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
But then tragedy struck! A different guy played excruciatingly sincere hippie songs in a vein that was indistinguishable from excruciatingly sincere Teen Christ music, and we were forced to gnaw off our own legs to escape!
If I had a hammer.
Look! It's Phil Shane! Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Playing to a ridiculously large crowd of punks and tattooed tuffs at Alex's Barin Long Beach Saturday night, Shane drenched himself in the sweat of love—Phil Shane never ever takes a break!—as his beloved wife, Michlene, smiled beatifically from her usual ringside seat. The crowd didn't seem to know what to make of him for a while, but once he hit his Neil Diamond stride, topped off with some Elvis and Johnny Cash (for which he strapped on his guitar because he doesn't have "Ring of Fire" preprogrammed into his beat box) well, then, they looked a little less perplexed and constipated.
For Phil Shane we have the purest love.
Not so much for the crowd at the Canyon Inn, where we hopped after the raucous "Copacabana"—a terrific high note on which to exit a Shane show. We were hoping the Angels' Adam Kennedy would be there so we could try to talk to him again while he mentally mapped the room's exits.
Oddly, the bar was half-empty (half-full? No) and there weren't the delicious little snack cakes who had been clogging the room the week before.
If trying to find a party two nights before felt like the high school in Richard Linklater's Dazed and Confused, then the childrens at the Inn felt like the high school in Carrie.
The 909 girls were mad-dogging hard, pointing and whispering and then refusing to have the grace to meet our eyes so that we could have the pleasure of getting arrested in a bra brawl. (Bail? $500. ER visit? $1,250. Cathartic self-righteous violence? Priceless.) And even the boys were gossipy little bitches. In fact, it was the boys who started it. Gosh, were we wearing the wrong brand of tennis shoes?
The persecution in the air was just this side of the Costa Mesa 500.
The best defense, of course, is a good offense (I think Karl Rove said that), so before the villagers could pick up their pitchforks, we threw our heads back and laughed merrily while pretending to talk about them even though we weren't because we're actually extremely nice people with no interest in spite or in sullying our karma.
You know, mostly.
We'll be back next week, girls. Kisses!