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
Paul Frank is Not Your Friend
by James MaloneyFor everybody who's feeling just a small bit creeped-out by the Dominionists' hostile takeover of the FCC(Dominionists are the folk who think our gubmint should be run on Biblical principles, like stoning adulterers); for those of us who think people should be more nude, not less; for people who like cussin' and drinkin' and sinnin'—not to mention performance "happenings" and interpretive dance—on Satiddy nights, there's still hope. We might have to go a bit under the radar once they outlaw fun and sodomy and art and dissent, but this week counted one, two, three, four, five events—though you won't get to hear about them all—of magic and fun. The Satany kind!
For instance? Sunday afternoon at the Que Sera? Oracle's birthday party benefiting the Long Beach Rescue Mission (it's a charity, yo!) was like a whole box of Lucky Charms, featuring Dickboy (Darren the Cop still singing about wanting to kill some fucking bitch, but now, courtesy of former Wonderlover Chris Paul Overall, with melody!), some bad-ass DJ spinning funk and old-school, and the incomparable Wink Musselman doing a country gig but in his usual lounge voice. Hearing a Willie Nelson tune sung in Wink's signature Love Boat-theme croon was a special treat. There were other bands, too, but I think I left. Also, there were meatballs. And the creamed corn.
Creamed corn? But yes! The Croatian Sensation and the Wisconsin Cheesehead (Misses Marianne and Emily, in leotards of terror!) were wrestling in a kiddie pool of creamed corn (for charity,yo!) when Satan-worshiper/son-of-a-preacher-man Johnny Jones walked in. "Hey, where's Shawn?" I asked him after sidling up for my cuddle. "At home," he answered. "Stupid bitch," I concluded. "I knocked her up," he bragged.
There's a devil in Ms. Jones.
Things are weird all over. Not only are perverts procreating and I live in Anaheim, but OC's music-scene patron saint Linda Jemison (the Linda in the former Linda's Doll Hut) is marrying Brad Ziggen (the quiet one) and moving to the Midwest. What is happening to our world? And with Brad leaving and former Assemblyman Ken Maddox out of a job (it doesn't matter that it's cops and firemen contributing to your campaign when you've got a Republican primary fight; to the right-wing nards in this town, cops and firefolks are just union Reds), do you think The Ziggens will give him back his one-time gig?
Sadly, I am informed that Brad plays drums, and Maddox plays bass, so, no. Probably not.
And yes, I called you nards.
Now what have I done with my Bible?
Magics? The Satany kind? Mais oui! The monthly OOTS opening (Out of the Street, yo!) in the ghetto-fabulous industrial park that houses the Hunger Artists theater company was gripping—a group show the likes of which the Laguna Art Museum should be attempting to clone. Small masterpieces of evil and misanthropy lined the walls, with Jason Moloney's I Think I Can't and Paul Frank Is Not Your Friend among two of the more superb. Unfortunately, I can't be more specific because there's no way to be more of a wad than to stand at an opening with a notebook in your hand. Note to colleagues at other publications: the notebook pleads, "Please ask me who I am! Please?"
There were many dozens of cute little geeks, spilling out of the box and caring about art!—and I sat with some Disney cats as we made fun of Moloney for hitting on a trio of tweens during one of his many (many) panic attacks that would occur as regularly as Courtney Love's court dates every time he needed to brave the crowd. He hates people!
I know just how he feels.
The OC Press Club mixer a Thursday or two ago (depending on when you read this) kept its friends close and its enemies closer, as folks from the Weekly and The Orange County Register got together to gladhand and make fun of the LA Times. (Okay, it was I!) They should know better than to not show up, though, eh?
The Register folk were very sweet, though, regaling my dear comrade Mary Reilly with such woebegone questions as "So you guys must have a lot of fun, huh?" And "So that must be really great, right?" And "Wow, so you're not boring, and they let you have lives?" Poor little chickens.
Since I've moved to Anaheim, there has been a trove of really icky bars I've been dying to sneak into. This week's featured icky bar is Captain Bombay's.
Two scotches: $5.50.
The dťcor: nicer than we thought it would be. Mirrors and such.
The big, blue-collary, would-be-cute-but-he's-drunk-at-5-p.m. man throwing his pool cue and hitting the pool table really hard with his balls: yes, we see you have sperm. Lots of sperm. And now we're leaving. As much as we'd love to watch you manhandle your stick and balls some more (loudly!), we just can't condone ill-treating a pool table. That's one of my family's traditional values—unless you're nude and it's part of your performance piece. Then anything goes.