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
Since my small buttercup of a son has been spending quite a little portion of his summer vacation at his dad's—where, rumor is, said dad allowed him to bleach his beautiful chocolate-brown hair orange, meaning he need only grow a goatee and don a flame shirt to pay his own no-doubt cheeky homage to Everything That Was Wrong With Orange County in 1999—I've been running around like one of those unfettered, live-for-the-moment (and the next cocktail) singles without kids. That's right. I've been running around like a gay, minus only (and sadly) the anonymous toilet sex.
Somebody, please tell me that if my sweet buttercup weren't coming back this week, all that rousting about and living for myself and having a gay old time would eventually get old. It would . . . right?
I wonder if my son looks like a pumpkin.
I also wonder if he's safe there on the mean streets of Malibu. He is a half-Jewish buttercup, after all, and so you never know when someone will go off his meds and decide to hold him responsible for at least half the world's wars in addition to his dastardly half-killing of Christ.
* * *
It's been one lovely jaunt after another. A trip to Felix's for sangria with the girls after work. Another trip to Felix's for sangria with the gays after work. A day when nobody wanted to go to Felix's for sangria after work so I went home and watched movies because I was wearing a really age-inappropriate (okay, slutty) outfit and would have looked like an old French whore sitting and having sangria by myself at Felix's after work. All that plus every new gay bar you could shake your stick at, a small gathering at Quiksilver for 5,000 of its closest friends, and some Democraty stuff too!
Life is sweet, and sort of bloated. Not Mel Gibson bloated, but you get the picture.
* * *
We began with a night on the town—on a Monday!—at Irvine's newish gay club Hamburger Mary's. The design is a disaster, with every sight line blocked by the humongoid bar, where a sparkling water will set you back $5. But the Dream Girls Revue—heavy on the Heart and a keerazy Celine Dion—brought out the kind of magical gays one usually sees only in one's dreams. They were handsome, they were nice, and my gays and I stalked them all over the club. One, Jeff, a gorgeous, kind-eyed brunet for whom I'm divorcing my gay husband, had been brought out for a night on the town by his hunky best friend because he'd just suffered a nasty breakup. Jeff's boyfriend, having moved to New York City, had let him know that he owed it to New York City to be single.
That's quite a debt, and I hope New York City is properly grateful.
We stalked Jeff all over the bar and back, and when we finally left, I sighed to my gays (whom I'm leaving) about how handsome Jeff and co. were—and so nice,when they should have been the bitchiest of catty queens!
"Those are A-listgays," my gays explained, sighing themselves. Sing it, sister!
Thursday at the Shark Club? Not so A-list as it maybe could have been. While my gays swear the weekly shindigs thrown by boinkevents.com have been amazing for the past several weeks, all I saw was the complimentary whop with the ugly stick at the door; the super-femmey ladyboys making up roughly 85 percent of the clientele lip-synching with great emotion! to the hazardous waste that was seeping from the DJ booth; the "music" just mentioned (even when a fun retro dance number from Madonna or Michael Jackson came along, it was sped up like we were in a spinning class); the terrifying go-go boys, one of whom looked like a thinner, younger and more platinum-haired Steve Westly, while another danced just like a monkey, needing only cymbals and a fez to complete the pretty picture; and the grossly fat girls who escorted their gay husbands only to stand morosely to the side.
I guess you could say I didn't care for it.
As bad as it was, though—and before we get the nasty calls, I know it was Pride in San Diego, and that the club is usually totally super-terrific in each and every way!—there was something even worse this week, which pleased me greatly, since I'm pretty much addicted to that special crawl of loathing as it creeps up and down my spine.
With my Theo, I went to the grand opening Friday of the new Saleen store, home to the guy making your Corvette even Vette-ier and the meatheads with money who love him. Standing in the punishing sun for 20 minutes of speeches before the ribbon cutting was grand, but discovering the payoff was hors d'oeuvres of beef in lukewarm gravy and my choice of water, Snapple or Diet Coke while perusing the unbearably tacky (tacky in a bad way) leather Ferrari jacket rip-offs really made my day. Ooh, is that a Viper? How very.
Luckily, I learned from one of the fashion reporters in attendance, Quiksilver was entertaining at its Huntington headquarters. There was booze enough to shock Braveheart's liver. There was food. There were 5,000 hottie surfers ambling about alongside such old CG faves as Wahoo'sWing Lam and Quik's Evil Bollweevil, a bear of a man who once ditched me (and I him) for 72 consecutive hours in Austin, Texas. "Come meet us at the Four Seasons," he'd shout into the celly before wandering off to Stubb's,giving Quiksilver socks to random doormen in his path. "Come to The Shot Bar!" I'd call him and say, and then when I saw him, I'd hide and run. South by Southwest was rolling good times.