Put a Monkey on Your Socks

An evening in the Paul Frank glow

When my date pulled up to Mum's on Long Beach's Pine Avenue Friday night, I was confused and dismayed. Are we yuppies now?

But no, we were just availing ourselves of Mum's' valets before hitting the salsa place, Mariposa, across the street. We drank good rum and ate good rellenos and tried not to laugh at the guy on keys who was growling out "Smooth" by Santana (featuring Rob Thomas!) a little bit off-key. "I hope they play more Santana!" I said, hopefully, and all my dreams—like my dream that classic rock stations would play more Led Zeppelin and Queen—did come true! "Would you like to dance with me?" my date asked. "No," I answered. But when he suggested Madison a block down the street—"Eddie Reed might be playing," said he—well, a girl can't argue with that. Eddie Reed might be a tattooed old tuff, but he's no flamey Brian Setzer. He doesn't pander. He plays big band like the old folks used to dance to, not a hip, let's-go-to-the-Derby retro swingathon. Nobody at his Madison shows—even the ones who know how to swing—dresses up like a snooded swing slave. Ask him for "Sea of Love," get out on the dance floor, and fake it.

There is nothing to report from the Artists Village opening Saturday night except that it was absolutely mobbed with thousands of people, and there was a particularly bad pottery installation on the promenade where you could pick up a phallic piece for your garden for just a donation, and they were so ugly they actually couldn't give them away. Also, I am at last moving from SnoopTown to Santa Ana—where it's safer—and I fully expect the mayor to throw me a parade. You heard me, Pulido. A parade.

I love a parade.

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