By Charles Lam
By R. Scott Moxley
By Taylor Hamby
By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By LP Hastings
By Taylor Hamby
Photo by Tenaya HillsIt was one of God's perfect weekends, a perfect storm of a weekend minus the special effects and George Clooney. It was a weekend, in short, of ass.
It was a weekend, in fact, of so much ass—and not a one that wasn't fine and luscious—we were single-handedly cured of our obsession with breasts.
Breasts are so Feb. 1.
Never let it be said that we're stuck with the times.
First, we were inspired. The OC Weekly's Burlesque party at the Galaxy Concert Theatre Friday night (celebrating last week's filthy, impure Heart Day issue) featured many, many girls posing tableaux-vivant style up on the Galaxy's wide stage. Mostly, they bent over and slapped one another with riding crops, which Suparna the Rocket Scientist and I thought was really terribly sweet, although in some cases, they bent over vanity tables and applied blush, and sometimes, they sold lemonade—slowly—before smacking one another some more.
God, this paper is totally Satan's tool. (Many thanks to bitter, defeated ex-congressman Bob Dornan for pointing this out to us oh-so-long ago, along with the necessary reminder that we are responsible for the spread of "infected bodily fluids." French kisses, Bob!)
The party, which would have been the party of the year if we hadn't gone to one the very next night that featured, oh, a concert byTom Fucking Petty, also featured a guest walking around with three inches of ass cleavage showing above her porny lo-jeans and some people who offered to shoot Botoxinto our faces. "We're too young for Botox," I told the lady with the needles full of Botulism, since Suparna is 28 and I am only almost 31 (gifts may be sent care of OC Weekly, 1666 N. Main St., Ste. 500, Santa Ana, CA 92701 on or before Feb. 25! Thank you in advance!). Still talking to the lady and always, but always, polite, I added, "But thank you!"
"We also do collagen, chemical peels . . ." She rattled off a whole list of ways she could help us be less ugly. "Would you be interested in collagen or a chemical peel?" she asked with as close to a frown as she could muster when we seemed uninterested in letting her Frankenstein (or Wildenstein) us up. Listen, bitch: What part of "We're too young" don't you understand?
Then Dita Von Teese came onstage, and the mean lady with the needles was all but forgotten. We were floored. We were staggered. We were expecting more of the excruciatingly hip beauties (like the Velvet Hammer) we've seen in the past, but Dita wasn't trying to outcool us. Instead, she made us proud to be women, even women with all their ribs and non-Victorian waists that allow us all the lung capacity God gave us at birth. We wanted pasties and giant fans made of red feathers, and we wanted, like Dita, to be able to exit a womyn-sized martini glass without falling onto our pelvises.
Falling onto your pelvis is totally not fun.
There was a handsome young man on the dance floor during the show; he wasn't a stranger—he was our new friend with pot! We were just working up our newfound confidence to chat with him when our friend Phil came over and started rubbing our shoulders.
Great. Peter, we'll take Phil for the block!
Afterward, we were chatting with a girlfriend when I pointed out the lesson I had learned from Miss Von Teese. "We don't have to look like that," I said. "We just need to point our ass at people and mean it."
Our friend concurred. "When I want to make love with my husband," she said, "I can't say, 'Honey, let's make love,' or he says no. I have to show him the booty and let him think it's his idea."
Men. Aren't they stupid?
The very next day, we moseyed on over to the Crossroads of the West Gun Showat the Orange County Fairgrounds. There, we did not point our ass—you never point a weapon unless you're willing to fire it—but we did load up on jerky, and I bought a gun for my small buttercup of a son and looked at all the pretty dolls and figurines of piggies. You didn't know there were lots of piggy figurines at gun shows? There are, Blanche. There are. Also? First editions of the compleat works of Teddy Roosevelt, which is actually hella cool, and hardly any Nazi stuff, which was hella disappointing.
Just a few hours later, we had the hottest ticket in town. At least, I did, and the publicist who knew damn well Suparna wasn't my photographer pretended not to notice that she wasn't even lugging a lens. Thank you, publicist lady!
Now, I have been to the St. Regis four times. And every time now, I have watched old mean rich people throw down with the security. It's thrilling to watch, really. Rich people do not take instructions from the help. (The best of the lot came when the Times' society scribe, Ann Conway, threatened not to write about the Waterman's Ball—for charity!—unless her husband was seated at her table immediately! God bless that self-important old hag!)