the alcohol help? Did it perhaps make me high and woozy and unable to operate heavy machinery? No, it just made me feel bloated and gassy. Leave it to the horrid, Dick Cheney-size ugliness of Jumbo Size to ruin what should have been a very enjoyable illicit mixing of narcotics and booze. By the time the Dickies came on, I was so overwrought by the sonic beating (and not in a good way) I'd just received I could stay for only two songs. During those two songs, the goofy, warmhearted old (old!) band declined to josh around with the audience and show off their vaunted penis puppets while covering The Who's "See Me, Touch Me." Maybe that was coming later, but I wasn't sticking around to find out. I know. I'm fired. For some reason, the Dickies just played music, and for some reason, they sounded kind of like Blink-182. Despite the hideousness of all that, there were two lifelines: photographer James Bunoan's hot chick, Brandy, was warm and chatty, and I clung to her as to a bottle of Scotch, and Marilyn diPiazza, the punky proprietress, said many shocking things to me about a certain rock-star-girl's dirty, skanky pussy! And who would want to stick anything in that?! And she also opined on various loved ones who she lovingly said needed desperately to get fucked. Marilyn is a treasure. The Dickies, I hear, will be touring with The Misfits and The Damned. So far as I know, Sum 41 is not on the bill. Rain. You know, Costa Mesa's Tiki Bar was really a pit. I hated that freaking place. So when I found out from reading The Orange County Register's nightlife codger Barry Koltnow's indispensable column (which is usually about Azteca or Martini Blues, but in this case made an exception) that the management had changed and they'd depitted it, I decamped there Saturday night with all the haste my crippled self could manage. Flock of '80s was playing! "Ten dollars," said the door bitch. I was very nice; I was here to cover the place for my nightlife column in the OC Weekly. "We advertise in the Weekly," she informed me dourly. "I haven't been given any instructions to let you in." After about seven minutes, wherein I fetched a paper and showed her the column and explained that, yes, I was covering the club, but, no, I wasn't writing a cover story, she grudgingly let me enter. I know. You think I think I'm real special and shouldn't have to pay anywhere. You know what? I shouldn't.