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
This Ain't No Picnic
Crabby, grabby at the Southern California Music Awards
Last week, Martin Brown, publisher of LIVE Magazine and founder of the Orange County Music Awards, forwarded me the following e-mail, which I've edited so as to make it slightly less boring, from some douche about why he wouldn't be submitting to this year's awards. In a nutshell? Me!
Really, I don't know how I do it.
Well, I'd like to offer my observation of last year's awards. It mainly has to do with the female presenter. [Me!] I felt that the way she carried herself was more of a 'party girl' than a presenter. It's not so much the tight-fitting dress, but it was the image she portrayed. I don't feel that presenters should be up there holding a beer out of a cup. It just didn't look presentable or professional. This is not a personal attack on her at all. Just the image and appearance of the presenter. So, my suggestion is to ask the presenters to dress a little more stylish and refrain from drinking while onstage. Blah blah blah, blah blah, etc., blah."
* * *
Now, I heard a lot of people bitch last year about the fact that I was chugging beer onstage—my co-host, Dave Styles of KIIS-FM (an unholy dweeb in the homogenized and blanded Ryan Seacrest vein), was horrified, though I tried to remind him it was a rock & roll awards show—but my dress was too tight? My beautiful blue China silk? Of course it's tight! It has to hold my stomach in and my boobs out! Neither of which is a picnic! Idiot.
Martin Brown found this e-mail hilarious. So hilarious, in fact, that the only thing he could add before shooting it my way was "Ha ha! Drunken slut!"
Thank you, Martin, and yes, I'd love to present at your Southern California Music Awards, which, this past Saturday, is just what I did. Ass.
We were only going to stay for a bit, my boy and I—I in my burka, he in his cap—but the kid, besides being fancy, is a complete starfucker, even though I ran down the list for him, in descending Q ratings. "Dick Dale is the most famous," I explained. "He's actually famous. Then TK from Indie 103.1, because he's on the radio. Then me. Then the Young Dubliners and Jennifer Corday. And nobody else here is famous at all."
Did it stop him? It did not! He thought it was all terribly exciting and Grammys-esque.
He was wrong, of course. He so often is.
* * *
The evening started off with some acid-prog from a band with a screechy singer who looked but exactly like the bearded fellow from System of a Down. The people behind me were smirking at them—I did like those Emerson, Lake & Palmer keyboards though!—until they realized Souljourner was in the running for Best High School Band. Then, I'm sure, they felt just terrible.
Then I gave the award for Best Female to someone called Stacy Clark. And after that, I pretty much stood in the lobby of the Warner Grand Theater—a funky old place in San Pedro—and waited for people to accost me. Which they did—the weapon of choice for most of them being stanky wine breath.
No wonder Britney peels out like that. Scary fans are scary!
Aside from that, the Young Dubliners were great—you know I love me the Irish (yes, all of them)—Corday looked like Sheryl Crow back before Crow had gone through the patented breakup diet, and Dick Dale, who rambled for probably seven minutes about not signing with labels before finally doing "Misirlou" with his young son, was really very famous, though he's looking a bit like Grandpa Munster these days, God rest his socialist soul.
* * *
"You know, it's so funny what they make a big deal out of," Commie Mom was saying. "I mean, we've got this huge war going on and [the media doesn't] care, but they care about this?"
"Mom, the vice president of the United Statesshot an old man intheface," I explained. "I think that's a big deal."
"Well, I guess, if you put it that way," she sniffed, before conceding, "A bigger deal than the sex stuff, anyway."
Personally, I think Cheney'd been drinking when heshot an old man in the face, and that's why his people never announced that he'd shot an old man in the face, leaving it to the private citizen (and Bush Pioneer) who'd hosted the party to inform the local news almost 24 hours later about the fact that he'd shot an old man in the face: they were waiting for his blood alcohol to simmer down after shooting an old man in the face. Really, is there a hunting accident in history that wasn't born from a case of Schlitz?
I did like, though, how quickly his people began playing the blame game. Who was to blame in this case? Would you be surprised to discover it was the old man Cheney shot in the face?
If you'd like to know the rules of safe gun handling, there's no better place to look than the National Rifle Association's homepage, which identifies stuff like "the fundamental rules of safe gun handling." Like this rule, for instance: "Know your target and what is beyond. Be absolutely sure you have identified your target beyond any doubt. Equally important, be aware of the area beyond your target. This means observing your prospective area of fire before you shoot. Never fire in a direction in which there are people or any other potential for mishap. Think first. Shoot second."
You know who else is to blame? Jimmy Carter and Coretta Scott King. I'm just sure of it!
* * *
And finally, for you, my dear and beloved readers, I leave you with this post-Valentine's quote sent on from the fine folks at BC Space Gallery, recent hosts of the thrillingly sexy "For Shame":
"I don't think that there's that much difference between a photograph of a fist up someone's ass and a photograph of carnations in a bowl." —Robert Mapplethorpe
Try a little tenderness. CommieGirlCollective.com