By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
By Andrew Galvin
By R. Scott Moxley
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By R. Scott Moxley
Photos by Tenaya HillsThe Quiksilver party at the Orange County Museum of Art Saturday night benefiting the Otis College of Art and Design was a grand melding of out-of-control bitchery and testosterone (in a fun way!), much of it belonging to me: I'd been stuck in traffic for almost three hours on the 101 and 5 coming down from the Valley (two hours and 30 minutes for the first 40 miles), I'd thrown my back out two days before with some really slutty new boots, my uterus was about to fall plumb out of my body, and my PMS was raging like Danny Bonaduce on a meth bender. I was going to have to fire my own brother for insubordination and lameness since I can't appoint him to the Supreme Court or give him a Medal of Freedom (you should hear the saga of the three nights in a row he tried to hit the clubs, only to repeatedly and mystifyingly end up either in Malibu or at Cero's;you should not, however, have heard the screechy tongue-lashing I gave him, as you will no longer think I'm a sweet little kitten), and now I had event MC Carson Daly to face.
Bring 'em on!
The party actually was a blast, with 2,000 of my closest fashion-industry and LA hip-folk friends asking me to move out of their way, and museum director DennisSzakacs ashing in my drink on purpose (I drank it anyway). It got even better when the music went out for part of the fashion show (a boy wearing sunglasses at night and a turned-up collar), and he and his cohorts gamely tried to keep dancing, only to have people shout at him, "I wear my sunglasses at night!" before launching a cascade of drinks at the brain trust on the runway. Step into liquid, bro!
Also, one of the models showed the top of his wang.
After the fashion show, which featured all the newest in Ugg boots (plus one ridiculous tableau with a guy in a wet suit sipping a martini, which I'm sorry to say we uncouthly booed), the bars reopened and the dance floor started, with great music and much sexiness, mostly by me because I was showing off for former Surfing editor JamieBrisick, with whom I used to be just stupid infatuated and who'd showed up after a multiyear SoCal sabbatical toting a pretty and very nice wife. Faced with a situation like that (and enough delicious, numbing booze in you), who cares about a silly slipped disc? We didn't leave until they made us.
The rest of the weekend was extremely medicated.
* * *
A few weeks ago, unmedicated (at least that I can remember), I dreamed I'd found my way to a tiny town at the top of OC that I'd never heard of before -- St. Stephenâ€™s, a Mexican market village of about 600 square feet full of old Fullerton punks -- and I was making out with Courtney Love. It was glamorous, Oscars-attending Courtney Love, not hagged-out, bulimic, cracky, trial-attending Courtney Loveâ€"and she had a third nipple on her hip in a kind of tube-like appendage, like a lipstick or a dog's penis, and she could flex it in and out. (I avoided the nipple while I was stroking her hip.) Well, Courtney went to answer the door, and it was my ex and his girlfriend and their new baby, so I said hi politely and then left and passed a big music festival in a dirt lot, at which was singing either Paula from Ruby Diver or Paula from The Angoras (maybe both in one), and I took the Disneyland sky tram to the beach, where a large group of Republicans in tuxes and evening gowns were gathered to watch the tsunami, and I tried to steal a straw hat from the taco truck for my son by kind of falling on it and enveloping it with my burqua, but the taco truck folks weren't nearly so easily fooled so I blamed it on the guy next to me, which is totally what a Republican would do so I didn't feel bad even at all.
It's not that OC's as Republican as the rest of the country thinks it is: it's that the Republicans we do have are so monstrously mean-spirited and nasty, it makes the whole county look like Rick Santorum. When Supervisor Lou Correa proposed last week that the county spend $2.1 million on a health office to coordinate health insurance for the county's poorest children -- a move that would have been met with $4.7 million in federal funds -- the outcry from the very comfortable against "a new entitlement" immediately caused a majority of the Board of Supes to come out against "a new entitlement."
The $2.1 million wouldn't even get the county a down payment on a decent PR contract.
This year, Santa Ana was named the hardest city in the country in which to make ends meet -- and that was when the nation's cities still included New Orleans. Even with the entire world watching aghast what it meant for a segment of America to be left behind, the ideologues driving our county are determined not to allow help for a bunch of goddamn little kids -- help that would actually save us money, since they wouldn't end up with a trip to the ER on the taxpayer's dime costing seven to 15 times as much -- because somewhere, a poor person might smile. Who's having a class war, you insulting pricks?
I bet they would have kicked Rosa Parks right off that bus. Now what have you done with my codeine?