I never believe Saturday Night Live's Jay Mohr as the bad guy in movies like Suicide Kings and the odious Jerry Maguire: he's too dorky to be evil, and his face is too soft and fetus-like. I believe him in sweet romantic comedies like Picture Perfect, in which he is all that's decent and marriageable, even if he doesn't have a bridge between his nose and his forehead.
So I was unprepared for the innocuous-looking blond to be such a meanspirited little man when I saw him at the Brea Improv. If former Governor-and don't we miss him?-Pete Wilson were a standup comic, he would be Jay Mohr. “Do you know what the No. 1 name in the state of California was last year?” he asked like an arrogant frat boy. “Jos. Jos! What the fuck happened?” He then went on to denounce people who give directions in foreign languages, a joke that clearly had to be modified from its “foreign cabbie” origins for use with a West Coast audience; ATMs that ask, “What language shall we speak?” (“How about the language that's printed on the fucking money!” was the righteous answer); fat chicks, like that “white whale” Ricki Lake; trailer trash on Jerry Springer; and the funny names black folks are giving their children these days-a bit that's so hackneyed even Saturday Night Live has done it. He did do some wonderful pratfalls, though, and he made good professional use of local landmarks, like asking directions to Edison International Field. Traveling comics really don't need to pretend they're familiar with our area; wasn't it sweet of him to try to fake it? His best material was Hanson-based-and if that doesn't tell you something about how outr his comedy is, then you need to go see some Jim-from-Taxi impressions.
We liked his opening act, Alonzo Bodden, a huge black man with that James Earl Jones voice of God going on. His dryly delivered material on race relations-like threatening little old white ladies that he could catch their ass-tickled the audience no end. And isn't it nice that blacks and whites can unite in their hatred of dumb Southerners? (To their credit, the audience seemed to like Bodden better than Mohr.) His relationship material was a little been-there, but we all liked it when he discussed the different types of underwear women have, including those “big-ass period panties.” Never let a man see your big-ass period panties; you need to keep the mystery alive, sisters.
We were all keeping the mystery alive at the fun Women in Business panel on Women in Media on Jan. 20. We were Sphinxes from every media outlet in the county, sitting silently and waiting for someone else on the panel to field the questions, which were tossed out in general instead of directed at any particular panelists. The disgracefulness of the OC Weekly was in fact not a topic. But I may have made some converts; I lied by omission and refrained from swearing or talking about boys I have crushes on. Probably the biggest lie of omission came, though, when KNBC's very lovely Vikki Vargas acted like Sweeps Weekbikini stories on broadcast news aren't sensationalistic because unlike Hard Copy, they don't pay people for them. And for all the ethical kvetching going on about the irresponsibility of Internet reporting, am I the only one who noticed that it was the broadcast-news reporters-and not Matt Drudge, who got the story right-who were running with unsubstantiated rumors when the Monica Lewinsky story first broke? The Orange County Register editor Tonnie Katz once said the Weekly “doesn't pretend to be a credible news source”; honey, we don't need to pretend. (She also said the Weekly had “really kicked [the Register] in the head.” We were thinking it was a different part of the anatomy.) Still, it's always good to be able to feel superior to TV. I wouldn't mind the paycheck, though; the dunderheaded Paul Moyer makes $1 million per year.
Billy Henderson is aiming for millions; after making a couple of art-house flicks, he's getting back into music videos so he can make big wads of greasy cash and buy houses for all his friends. On Thursday, Jan. 21, he screened the new Skeletones video, “Every Time You Go Away,” for members of the band and folks from their label, Transmission Records. At press time, he was waiting to hear from MTV. Did you know they still play videos between the Spring Break thong-a-thons?
Thongs, unfortunately, played a major role in Moronic Reducer's set at the Juke Joint on Friday night. The Dead Boys tribute band featured a fat-guy singer who is deep into middle age prancing around in a fishnet body suit with holes through which his man-breasts sagged and a tiny leopard bikini with his straggly wee hanging out. It was mesmerizing, especially when he did fast, deep thrusts at the air so his dingus would bob back and forth, and then he humped the amp. I do not approve.
Nor do I approve of Damian Sanders' Club Rubber. We got as far as the Galaxy Concert Theatre parking lot Saturday night when we were met by a mob 60 people deep still waiting to get into the club at 1 a.m. “Is this the line to get in?” I asked in amazement, and some snotty little girl with her beglittered mammaries up around her neck answered, “No, this is the line to get out.” Right on, sister! Give no quarter! Inside, DJ Beej was still playing a really loud mix of deep house and acid; outside, the parking lot was a land of exile, peopled by all the drunks who'd been 86ed. We especially liked the little blonde who looked like a young Stevie Nicks; she was screaming at some guy to come and fight her, and she kept calling him “that little bitch” as her friends dragged her away. While for some reason I've been unconscionably rude to people lately, I've never once threatened to fight anyone. I think I may have to make it a late New Year's resolution. So, anyone who wants to rumble, come on with it. Any takers?
Rumble with Commie Girl at Co**********@ho*****.com">Co**********@ho*****.com. She thinks she's so smart.
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