There are certain things we're just going to have to agree on, and nobody gets to opt out. When John from Malibu called our spanking new talk show Melting Pointon KRLA—Sundays at 11 p.m. at 870 on your a.m. dial!—and mentioned the melting ice caps in a program about gas prices, my two handsome and urbane Republican co-hosts gotchaed him with, "Who says the ice caps are melting?"
Well, let's see if we can figure out this brainteaser. Who says the ice caps are melting . . . I know! Everyone!
When 870 (thousand) scientists say climate change is real and being caused by humans, and one scientist (with an assist from renowned climate scientist/radio personality Michael "Get AIDS and Die" Savage) says it isn't, that doesn't mean it's still up in the air any more than it's still up in the air as to whether exposure to Ryan Seacrest makes you stupid. And while I'd hate to make the rookie meteorological mistake of equating our current punishing heat wave1 with proof of climate change—just like it was really, really stupid of Matt Drudge to mock Al Gore for hyping global warming when it happened to be winter (and thus snowing) on the East Coast—well, the fucking ice caps are melting!
John from Malibu, by the way, is my little brother (perhaps better known to the faithful reader as Cakeyboy), and he was the only person who called in to this week's show. (Commie Mom—a.k.a. Donna in San Pedro—called last week.) You should call. My co-host Shawn Fago will be sure to yell at you if you're not sufficiently partisan and a GOP hack.
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When the news hit the mean streets of Irvine that cuddly evildoer Jon "Flash" Fleischman is leaving his post as Flack for America's (Sexy) Sheriff, the first person I called was Susan Schroeder, spokeshole for the DA and wife to MikeSchroeder, who's the fixer for the sheriff, the DA and our Dark Lord Lucifer. I pretended I was just hungry and wanted to go get Vietnamese, but the fact was I was really just hungry and wanted to go get Vietnamese. Susan wanted to gossip and call me names, and I was happy to oblige2, but first things first. Did she think I should apply for Flash's gig? Oh, how we chortled and guffawed. Susan thinks I absolutely should send in my rsum, but I don't know how effective a publicitante I'd be. If any reporters were to ask me for comment on the sheriff's latest sexcadilloes, I'd probably shut them down quick-like with a terse and effective "Really? Ooooh, tell me more!"
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"Do you still hate all art?" uber-art couple Laurie Hassold and Jeff Gillette were each asking me Saturday at the grand opening of Jack Flynn's J. Flynn Gallery in Costa Mesa. Well, of course I still hate all art! I just don't hate free vodka and good-looking people! Good-looking people like Laurie and Jeff!
For that rainbow of reasons, I had yet to actually look at the work in J. Flynn before finding myself on the big, happy, be-DJed patio (DJ Eyad spinning lilting French goodness) talking at Laurie and Jeff. "What about my new stuff?" Jeff asked. It was right inside! I could look at it! If I wanted! "Are you doing new stuff?" I asked doubtfully, because while Jeff's Disney slumscapes are beautiful and depressing (like me!), he's been pumping them out in a favela rainbow of flavors for at least the 10 years I've been at this job. Unfortunately, that got him: maybe it wasn't new exactly. But they're on surf- and skateboards now, and only a couple of them are Disney! Jeff looked sheepish, and I felt like a dick, and Laurie laughed and cackled.
Saturday was a right good time.
Schmoozing among the smart set were all the usual art suspects—the Traveling Langstons, the blonded and Euro-fabulous Daniella Walsh, the hotty photographer from Riviera—and the mercurial Peter Blake of the eponymous gallery, who blacklisted me from PBG for years before one day turning around and throwing me a party. "Let's throw you another!" said Peter. Okay! Within moments, he'd turned to Jeff Peters, who had just realized I'd been painted by his two closest art nemeses3 but not by him. "You paint her," Peter commanded, "and the party will be the unveiling!" Just moments after that, because Peter is a macher, we'd plotted out the logistics and the composition: me, nude, in the kitchen where I belong, and cooking breakfast—which happens all the time in the alternate reality where global warming is a hoax and I'd flack Sheriff Yum. Not like that, you filthy slut.
CommieGirlCollective.com. No, seriously, call our radio show. I only have so many family members to pretend I'm not related to.
1. The only way to respond to the current punishing heat wave is by pouring a creamy glass of Chimay ale and drinking it in the pool. If you don't have a pool and you're at all interesting or good-looking, you're hereby invited to mine. You bring the Chimay.
2. Susan and I don't like fatties but we do like to bitch about how fat we are, so I helpfully started calling her 72. "You know, like a linebacker!" I murmured sweetly. Susan, impressively, knew that linebackers' numbers are in the 50s, not the 70s, which I have to admit was a cool factoid for her to lay down. Back at the office, Dave Wielenga confirmed Susan's info but added that 72 was Refrigerator Perry's number, so that works for me. At the same time, I couldn't figure out why 72 was calling me "Tina." "Talking Tina?" I wondered. Nope. Ike and Tina. "You didn't know I called you that?" 72 asked me, gasping and choking on her own snide cackles. "I've been calling you that behind your back for ever! Because you're like an abused wife!" We don't need another hero, Fridge. We just need to know the way home!
3. You probably don't want to hear about the boyfriend who was mildly saddened to learn I'd sat in the nude before I'd met him, but it was the ultimate genesis of Ike and Tina, and it usually gets pried out of me with enough free vodka, or by anyone who asks.
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