Photo by James BunoanSo. Costa Mesa's newest nightclub, Vegas, opened last Friday. Did you hear about it? Good. Because while I would be more than happy to regale you with the antics of the 300 or so personally trained, impressively bronzed social climbers waiting outside the club—giddily greeting one another with alternate ass pats and Kiss-kiss, dahlings—I'm afraid that is about all I could report. You see, when the county's rising gentry—all 300 of 'em!—is on hand to toast a new nightspot, it is a obviously a very special occasion, and as a testament to this particular occasion's very specialness, everyone had received a pretty, purple invitation—everyone except me. Oh, I was on the list, of course. But being on the list doesn't mean diddily when there are 300 very special people in line ahead of you who have pretty, purple invitations.
So. I left Vegas—did I mention that there were 300 people in line in front of me?—and drove up to Alex's Bar in Long Beach, where an all-female cover-band bonanza was rumored to be going down. And what a smashing party it was! And not just because it was bar patron Bill's 37th birthday and his chocolate cake was within sneaky snacking distance from my seat! While Pussy Galore Overdrive ripped through their set, which included a slightly punkier version of Nancy Sinatra's “These Boots Are Made for Walkin',” Hole's “Teenage Whore” and “Vacation” by the Go-Go's, Long Beach's not-quite-so-elite—but beautiful nonetheless!—barflies dorkily danced in front of the stage, singing along, as they were, into their Heinikens and Bud Lites.
An hour later, with Bill and the rest of the bar presumably on their seventh round of drinks, the Ms. Fits took the stage. To foxy lead singer Gwenn Standzbig's great disapproval, the bar folk evidently believed that one can't dorkily dance to Misfits covers. After a few songs, she greeted us with her faux Jersey accent, broadcasting sex appeal from a black push-up bra exposed beneath an unbuttoned sleeveless black shirt and screaming, “What the fuck?! Move around!” And the bar folk? They complied, as is expected when smokin' chicks in push-up bras scream at large crowds of drunken peoples.
Soon after, KUCI-FM's lovely DJ Wanda, sporting red-and-black tiger-striped tights, approached me. “Have you tried the Tang?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” I replied, wondering whether I had heard her correctly and if I had, what on earth she was insinuating.
“The Tang! It tastes like Tang! You must try it!” she shouted over Standzbig's guttural vocals, and I complied, as is expected when lovely ladies in tiger-striped tights offer to buy me drinks. Personally, I thought the concoction of Red Bull, orange juice and vodka tasted something more akin to chewable children's Triaminic, but I also happened to secretly enjoy the taste of Triaminic as a child. Bottom line: her Tang is fantastic!
And now, for the best thing overheard upon leaving a bar EVER:
Lady No. 1: “So, like, everyone's upset because my brother has cancer.”
Lady No. 2, in response: “I still can't believe you don't wear underwear!”
Not so amusing, however, was Gary Busey's—or, as he's known in some circles, Gary A-busey—one-off performance of Buddy Holly covers at La Cave on Valentine's Day. In addition to his no-nonsense set—not to mention no fun; who skips both “Peggy Sue” and “Everyday” when covering Buddy Holly?!—Busey also looked impressively well-kempt—in a bad way. In fact, given the crazed, road kill-eating antics captured on I'm With Busey, the fact that he showed up wearing silk heart-dotted boxers over his pants made it seem like he was just doing a tired impression of himself covering Buddy Holly.
But then again, maybe he was having a bad Love Day. Maybe he hadn't had any Tang lately. Or maybe, just maybe, he was also upset about not receiving a pretty purple invitation. And if that's the case, well then, Mr. Busey, I feel your pain.
Vegas, located at 1901 Newport Blvd., Costa Mesa, (949) 548-9500, is rumored to be very cool. Bring a wad of cash and some self-tanner, and check it out.
Need some Tang? Invite me out! Eg*****@oc******.com
