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
Photo by Matt OttoWell! Here I was, just about boring myself to death, pondering back on my week and wondering what on earth I was going to make up this time, when our friendly Neighborhood Crime Fightersarrived on my doorstep. They're sweet and charming children, really, but in a beautiful moment of unclear on the concept, they once actually came to tell me my son called them tattletales.
This time, they came to tell me someone had left a note on my car. A love note, perhaps? I've gotten those, you know, as I am universally acknowledged to be positively swamp-hot. There it was! It was taped on the back of my car with neatly snipped packaging tape—this was someone who lived nearby, someone who could go and premeditatedly gather the materials proper for the job, not someone leaving a note with lip liner and used ATM receipts! And it said, and I quote,
Love a gay. . . . are a gay!!!
Yeah. They got me. I am totally a gay! Now, my Santa Ana neighborhood is about an even mix of young, second-or-more-generation Latino families and old, mean, white people. Having given this considerable thought, I have to hand the credit for this to Whitey. Sure, my old white neighbor across the street brought over some rose food and actually began feeding my roses after I walked over to inquire why his were so lovely and mine so sad. And it's not like Latino families don't often harbor some homophobia. But it was the pride of workmanship—the "Fuck You!" and "Kerry Lover" retraced several times to create a boldface effect; the "Love a gay. . . . are a gay!!!" writ smaller so that all lines were both right and left justified, creating a pleasing symmetry; the carefully cut tape and the straightness of the line after they adhered it right above my Jenna Bush Stole My ID bumper sticker, thus ensuring that this small act of vandalism didn't actually, you know, vandalize anything. This was somebody's granny, possibly our kindly neighborhood Assemblies of God one. They get awfully het up about the fags, you know.
But Commie Mom, who is a third-grade teacher and knows a thing or two about vandalism, insists it is always, but always, the perp you least expect, so it's probably a neighborhood fag.
But while as fun and thrilling as all this is, if I wanted to, I could get all pontificatey on one simple fact: starting the day I put my John Kerry bumper sticker on the back of my cute li'l sorority-girl clown car, I've been getting screamed at on the freeways, always by people standing up and leaning out their window as they drive (which is really quite dangerous, you know), and they all tell me the same thing—what The New York Timescoyly referred to as "an anatomical sexual impossibility" after Dick Cheney said the same thing. Yeah, you got it! To fuck myself! Apparently, people get very, very angry if you don't vote the way you're told. Perhaps they should move to Cuba: once, in Silver Lake, two older, sharply suited Afro-Cubanstold me Fidel Castro killed 63,000 of his countrymen, and that if you don't vote for him, he shoots you. (Then Mario the Salvadoran bartender leaned in to me. "Miami Cubans are bullshit," he told me, and then he bought me a strawberry margarita.) Anyway, as surprised as I was to hear Castro shoots you if you don't vote for him, I was more surprised to realize he even bothers with elections; he should just get the CEO of Diebold ("I am committed to helping Ohio deliver its electoral votes to the president next year") to supply him with voting machines and then program them any way he wants, just like Bush & Co. will do this year so they won't have to declare martial law.
I left my deathly ill small buttercup of a son in the capable hands of Commie Mom and went to party (as a verb) at the Weekly's Decadence party Thursday, July 15. In the parking lot at the Radisson Newport Beach, a stunning brunet asked me, "Who's Jenna Bush?" I was nonplused. "Um, the President's daughter?" Blank look. "You know . . . the drunk one?" Nothing.
At least he didn't ask me who John Kerry was. People have, you know.
Inside the party, the men were your typical sharks circling 'round guppies, except when the guppie in question was me. Apparently, I'm less swamp-hot than I thought. Still, there were drinks, most notably Dalmore scotch, and it was free. Also, there were blondes in white leather pants slit up to the ass, which is so totally Heather Locklear, and pretty La Cavebartendrixae, which is so totally my new favorite word.
People were very pretty, and no one really talked to me. Maybe I had the stench of deathly illness on me. It's very wearying, you know.
My small buttercup? We were at Roy'sin Fashion Island for an obscene fifth-anniversary dinner when he became ill. Never fear: the two had nothing to do with each other, and the magnificent Hawaiian food at Roy's has not become a hotbed of ptomaine. I could just tell my boy was off somehow because he barely touched his caviar! But here's something funny: the friend with whom we dined totally chastised my son for being a downer (my boy had been disappointed with the fruit punch—served grown-up-style with fresh juices in soda water instead of as a big insulin shock like Hi-C—and looked mildly bummed by everything else), and it turned out my son was just beginning a harrowing six-day illness!