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
We must have been about seven beers in, Long Tall Gina and I, because with the ferociously boring USC/Notre Dame game over Saturday, we started looking around the Canyon Inn for blondes to fight.
I know: I'm in such a rut.
I'm also a seething bitch lately, though, so when two man-faced, ferrety blondes with wide, flat asses began giving us the stink-eye, I began shaking my ass right at 'em in a move that was meant to be utterly hostile and provoke a brawl, or at least some pointed words. Ass fight!
I didn't actually see the stink-eye in question, and had only Gina's word for it—"There are daggers in your back, girl," she chirped happily, a red cape magically manifesting itself in her paws so she could wave it before my eyes, and feinting in the direction of the ferret-faced, manny blondes. At the time, this didn't penetrate my fog as far as the dangers of unisourcing. (If your mother says she loves you, you've got to check it out.) No, I was only too happy to believe Gina—desperate to, even—despite her long and documented history of pot stirring and riot inciting (really, she starts them all; I'm pretty sure she was in Watts back in 1965, not to mention behind the barricades of Paris with Robespierre) and it didn't even occur to me until the next day that she could have told me Saddam's weapons of mass destruction were a "slam dunk" and I would have swept into Baghdad no questions asked.
It turned out the ferretal and manesque blonde women were trying to get their wee, young platonic friend to hit on me. They thought I was shaking my bon-bon his way.
* * *
We spent Thanksgiving at Dad's Malibu Rehab to the Stars, so this year there was no gin. (Nor were there any stars, and I would totally tell you if there had been.) What there was was an unending game of "Super Scrabble" (it has more tiles and quadruple-word scores), which Commie Mom whined and pouted through like a four-year-old, making ADHD drum noises every time my little brother Cakeyboy or I took more than seven seconds figuring out a word with a 70-point score. ("Camelots," bitches! Points? 92!) We also played speed chess (no thinking!) and ignored Dad's clients. It was fun!
Except for my mom, who I'm a-thinking should start thieving her students' Ritalin.
* * *
Speaking of Commie Mom, she was in the post office Wednesday and reports that an old, aggressively impatient guy in a USC ball cap, probably making ADHD drum noises, totally cut in line in front of a lady who was addressing her envelope as she waited for a window to open. "Did he just cut in front of that lady?" my mom asked another USPS patron. "Did he ask her?"
The lady confirmed that indeed he had not.
"Why did he do that?" Commie Mom wondered.
"Because he went to USC," the lady explained.
It made sense to us.
* * *
Friday, Mike the Electrician actually returned one of my many, many phone calls. (The longtime reader will remember Mike from our romantic assignation in wildest Mexico, where he took me to a flea market to buy used sweat pants because I was cold, and peed my name in the dirt, and took pictures of me passed out in the fire, and hit me with a stick. Why? Because he liked me! Duh!)
He was right down the street, at the Rainbow Room.
"I'll be there in 20 minutes," I vowed, because dignity just makes your life less fun.
The Rainbow was a riot, with my favorite oldsters drooped 'round the bar, dimming the pain of their golden years, and Mike and I made out for a bit and were ready to leave, my third Stoli tasting a tad less charcoal-filtered than the first two—but what do you expect for a $3.50 Stoli?—when I realized it wasn't even 7 p.m.
Where could we go before stumbling back to my place?
Perhaps we could go to Captain Bombay!
There, a blonde Latina who spoke no English and said she was from Oklahoma and that her esposo was abusive (I speak no Spanish, but we communicated in pantomime by slapping our own faces) asked me for a cigarette and then began to hit on Mike.
It was the pantomime of stroking the pool cue that clued me in.
Was I really going to have to fight for a man who already had four other girlfriends (at least last time I checked, when I was among them)?
Now, when Mike had all those girlfriends before, we'd been going out awhile, and they'd been going out much longer; one of the girlfriends had hung in for 10 years. So it seemed I should give him some time to decide that I was really the one.
It was when I realized he was dating new girls—girls he was taking to dinner and whom he hadn't even boffed yet—that the magic stars fell from my eyes.
So I guess our new Oklahoman friend could have had a fighting chance at his affections, if I'd taken my eagle eyes off them for even a moment. But it was 9 p.m., and luckily Mike is old.