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
Inside, the club looked terrific: after closing for four days in March, they'd reopened with a giant waterfall behind the bar that was so 1987 LA sushi bar I could almost taste the Reaganomics! Also, they moved one of the pool tables and installed overstuffed leather couches. The Kitsch Bar it ain't, but they did a fine job nonetheless. Still, I was so overcome with loathing for the power-play doorgirl and so hung-over from scrambling my kidney the night before, after-hours, at The Space (I refrained from mentioning it before, but I have a kidney infection, too) that I was just going to sit there like a big grumpy lump of unhappiness and immorality. Kind of like Bill Bennett!
But then a good thing happened, and that good thing was Flock of '80s. When they started their set with the anthemic opening keyboard strains of Bon Jovi's "Livin' On a Prayer" (Tommyused to work on the docks, but the union's been on strike, and he's been down on his luck. Poor Tommy! I weep for him!), well, all that grump went right out the door.
I headed over to the bar for a refreshing Coca-Cola. Kyle, the kindly bartender who has been there far too long, said he thought the band was from San Clemente. That couldn't be right: bands from San Clemente are wretched, wretched things—the kind of musical folk for whom being Jumbo Size is a career ambition, if only they could get their shit together.
Kyle then waved away the money I tried to pay him for the Coke, doorgirl, and that is how it's done.
After Bon Jovi, Flock of '80s played The Fix, and then they tuned up Billy Idol's "Dancing With Myself," at which point all the lemmings and sheep in the place (and there weren't many, because 00 Soul was perpetrating at Detroit down the street) began to dance because during the first song of the set, I'd opened the dance floor. Baaaaa! And whatever noise lemmings make! By song four, I was outta there like Liz Taylor at the AIDS dinner folks ponied up a thousand clams to share with her (okay, so it was a year ago. Still!). It's a Pisces thing.The Santa Ana Art Walk. I did this on Saturday, too, but I only had time to see one exhibit (with Claymation video by the almost-famous Eric Stefani, who quit No Doubt just a little too soon) because I had dinner with friends and it took daaaaays. But that's okay because the Art Walk looked boring anyway, and I hate it. While I'm at it, I hate art in general and artists in particular. I. Hate. You. A Mighty Wind. I know everybody thinks the film was so great. I thought it was fine, and sometimes it was funny. But with more than a hundred hours of tape, this was the best stuff they could splice together? It was no Best in Show. Wait for video. Daytime Television. Television is my friend. Daytime television is not. Okay, so that's not actually part of my work. But don't you think it should be? Sweetness and light and a kiss at the end of the rainbow. CommieGirl99@hotmail.com.