By Alejandra Loera
By Adam Lovinus
By Gustavo Arellano
By Nate Jackson
By Marcus Alan Goldberg
By Reyan Ali
By Gustavo Arellano
By Nate Jackson
Photo by Sam JonesDespite fantasizing for years about one day becoming a leather-pants-wearing, Wild Turkey-chugging rock goddess of glammed, Courtney Love-meets-Chrissy Hynde proportions, I must face the fact that I am not—and will never be—a rock star. And it's not just because I live in my Gap long and leans, or that I've never quite been able to master the mechanics of chugging, or even that it's criminal to be a rock star when you have brown hair and geek glasses. (Chrissy Hynde-meets-Lisa Loeb? Goo!) Nope. It's that after six straight nights of partying, I'm wasted. Tore up. Exhausted.
Simply put, I'm weak sauce.
But, oh, how I tried! For almost an entire week, I lived like a balls-to-the-wall, bar-hopping, ass-kicking crazy lady. Okay, so maybe threatening to beat up the doucheface I caught outside a bar throwing away a copy of the Weekly–after only glancing at the cover, for fuck's sake!—doesn't technically qualify as ass-kicking, but I did drink whiskey at six in the morning.
It's true! I had heard that Newport's Beach Ball opens at six, so at an hour when I would normally have been allowing my body to metabolize the previous night's Miller Lite pints, my friends and I stumbled into the bar and joined three men already drinking vodka and watching CNN. Smiling hello, we sat down and tried to forget that we all wanted to die.
Coke has caffeine, I remembered, and caffeine would make my tired ass feel fantastic, I reckoned, so I ordered a whiskey and Coke. But here's the funny thing about well whiskey: believe it or not, it's vile! Even at six in the morning! My friends ordered White Russians; I came down with a severe case of drink envy. "It goes down like cereal!" one friend remarked, as I gulped some whiskey and winced; another friend sleepily concurred. "Dude! White Russians at six in the morning! We're, like, rock stars!"
Three hours, one White Russian and a Burger King value meal later, I was cat-napping in the back of my car before work when it occurred to me that real rock stars must live like this all the time. And although I was already planning the "tired party" that I would throw later that night, I also realized that that was just it: I was tired. Wasted. Tore up. Exhausted.
Being a barfly is one thing, but a barfly and a rock star? Impossible!
So while I must sadly leave the alcoholic breakfasts and leather pants to Courtney and Chrissy—and the hot chick-on-chick action to Britney and Madonna—I will nonetheless continue my late-night duties, starting with some jazz, funk and drinks at the Blue Note at 2 J's in Fullerton on Thursday. On Friday, it's off to Costa Mesa to scope out Rain's progressive house offerings during their First Friday celebration, but not before catching the all-girl tribute band Iron Maidens at Hogue Barmichael's.
Saturday finds the college football season in full swing and presents the perfect opportunity to sample Mugs Away's Pink Pussy cocktails while watching Notre Dame pummel Washington State. Later in the evening, if I don't first get kidnapped by crazed Air Supply fans in search of a designated driver for the show at the House of Blues, I'll be at Big Andy's in Costa Mesa for their grand opening–featuring a drink special on "horny margaritas" and DJ Tasoson the tables.
Now, all y'all rock star readers will want to begin the Sabbath with a 6 a.m. White Russian at the Beach Ball—evidently, the best day to share a drunken sunrise with other rock stars. But as for me, I will be sleeping soundly before heading out to Chain Reaction to catch Hey Mercedes.
On Monday, Detroit Bar makes my dreams come true by presenting Fielding and John Wilkes Kissing Booth on the same night. If, like me, you missed these bands' tandem ice-rink show last winter and have been the victim of your friends' countless reveries ever since, please join us.
Tuesday night, unless I can actually find parking outside Que Sera—a damned near impossible feat, as I found out last week—I'll be at the White House in Laguna Beach for Coup d'Etat, a night of underground hip-hop courtesy of DJs Unkle Koab.
And lastly, while Wednesdays are normally reserved for some drinks and laughs at the Red Room, this week an exception will be made: Wilco roll into Hollywood Bowl with their friends R.E.M. Thanks to that adorable Jeff Tweedy and his sigh-worthy, almost-country catalogue of tunes, I'm sure I'll be fantasizing about being a rock star again in no time.
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