The place: the women's room, the Orange County Museum of Art. The occasion: OC Weekly's Decadence bash. The people two random strangers and I were making fun of: all the girls with the balloony, 600-cc funbags hanging from their frail little shoulders, which is to say everyone.
But you know what your mama always said: if you don't have anything nice to say, make sure the other stalls are empty first.
The party was swell: Cornblastafrom Shave was barbacking for the Vox Vodka table, and Wolfgang Puck had fabulous, sodden chocolate cherries. Papa Byrd was DJing, and our friends formerly from Save Ferris played with their new, somewhat DaveWakeling-y Starpool. In fact, it was a perfect party if you didn't count the people. Not just the hundreds of funbagged women were shooting dirty looks at any girls in last season's Barbie pink dresses: the guys were, too.
As a favor to a person pouring drinks, I began to chat with a woman who had a company to which I would surely want to give free ink. I introduced myself. "Your husband said you do ____," said I. She looked at me, and paused a moment. "Who do you know?" she asked, lips pursed and brow as close to furrowed as it could get. Perfect. I thought about it. God damn! I don't know anybody!