Drugs Are Bad, Mmmmkay?
At the Republican Unity Breakfast the morning after the March 5 election, the Reverend Lou Sheldon of the Traditional Values Coalition approached my (now ex-, again!) boyfriend, who is Republican gubernatorial nominee Bill Simon's political director. The Reverend Lou was curious about the identity of the lovely young lady in the eyepatch. "That's my [now ex-, again!] girlfriend," Jimmy explained. And what does she do? "She, uh, writes for the OC Weekly." The Reverend Lou thought about it for a moment, according to my then-boyfriend. And the first and only question on his mind was this: "Hmm, so she probably likes gay people, huh?"
"Yes," Jimmy confirmed. "She likes gay people a lot."
It's true. If I could just find a gay man who wanted to have sex with me, I'd probably marry him, as long as he was kind of butch. But two weeks later, it took only one trip to Newport Beach to have my faith in gaykind badly shaken and stirred.
My homegirl Arrissia and I had ventured with friends Kedric Francis of Riviera (the magazine for the very, very rich) and Orange County Museum of Art guy Brian Langston to the grand opening of new boutique Snob. (Arrissia and I were looking so bad we hoped we'd come full-circle to cool, but we probably hadn't, as I was wearing what can only be described as orthopedic sandals.) Unfortunately (maybe), we'd missed the opening completely, so we headed a door or two up the street to Brio, figuring it was packed with just the kind of people who could give us the Snob experience. And could they ever! Having a birthday dessert sampler at a table nearby was a trio of ladies (one Asian, two blonde) with the most beautiful faces money could buy, though they had perhaps done too much tanning in their youths, which—their youths—had receded into the middle distance. Nattering at the bar was every kind of clean-cut money. Outside, falling off a bench, was a very pretty blond girl who was so drunk the managers of the restaurant next door kept coming out to ask her if she'd taken anything, while a handsome young man kept asking her, "What do you want to do? Do you want to come back to my house? What do you want to do?" (Do you want to come back to my house, or do you want to come back to my house?) And there we stood at a table somewhat in the way of the door. It's a terrible place to stand when there are Newport fags trying to sashay in. (It wasn't until the next day that I realized the only difference between them and any Newport straight guys who would have behaved exactly the same way was the high pitch of their voices; I hereby feel very bad for calling them "fags.")
However. The bald one (looking something like Lex Luthor in the yummy Smallville) managed to shove both me and Arrissia into the table, never looking back, but when I sniped, "Excuse me!" then I was the bitch. "Oh, my God. That one-eyed-patch girl totally just bitched me out!" he informed everyone nearby, and it was on. (I later heard him say to someone, "She knows she has one eye! It's okay!" which was so funny that it was okay.) His friend, who was clearly on Ecstasy, kept trying to get us to hug, while a small brunette woman informed me that the bald one was her accessories manager, so I should take care of him. "In what way?" I asked. "In every way," she told me grandly. I should have fallen to my knees right then. After all, I was in the presence of an accessories manager! We finally left after they shoved Arrissia twice more and then dipped the brunette right into her back, as Arrissia, who doesn't work in fashion, was clearly not a person standing right there.
But my faith in gaydom was restored within minutes, as I hit La Cave on my way home to wash the taste of Newport out of my mouth. I sat down in front of the DJs (who, bless 'em, were blaming it on the Bossa Nova) and next to a handsome black man who I assumed was straight after he bought me a drink. Was he? Nope! Just gentle and kind and free with his bar tab. We talked about Texas. We talked about my knee (crippled, but it's a boring story). We talked about soup and Newport Beach and why flying first class makes people think not that they paid more but they are more. Travis? Marry me!
State Senator Joe Dunn's fund-raiser Saturday was lovely, as usual, even though the invite was to the home of "State Senator and Mrs. Joseph Dunn," instead of giving pretty Diane her own damn name. Where am I? 1952?
Since admission to the Dunns' Christmas parties is a toy for Toys for Tots but the St. Pat's parties raise funds for Dunn's re-election (to the tune of $250 per Dunn fan—a base that includes Supervisor Tom Wilson), the guest list Saturday was considerably sparer than usual. There were few of the Latino activists who flock to the house at Christmas, for instance, and the trilly, pretty Celtic band Black Waterside played a haunting ditty, hundreds of years old, for one Latina activist who had passed on that very morning. Josie Montoya, who founded Anaheim's United Neighborhoods to improve relations between the city, the Police Department and the Latino community, had suffered from diabetes. Weekly reporter Nick Schou calls her the "unofficial mayor of the Jeffrey-Lynne neighborhood," where she worked for everything from children's literacy to food programs for working parents. (Read the obituary by Nick.) We are sad she's gone.
The music for the Doll Hut's St. Patrick's Day party was supposed to start at noon; by 3:30 p.m., no bands had shown, but the bouncer was still trying to charge a cover. Still, although neither bands nor barbecue had manifested by 4 p.m., the four of us in the bar had a lovely chat on topics ranging from Jimmy Intveld (whose croonings on the box were probably a better soundtrack than a band, anyway) to the world's best lounge—the Fling—to the woman who came in briefly. She had a beautiful, sweet smile, and she looked more strung-out than I have ever seen anyone in OC. Her hair was matted. Her blue, limpid eyes were almost hidden under the violet circles. She said nothing—just smiled shyly. But it was asked for her: Could she borrow the bartender's car? Hers wasn't working, and she had to go pick up her baby. Here's a tip, sweetheart. Leave the baby where it is. Unless it's in a Nike sweatshop—and maybe even then—it's in better hands than yours, which are trembling. Drugs are bad, mmmmkay?
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