Stupid Tanned Hot Chicks

Always bringin me down!

My face hurts. It's a radish of sun-scorched flesh, and I blame the ladies. Yes, the ladies!

Last Saturday, after 15 whole minutes of deliberation on possible attire for my Club Privatedebut, I settled on a tight black Footloose!tank top and shimmery black arm warmers. The Liquid Lounge had promised hip-hop and '80s music; with a casual reference to the pinnacle of '80s pop-cinema emblazoned across my chest, I figured to be a hit with the men for sure.

For sure!

Approaching the VIP line, I sized up my competition: a blonde in an itsy red plaid skirt and her belly-baring friend, who had clearly started doing sit-ups when she was, like, four years old. No arm warmers on either gal, though. Bring 'em on!

Now, a memo to all interior designers: Blacklights are only acceptable in dorm rooms already decorated with cheap, fluorescent-colored Grateful Dead posters. They do nothing for pale, freckled women in tight, black Footloose! tank tops and arm warmers. Nothing! Within seconds of entering the Lounge, about 80,000 watts of purplish-blue light reduced me to the translucent ghost of Chris Penn's past.

But wait! The blonde schoolgirl and her friend—the obvious former child gymnast—walked in after me and they were smokin'! I thought it peculiar that these gals were immune to the ill effects of the blacklight shower. And then, as I surveyed the packs of bronzed, boozy beauties on the dance floor, it hit me: tans. They all had them, as smooth and golden as caramelized Brie, and I didn't. It didn't even matter that they broke rhythm when the DJ played G&R and Nine Inch Nails—or when he stopped the music because of a skipping disc, for that matter; it's called vinyl, yo!—the blacklights still made them look hot! I wanted to go home, throw on Don Ho and a bikini—I'd been unable to take my eyes off the boogying bro in the blue Hawaiian shirt—and pass out, dreaming drunken sepia-toned visions of a tan I'd never have.

***

All of my previous attempts at tanning resulted in splotchy temporary strawberry patches and more than a few permanent freckles. Nevertheless, on Sunday I nursed my $6-per-shot Jaeger-induced hangover at Seal Beach, soaking in two hours' worth of SPF 45-penetrating rays. I don't know how it is that those lasses achieved their honey-baked shades—because I'm sure, like me, they believe in doing everything naturally—but I bet that in a few days, when I no longer resemble Ted Kennedy, I'll be back to using my porcelain-colored Neutrogena foundation.

So while I spend Thursday night hibernating with a sixer of Red Stripe—I can't worship the sun, but I'll be damned if I can't drink like I do!—and some aloe vera, you ladies and gents better get the soiree started at the Weekly's own Decadence party at the Orange County Museum of Art. Gurgle Vox Cape Cods! Groove to the stylings of DJ Papa Byrd. Sample tasty pupus from the Melting Pot and Wolfgang Puck. Benefiting OCMA's Children's Education Program and AIDS Services Foundation Orange County, the evening promises ample opportunities for charity-driven indulgence, albeit sans any topless trannies.

Speaking of last Friday's Club Obsessionsopening, who knew that the Frat House's employees and patrons follow the word of the Weekly like scripture? Not only did the—erm, fabulously enhanced—dancer induce many a mortally sinful thought with her flower-shaped Nippies, but it also appeared that everyone had read our last cover story. No one wanted to dance—I mean, at all—for fear of dancing alone! Come on, boys! You have to at least bust a move to Kylie! Or hell, Beyoncé, even! It's a crime against all of ass-shaking humanity not to!

Still, failure to dance is more forgivable than, say, the thousands of fucktards who will actually pay to hear John Mayer and the inexplicably famous Counting Crows at Verizon Wireless on Friday, July 18. If you happen to be among these, please—PLEASE—consider Lucky #3 in Stanton that same evening. Why subject yourself to Adam Duritz when you could just listen to karaoke singers howl along with host Rico to songs that any lovestruck or depressed 15-year-old with Peter Pan syndrome could write? Hello, Stanton!

On Saturday, our friends in Long Beach host a different type of sing-along when Jenny Quitter of The Orphans celebrates her birthday—and I mark my return from sunburned exile—at the Prospector. Also on the bill for the night are The Girls, and the bash is rumored to be theparty of the—erm, week—as, according to Ms. Quitter herself, the combination of the two bands will be "like a big group of really sexxxxxxxy hot people! A big ol' hot rock orgy!" Note that it won't exactly be a big group of really sexxxxxxxy hot people—those folks will be at The Pubin La Habra for ladies' night—but it will be just like one. Nice!

But if all this merrymaking somehow ends up making you feel like death—or at least looking like it—then Anaheim's Club Bravo is your destination on Sunday, as it turns into the Chamber, a darkwave/industrial club featuring two-buck "Gothic Bud and Bud Lite." Let's hope that "Gothic" in this case isn't just a clever euphemism for beer that's a few Halloweens past its born-on date. Perhaps Pete Best—billing himself as the fifth Beatle and, if he's anything like Micky Dolenz, probably resembling one of the legion of the undead—will stop by for a drink before heading to San Juan Capistrano for his show at the Coach House on Monday.

1
 
2
 
All
 
Next Page »
 
My Voice Nation Help
0 comments
 
Anaheim Concert Tickets

Concert Calendar

  • November
  • Wed
    26
  • Thu
    27
  • Fri
    28
  • Sat
    29
  • Sun
    30
  • Mon
    1
  • Tue
    2
Loading...