By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
I was sitting in the sunshine just outside Big Bear in my homegirl Arrissia's front yard—all pine cones and sweet air and a sweet yellow playhouse for her sweet daughter, Chloe—nursing on a Shiner Bock while the children flapped and clucked. Saturday was sweet.
"Ring ring!" said my phone!
"Hello!" said I!
Saturday had gotten sweeter yet.
While Gaffney played the Small Stage at some random Irish festival, he said, he could hear "Moondance" coming from the Other. "So there was nobody at your stage," I said.
"There was a huge crowd at our stage!" Gaffney explained. "It was just even huge-ier at his!" I seem to be spreading this disregard for the normal conventions of the English language as one would spread the sweetest syph.
But the crowd during "Moondance" wasn't the problem.
"He has a rider in his contract that says nobody can get within 10 yards of him," Gaffney explained. "He kicked Glen Campbell out of his dressing room!"
He kicked Glen Campbell—the Rhinestone Cowboy!—out of his dressing room?
"He kicked Glen Campbell out of Glen Campbell's dressing room," Gaffney clarified, "so he'd have more room not tobe in."
Wow, Van Morrison is an asshole!
Big Bear was a tonic of ease and delight. Sunday we went to the Old Miner's Day Parade, complete with a guy riding his bike with a case of Coors on his shoulder and an ink-black shiner on his eye, fantabulously rockin' bands a-marching, a couple—married 62 years that day—kissing the entire length of the route, and our favorite: Shriners in tiny cars. Why can't we be Shriners? Why can't we have tiny cars?
I blame, as usual, GMand Exxon, and you know who I don't blame? The Jews.
In fact, when one Shriner's putt-putt stopped its putt-putting, the large group of young Hassidim across the street from us—all in matching black pants and white shirts and MagicStrings—quickly converged on him to give him a push start. It would have been my favorite part of the day, if not for the scumbag with the bruises and beer.
"Fuck it," I explained to Cher, maybe buzzed just a tiny, since Robert was packing tequila. "If he doesn't love me by now, that's on him." It may be my new mantra. It's very freeing. And it's James Harman this Wednesday, 6:30ish.
There's a great Liz Phair song—she used to be great, kids; it's too, too true!—that goes, "Well, it's true that I stole your lighter, and it's also true that I lost the map. But when you said I wasn't worth talking to, well, I had to take your word on that." So it's a great song. But when I heard Paris Hilton might have stolen all the swimsuits from the gift bags for the VIPS at the Surfrider benefit at the Living Room in Costa Mesa Sunday night, well, I can't get the song out of my head and so I can't write much of anything else. "Stole"? Check. "Lost"? Check. "Not worth talking to"? Check and check.
I wasn't there, mind you. I went for like an hour and it was full of all those Newporters who definitely weren't worth talking to, and there was a bit of a stiff, chilly wind for which no one was dressed, and I didn't particularly want to buy any drink tickets, and Paris Hilton? Hmmmm. Yeah, no. Playing inside, though, was a funny two-piece with a charming song (very Presidents of the United Bare Naked Ladies) about kicking emo kids' asses. "He can't really run away," lilted they, "because he's wearing his sister's pants!" So that was good. Also, there was an outrageous amount of food.
Amy from Scoop PR, which worked on the event, said Hilton didn't steal shit (she didn't say "shit") and that she couldn't have been more gracious, and was perfect, really, and she couldn't conceive where I could have heard that from. (A) I heard it from an evildoer, clearly, and (B) I hope Paris Hilton wasn't so gracious as to compliment your outfit. She did that to our own dear Mary Reilly once, and I'll copy and paste Mary Reilly's explication of it here for everyone's enjoyment.