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
There I was in the parking lot at the Grove of Anaheim. We'd already done our time inside, avoiding the cat screeches of Sandfrog, the hard rock band fronted by Angel first baseman Scott Spiezio, by hanging out in the VIP room with a couple of Angels, a couple of friends, and a few gross groupies on a narrow-eyed mission. Our friend, a lifelong pathetic Angels fanboy, was managing the band, and my boyfriend, also a lifelong pathetic Angels fanboy, had been in heaven, goofily asking the players for autographs and pictures.
We were in the car, key in the ignition, when we saw an Angel and a disgusting wannabe groupie, her gigantic bazooms barely restrained inside just a leather vest, come outside for a chat. "EWWW! [NOT SPIEZIO] is talking to that gross groupie!" I shouted. "OH NO! [NOT SPIEZIO] is smoking a cigarette!" moaned my boyfriend in drunken fanboy dismay. They moved farther down the wall, to an alcove, where they wouldn't be seen by anyone coming out the door—except the alcove was directly at our three o'clock. "EWWW! [NOT SPIEZIO] is making out with that gross groupie!" I shouted. And then we hushed, in complete shock. She was down on her knees, and she was giving him head. And then he was returning the favor. And we were looking directly at them. "Where's your camera?" my boyfriend breathed. "Right here," I giggled. You could see the flash all over the parking lot.
We called our friend the manager. "WE JUST SAW [SERIOUSLY: NOT SPIEZIO] GETTING HEAD IN THE PARKING LOT!" we yelled. "Dude, that's awesome!" he yelled back, but he called again the next morning. "You can't print it," he said. "You can't! You can't! Disney will never let Spiez play in the band again if they're not being all 'family.' You can't!"
And I didn't. My colleague Steve Lowery was of the mind that it's not right to out people for sexual behavior (unless they're David Dreier), and I let that be my rationale, rather than that I was killing a story for a friend. The Angels had just won the World Series, and if the New York Post's record of detailing every sports figure's trip to Scores ever is any indication, I could have broken national gossip. That would have been nice, for me, at least. But if you were around that week and already knew the story, there were plenty of clues in that column and later ones. Even the headline, "Touched By an Angel"—oh, it was very, very clever. To me, at least.