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
Okay! "TOOOKIEEE!" we yelled together. "TOOOKIEEE!" And then we danced, but separately. I wasn't quite cool enough for the dude in the Wonderful Ice Cream Suit; I understand this and have no problem with it at all. (Props to Ray Bradbury! Word!) The occasion, naturally, was the Paul Frank Christmas party Monday at Hidden Valley in Irvine,10 perfect-time-warp acres of thatched huts and a big fabulous round dance room, and real elephant rides, and cotton candy, and some icky spinny upside-down rides, and Death Cab for Cutie, whom you really can't tell apart from the Psychedelic Furs if the lights are off. There were at least a thousand people there (and a 58-minute S-Z check-in line to prove it), including Verizon's man about town Conley Smith, Quiksilver's Bollweevil, Page from Kitsch, DJ Danny Love and a host of famous people I'm not cool enough to recognize, drinking free drinks and eating free In-N-Out and wandering roughly 40 feet at a time before taking shelter under another heat lamp with yet another batch of friendly young men. Fucking party, man!
We at the are surprisingly moral—hell, Lowery actually teaches whatever they're calling CCD these days. So we were talking about Tookie—actually, mostly Lowery was; man talks a lot—and I brought up Timothy McVeigh, and how unsatisfying it was at the time, seeing the protests, to have a fiend as your poster boy against capital punishment. It's so much easier to protest when the accused is mentally retarded, for instance, and Bill Clintonis leaving the campaign trail to go home to Arkansas and make damn sure a man who colors all day and literally doesn't understand that after his execution, he won't be coming back to his cell, gets the juice. I don't care if Tookie's redeemed himself with good works, or if Karla Faye Tucker had found God; last I heard, being born again didn't absolve you of your crimes in this world, only in the next—maybe.
Oh, I joke! Of course it does! Absolve you in this world, that is. I'm still up in the air about the Christianists' chances in heaven.
But what I care about isn't whether the innocent are being executed (most of the people on death row, as Lowery pointed out sadly, really are monsters), or whether they're sorry; it's that we don't sink to the level where we think death is deserved for anyone. That's for mullahs and Dominionists, who would love to toboggan down that capital punishment slippery slope and start stoning homosexuals too. (Seriously, they're not kidding.) It's all about the Culture of Life, motherfuckers! Meanwhile, over at the Register, Gordon Dillow wonders why the condemned get a last meal. "If a man is so loathsome and evil that we've sent him to San Quentin's Death Row," he asks, "does he really deserve a special feast before we kill him?"
Tookie declined a last meal, by the way, drinking only milk.
And at the party, the white girls danced the best I've ever seen white girls dance.
Merry Christmas, darlings! Buy your loved ones a kick-ass (and sweatshop-free!) Commie Girl T-shirt because, damn it, I need the money!Commie Girl Collective.Presents, as always, can be sent care of OC Weekly, 1666 N. Main St., STE. 500, Santa Ana, CA 92701.