By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
Ha, ha! Skeith has a culty sister!
Sunday, we did the Strawberry Festival; allegedly, Garden Grove once had gardens and groves. The festival was full of fat people, up to and certainly including us. We talked about having a pool party and quickly realized it would entail having to see our friends (and ourselves) in bathing costumes and that this would be sad. The Gravitron had duct tape around each spoke of the roof. It was heartening. And if one so chose, one could eat sausage.
That night, we hit various and sundry barbecues—one, at Chris Hall of Papa Byrd's, was supposed to feature a much-anticipated visit by Santa Ana planning-commission jefe Don Cribb, who's currently angelically planning the unparalleled brilliantness of a 37-story building on a two-lane road that's already abulge with traffic, his only concern to compassionately bring shade to the poor folks without air conditioning who live under what will be a glorious sundial. He hadn't showed by the time we left, but there was lamb and the lilting girlishness of "What Are Words Worth" by Tom Tom Club. "I saw them with Blondie!" I told Chris.
"That would be a trick," he said, kind of like a little bitch. Huh? It wasn't Tom Tom Club at all; it was Chicks on Speed, who covered Tom Tom Club without changing one note. It's a whole music movement now—I believe Chris called it Xerox-Core, except he didn't because I just made that up—and instead of being cool for knowing it was Tom Tom Club, I'd just outed myself as ancient. Again.
Having grubbed gloriously, we hit the Canyon Inn; it was the only place I could think of where we'd be fine in cut-offs and flip-flops, and they probably were laying down some fine southern-fried rock!
Even better, it was karaoke night. We assumed there weren't many people waiting to sing, since every third or fourth song, the KJ was laying down his fine baritone on songs that were all either Alice in Chains or Pearl Jam. We were wrong! People were totally waiting to sing, including one lovely miss for whom the KJ kindly left in the vocals. To which she lyp-sanch. (Yes, it is a word . . . now.) It was rad: her mouth was nowhere close to matching the words. Milli Vanillimuch, sweet seŮorita?
Cruelty and perfidy, scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages! I love you all. And fuck you, too.
Better now, thanks for asking. CommieGirl99@hotmail.com.