Breakin' the Law!

I am the Queen of Hellfire! Or, at least, I did some gay stuff this week, which in some circles is the same thing. We all wanted to get physical at Olivia Newton-John Night at Ripples. We weren't crazy about the host, a personable guy in Phyllis Diller drag; he either has low self-esteem or sees women as monsters (some gay men do, you know). Whether the other gay boys in the audience were women haters or not, we don't know. We do know they were the prettiest, supermodelest boys we've seen in quite some time. We basked in their superstar homodom.

We arrived in time for the most stunningly beautiful blonde you can imagine doing graceful, feline pirouettes. I was there with Blanca Apodaca (and for those of you who've been wondering: yes, she is as pretty as her picture in last week's Best of OC issue) and my best friend, Greg the Fireman. (For those of you playing along at home, he's the one I demoted from "boyfriend" a while back because he's too fond of strip bars.)

We all agreed we would have sex with Gabrielle, given the chance. (I'm not sure Greg heard the question properly-but if he didn't, he shouldn't have been nodding and agreeing.) Gabrielle was wearing a high-cut leotard that showcased the fact that she had no penis whatsoever! When she received her scores, a judge gave her a 10 "for her tuck alone." Justice was done that night.

But even Gabrielle's incredible beauty was no match for the more mannish face (but superior wit) of Miss Tamara Mahorning. Mahorning, who also won the Dolly Parton Night contest a few weeks ago, had a brilliant medley that opened with Newton-John's "Magic." Wheeling out a big, lam-covered contraption, Mahorning pulled out a red-silk scarf and then was absolutely shocked!-and delighted!-when a 2-foot dildo began levitating itself!

When the medley moved into Grease territory, Mahorning brought out a little dildo dressed in a leather jacket and with a face and hair painted on (it even had a cleft in its little chin!) and began serenading it, all with the most beatific smile on her face. ("Hopelessly Devoted to You" and "You're the One That I Want" were especially well-received.) She wasn't the prettiest drag queen, and she wasn't even lip-synching that faithfully (the medley was stretching her). Straight 10s, though, and well-deserved.

Zebrahead's record-release party at Club 369 was as heavenly as Xanadu, but without the roller rink and the muses. The feather-boaed singer was making those funny fish faces you see on someone who's just inhaled too many hits of nitrous oxide; we love that. And when you're a delicate flower like me, sometimes the mosh pit isn't Disneyland. But with the place at quintuple capacity, there wasn't much choice where to stand. Luckily, Greg is 6-foot-4, and I watched with amused detachment as he flicked people away from me like bothersome gnats when they got within elbow distance. I don't believe I've ever felt less fear.

I don't believe I've ever felt more fear than when the singer announced it was time for Metallica Karaoke. Five guys from the audience-including booker extraordinaire Randy Cash-grabbed the mic and started ripping through "Enter Sandman." But you know what? It was beautiful! They dusted off their low, growly voices and let loose with all the words, making that clever "devil" hand signal (the one with the index finger and pinky extended like horns) all the while. And we made that clever "devil" hand signal right back at 'em! Zebrahead have a fun mix of speed metal, rap and funk; we could do with more funk and less speed metal in the mix, but they throw one hell of a joyous show.

We saw Burnin Groove, Lit and Wank at Club 369 a few days before. Don't make fun of me, but I truly am liking Burnin Groove more and more each time I see them. And to all you doubters out there, it has nothing to do with how pretty they are. Jon Bon Jovi's pretty, too, and it doesn't make him any less utterly lame. Burnin Groove's got some good things cooking right now: they've licensed a couple of songs to MTV (I assume for one of those awful "reality" shows that Commie Mom loves so much). Could they be the next . . . um . . . No Doubt? Lit and Wank were awfully fun, too. In all, the evening was warm, cuddly and extraordinarily loud. But if anyone has any information about OC Weekly photographer Jeanne Rice's missing camera (someone at the show had sticky fingers), a substantial reward is being offered. Give me a call at the paper; Jeanne is sad.

The same night Jeanne got her camera snaked, three bad, bad men held up our friends at Memphis Soul Cafe and Bar at gunpoint, and I would like to know what the hell is wrong with all you criminals? Co-owner Andy Christianson dialed 911 as soon as the ski-masked perps entered, and he laid the phone down so the dispatcher could hear what was transpiring. The Costa Mesa Police arrived in plenty of time (the robbers were so busy taking the waitstaff's tips from the evening) and waited outside for the men to exit, so as not to catch the employees in a gun battle. (The restaurant was already closed for the evening; there were no customers inside.) And do you know what happened next? The bad guys ran right past the cops and got away! I'm sorry to have to report this, because the Costa Mesa PD press liaison, Lieutenant Ron Smith, is a real friendly guy, but not only did they lose the three perps-but one of the department canines bit a cop in the leg, too! When did Barney Fife transfer to Costa Mesa?

Speaking of lawbreaking, the Southern Culture on the Skids (SCOTS) show at the Foothill had more than its fair share of girls in hooker shoes. And I was one of them. (I bought them by accident. I tried them on for kicks, and all of a sudden, I was 5-foot-8!) Luckily, I only bit the dust once-and it was at the end of the show as I was trying to lift a copy of last week's hefty Best of OC from a pile on the ground. But a SCOTS show without a falling girl is like a box of KFC without breasts; who wants that?

The show was terrific, slathered in grease like a chicken-fried steak as they sang such favorites as "Camel Walk," "Firefly" and "Eight Piece Box." They did some stuff off their new album, too, but I was still caught up in some of my favorite lyrics-"It don't matter if your pants are shiny/If your dick is big or your dick is tiny"-so I didn't pay much attention. The rest of the crowd seemed to love it, though. Come back soon, SCOTS! We'll take you down to the motorcycle races at the Orange County Fairgrounds! And if we see a police dog, we'll stay real still.


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