“Hey, there's some kind of punk rock riot going on in downtown Long Beach!” my friend Handsome, Handsome Erik said.
“Why is there a punk rock riot in Long Beach?” I asked, mystified, even though I'd been getting Happy May Day e-mails all damn morning, telling me to go out and have—or was it heave?—a cocktail for the International Workers of the World. Nope, I wasn't there when 95 anarchists got their asses locked up mere blocks from my house. I should be fired immediately.
But, taking a cue from the major news organizations who get their info straight—no chaser—from the governmental bodies they're supposed to be watchdogging, I called the Long Beach Police Department(LBPD). After being flirted with by one of his compadres (and no, I'm not that easy), I got on the horn with Officer Steve Filippini. So what happened on May Day? “Stuff,” Officer Steve told me dryly. Then he spelled it. S-T-U-F-F. And other than that? “We received word this anarchist group [Kalifornia Anarchists] may be coming to our city. We had minimal time to prep—a few hours—and the estimate was 300 to 1,000 [people]. Of 175 activists protesting, the largest group of 125 congregated at First and the Promenade. A couple of our people went down to talk to them, converse, find out what their message was and how they wanted to proceed.” Unfortunately, those pesky anarchists were uninterested in communicating with the police, choosing instead to brandish claw hammers, ball bearings, pyrotechnics and bottles of pee. If I'd taken my young son down to protest, would we have been bopped on the head? “It's a possibility. If you were in that group of people being detained —or corralled, as it were—you could have been the victim of force.” Now that's some plain talk from a public-information officer!
According to some protesters, the LBPD were charging with batons before anything got thrown at them. Officer Steve denied it, inviting me down to the station to watch their videotape of the events. But I was busy. I will say this, though: the LBPD does love its riot gear, putting it on and feeling sexy when such threats as the Action Sports Retailer convention—that's a bunch of surfers, to you and me—is in town.
You might think the U.S. being voted off the United Nations' Human Rights Commission and its Narcotics Commission last week were matters of terrible national embarrassment, a torrid shame on par with persistent, mouse-died-in-your-throat halitosis. But once again, you are not giving our esteemed President Numbnuts enough credit. God, that is so like you!
Because anyone who has sat hunkered in her chair (I did it for you, people!) for three days while the wild-eyed members of the Extreme! Christian Right hold forth on the evils of Globalism knows that it's all part of a majestically well-thought-out plan.
Now, granted, the Eagle Forum conference I went to that lovely Santa Barbara weekend took place years ago—is it only three years ago now? But I shall never forget that magical time, a time when I learned so much about the state of our world. I learned, for instance, from a woman named Karen Holgate that when she thinks of the environment, she thinks of “smog, trees falling on our kids, whatever.” Yes, trees are dangerous! Those who mentioned Globalism—and I lost track at 42 citations in 50 minutes—said it was the fearsome agenda (I didn't count how many times the word agenda was said) of UN apparatchiks who want to destroy America and make our soldiers fight in effeminate UN berets. They also want to inculcate in our children tree-hugging values and destroy Christianity. Also, they are Satanists (given) and Communists (especially Communists). And sometimes, they're pedophiles, too—although I really don't know any Satanists who aren't pedophiles.
But I'm pretty sure that is not the point! I'm pretty sure the point is that we should be glad our fearless leader is making his contempt for the UN so well-known—no doubt at the behest of folks like my friends above—and that all the Satanic UN can do in return is kick us off their stupid committees. You don't want our boys fighting in pansy-ass berets, do you? Or hugging trees? Or having sex with children? I didn't think so. Three cheers for Georgie Boy!
Whew! I'm glad all that cutting and pasting from previous columns is out of the way so we can get to the business at hand! That business, of course, is our own wild-eyed Lefty Ted Crisell. For those of you just joining us, let me cut and paste a synopsis for you.
I once noted that Crisell, who was at the time running against Surfin' Congressman Dana Rohrabacher, never put the word “Democrat” anywhere in any of his campaign literature, but in listening to his positions, I'd concluded he was in fact a good Leftist. He proceeded to leave me two voice-mail messages screaming that I was a fucking piece of shit (at approximately four minutes each) because the commune-livin' Crisell was not a “Leftist” as I had “labeled” him. I printed his rant. He responded with a friendly note that read in small part: “Good luck with all your evil dreams. Rohrabacher and [Scott] Baugh must love you. Is it true you slept with both of them?” In deference to their lovely wives, I must deny all charges.
But then we got a spam from Crisell headlined “Theo Sends Urgent Message to Dance World.” In it, he explained, “Just this past year, I ran for a seat in the U.S. Congress—AND I love to dance!!” Then he offered us “a full-time income, a large full-time income with part-time work. Would you like another $1,000 per month, $5,000 per month, $10,000 per month, $20,000 per month???? No meetings, no staff, no overhead, no paperwork!!! Cash flows in this company in one year will be over $100,000 per month—those that get in early will become rich. THIS IS TRUE!!!” All we had to do was get in early. And I must say I was intrigued. I, too, love to dance! And this “Theo” person sounded intriguing. I wondered if he would wear his opera cape, like the one he was sporting when I hid from him at the Artists Village opening. So we went to Fiesta Latina on May 3 to see Theo dance with other students at Orange Coast College. I wanted to mock. I wanted to sit in the back row and snicker. And yet . . . and yet . . .
He was so game, in his white pantaloons and blousy white shirt, clapping his hands and frolicking on the stage for our enjoyment. And he was doing his damnedest to keep up with the quick footwork of the other male dancers, who were 20 years his junior and gay. It was touching, I tell you, and I didn't want to make fun of him anymore. Plus, I could make over $100,000 per month if I just get in early. And no overhead!
Dance for CommieGirl! Dance! co**********@ho*****.com">Co**********@ho*****.com
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