By Charles Lam
By R. Scott Moxley
By Taylor Hamby
By Matt Coker
By R. Scott Moxley
By Charles Lam
By LP Hastings
By Taylor Hamby
Far be it from me to tell the governor's advance men how to do their terribly stupid jobs, but Monday's appearance at a John Wayne-adjacent private airfield for people who own Lear jets would have been much more super-fantastisch had they not herded the reporters present behind a banner of yellow police tape like it was 1942 and we were so many members of the Japanese Menace. There were only about 20 civilians in the hangar to witness the governor's stop, so to separate out the fewer than 10 people in the media (Reg,Times,Daily Pilot and a couple of sticks)—and then guard them and not let them leave their gilded cage until the governor had made his exit—smacked of something like an internment camp, if I was feeling hyperbolic, and, frankly, I think I am.
Oh, for a while it was fine. Martin Wisckol, Jean Pasco and I lurked to the side and gabbed with Supervisor Lou Correa and the head of OCTA (we didn't chat with local GOP queen Jo Ellen Allen) while I explained to Martin why I wouldn't be asking any questions: I couldn't think of any that weren't terribly rude. Have you found the real groper? How's that forensic accounting for waste and fraud coming along? Is there yet a campaign promise you've neglected to break? And—my personal favorite—have you ever had a man slide his tongue up your ass? Since I'm only mean to people behind their backs, the questions would have to remain unasked.
But as Herr Schwarzenegger talked (in a really lovely tie of pimiento-olive green) about unity with the Lege on his upcoming bond measures to invest in our failing infrastructure, and as Dem Assembly Leader Fabian Nunez thanked his Republican colleagues who "demonstrated real leadership and a sense of commitment" in shepherding it through—that would be our Senator Dick Ackerman (R-Tustin), who probably just lost his last Republican fan—well, it was sort of heartwarming. Also heartwarming was the governor giving me the eye—you know, and all of these things. Don't you think he didn't!
Now, I'm a big fan of infrastructure. I love roads! And schools! And levees! And affordable housing! And our current infrastructure was designed for 20 million people, and we have considerably more than that now! I've also been saying from the beginning that Schwarzenegger could be a historic governor if, à la Pat Brown, he honestly worked in a bipartisan manner to invest in this state and make it great again. (That's why I laugh at the stupid GOP types who got all frothy and hyper when he chose a Dem as his chief of staff: he's supposed to govern all of California, not just use his office to promote "small-government" Republicans who've spent their lives sucking on the state teat.) I also think putting people to work building roads and schools and levees and affordable housing is really good for the economy, because it pays workers money, and then they trot off and spend it.
But I did have one little question. And it wasn't even rude! I just wanted to know whether we'd be putting this little $37 billion (or a thousand clams for each resident) on our really big credit card. I didn't get called on, of course—only the fat guy in front of me did, blabbing something about immigration—and I didn't try to shout it out. I'm a lover, not a fighter. Or else I'm a pussy. One of the two.
* * *
Last Cinco de Mayo I had a first date with a big, sexy, handsome electrician man. We drank five shots of Don Julio and made out on the bar, and made out on the sidewalk, and made out standing against the flagstone wall of the Rainbow, and made out in front of my fireplace while I murmured sweet nothings about What Exactly Was Wrong With theNew Pope, an exciting epic narrative touching on Jean-Bertrand Aristide, Archbishop OscarRomero, and the National Guard scrubbing rocks and seagulls in Prince William Sound.
It was the best Cinco de Mayo ever.
I'm not saying this year's annual Cinco de Mau, held Friday at the home of Orange scene mainstays Dave "Chairman" Mau and Pauly With the Big Mustaches, was anything to sneeze at, an absolute orgy of meat and mariachi; I'm just saying, you know . . . well, you know what I'm saying: I'm saying no one made out with me and I went home alone. But aside from that, it was really terrific!
Mau, the master who's just left the barbecue at the District Lounge, cooked up a mess, and people drank beer, and when the piercing notes of a surprise mariachi band exploded inside, we headed in to find the greatest three-piece mariachi band in the history of Dave and Pauly's kitchen. "If you look closely," Mikey Miller said to me, "you can see they're all punk kids." And they were! Oliver from Save Ferris was the hombre on the horn, and the kid on the gigante guitar was wearing eyeliner and looked like Morrissey, and the lady emitting sonic walls in her huge vibrato (son jarocho, maybe? Gustavo would know) was all tuff and sonic, while Mick from Busstop Hurricanes moseyed up to Oliver's mic all drunk and disreputable and Irish-looking, and damn if he didn't know every word.