Roots/ Photo by Karl Larsen
Roots/ Photo by Karl Larsen

Commie Girl

A couple of years ago, for Halloween, I was going to dress up as Courtney Love but was too lazy to go buy a trashy blonde wig. So I split the difference and went as a sexy junkie instead.

That was the year celebrity judge Leif Garrett (!) chose the sexy nurse to win La Cave's costume contest over a gorgeous (and six-foot-six) computer programmer dressed as sexy Strawberry Shortcake. You really couldn't blame Leif Garrett though. The sexy nurse's nipples had been tweaked but fierce!

With Jon and Deb Webb's Hollywood Babylon party in one of Orange's finer Eichler tracts to look forward to Saturday night, I saddled up my newest gay and talked him into being the Sid to my Nancy. I figured, being gay, he would already have 14 parties to go to Saturday night, but he didn't! "I would love to be the Sid to your Nancy," he said. "But . . ." I prompted. "But nothing!" he said. "Let's go!"

How I love my new gay. He's much better than the old one, though I've yet to ask him to pick up any of the multiple possum my dog has killed or hang a painting 14 feet high on the walls below my cathedral ceiling.

The exact same outfit I wore for my sexy junkie costume came in handy for Nancy—just add stab wounds and blood!—though I did go all out and buy a $7 Movie Star Wig from Target. Once I'd added roots to it with a tube of old mascara, it was good (and trashy) to go.

And who won this year's costume contest? That's right! I hear that I did!

The Webbs' party was rocking by 7:30 p.m., with your everyday two full bars, and Chasen's chili buffet and dozens of your fabulous Norma Desmonds and JoanCrawfords already dancing to the '50s and '60s covers from The Rocket Scientists. There was also a red carpet and a shutterbug, which, because it wasn't a store opening at South Coast Plaza or an Elle Girl party at OCMA but was, in fact, a dead Hollywood party (okay, and because the paparazzo actually took my picture instead of lowering his camera as I walked by), didn't annoy me at all.

*   *   *

By about 10 p.m., Jeff and I decided that while we weren't likely to find a better party, all the sights there were to see (including the Barbarella projected through one glass Eichler wall) had been saw, so we picked up and headed up to The Concourse to see my bartender buddy Skeith. Was there eye candy? There was! Was it pushy and shovey and crowded and stupid? It was that, too! Was it not really that much fun and we left within about 20 minutes? Yes, siree! Bob! And the bowling lanes weren't even open! We considered going back to the fun party but decided that was excessive. Hey, you know what's near the Concourse Bowl? The Canyon! "It's like a cop and fireman meat market," I told Jeff. "You'll probably love it, unless you don't."

The Canyon, as it always is unless you're sad and on the wagon, was delightful. There was a gray-haired-and-saggy French maid—I loved that lady—dancing her ass off with her equally old friend to The Creepers making up new words to "Blister in the Sun." There were your usual sexy thises and sexy thats. "Halloween's so funny," Jeff said sweetly, because he is sweet, "It's like, 'I'm a sexy businesswoman.' 'I'm a sexy post office clerk.'" Not 15 minutes later, a sexy businesswoman came on the scene. She even had a little $ sign in gold around her neck.

Then Jeff drove me home, where I totally puked.

*   *   *

Sunday? Sucked.

Until 7ish, when we joined our friend Paul Lucas for, let's see: The Vietnamese Federation of Labor in Overseas' First General Assembly Meeting. Okay, actually, that sucked, too. I mean, it didn't suck—okay, it did—but only because we were starving and everything was running on Vietnamese Standard Time, i.e., two hours late; but once we were finally served up Seafood World Restaurant's crab and asparagus soup and crispy-sweet fish filets and three-flavor tofu and other oriental delights, that was no longer a problem and I didn't really care that most of the speeches were in Vietnamese. My small buttercup of a son, after slumping through the two-hour wait (and speeches), perked right up for his four (four!) servings of taro (served hot) with tapioca (in pearls).

Also? There was a lady in a long, glittery gold outfit—or whatever the Vietnamese term is for sari—doing bad-ass karaoke with television-ready gestures and emotings. I loved that lady maybe more than I loved the gray-haired French maid. She could have given Republican congressional candidate Tan Nguyen's fishnet-wearing, bargirl-looking lady—the one who sang "Stand by Your Tan" at his Saturday Freeper rally—a run for her karaoke money, except I read that Tan Nguyen's lady totally lip-sanc.

I also loved the Vietnamese national anthem which is all poppy, choppy goodness and about as sugary as "It's a Small World" but with a disco beat—a great beat, and you could dance to it, but I didn't because I'm pretty sure that would have been unbelievably rude. Various pro-labor candidates gave quick speeches at the Vietnamese Federation of Labor in Overseas dinner, and they were all perfectly nice and orthodox. 70th Assembly District candidate Mike Glover stood out, though, with a reminiscence of this one time when he was getting a manicure from a Vietnamese lady, and she took a call from family still in Vietnam, and they needed money. He would never forget that manicurist, Glover said, as long as he lived.

For reals! For ever. But I actually believe this. There are many things I'll remember forever, like the time they lost my Hootenanny tickets and I had to go see Van Halen with my sister in Glen Helen instead.

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