How Will We Know?

For the record, menfolk? When a woman says she hates Valentine's Day, your response—"Because it's so manufactured and all?"—is as sweetly and amusingly irrelevant as Phil Collins. We don't care that the holiday is "manufactured." Yes, we know: it's a conspiracy between Hallmarkand the water fluoridaters; we've heard your impotent whines before. We just care that we're big losers and nobody loves us and we're rapidly approaching spinsterhood.

Birthday tokens, as always—it's Wednesday, darlings!—may be sent care of OC Weekly, 1666 N. Main St., Ste. 500, Santa Ana, CA 92701! Su-su-ssudio!

When Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues first came out, her flacks sent a copy to Weekly HQ. I laughed and I sobbed, reading aloud to the rest of the office about 72-year-old women who had never had orgasms being ordered by their shrinks to discover their vaginas in a long, soaking bubble bath. And they did! And they conquered, and they came!

The rest of the office was mostly appalled, but that may have been just my dramatic interpretation combined with my interpretive dance. But it was joy, I tell you! Joy!

A gaggle of us gathered drunkenly at UC Irvine Friday night (we'd already been trawling for testosterone at Fox Sports Grill, but none was to be had; it's not the fluoride in the water—it's the estrogen!) as more than 40 young, mostly hot coeds staged a reading featuring many, many mentions of the hoo-hoo.

And we laughed as one particularly gamine miss made really impressive orgasm sounds! And we cried as Pearl Jemison-Smith, of AIDS Services Foundation, read the part of The Flood (there were lots of coy mentions of "down there" instead of grandmotherly Pearl's usual—and shocking—dissertations on hot! gay! sex!). But we were all in complete agreement: The Vagina Monologues was terrific except for all the parts that sucked. Dead girls in Juarez! Clitoral mutilation in half the world! You know what The Vagina Monologues is missing? Lots of stories of rape! Oh, wait! Here they are!


Still, despite the fact it's our inalienable and God-given right as Americans to skip the recountings of the suffering of the rest of the world and go get a pedicure instead, The Vagina Monologues is an exceptionally joyous show. (Except when it's not.) And it made us all want to go and give our trusty and faithful vaginas—like Old Yeller!some sex. It wasn't that we were particularly juiced-up; it just seemed like our vaginas deserved some kind of reward or merit pay for all their good work these many (many) years.

Fabulous fan letter of the week!

Dear Commie Girl, If you really wanna take your boy on a swell fun trip, drive to Tempe on March 23. The Angels have spring-training camp there, and you'll be able to stalk—er, court—your boy Adam Kennedy. Also Vlad the Impaler. We got tickets to watch 'em play the Cubs (you heard it here first—Cubs for National League Pennant in 2004). It'll be swell fun and an opportunity to stalk—er, court—Kerry Wood and Mark Prior, as well as cute Derek Lee (recent Marlin). Now THAT'S a vacation! And a mere five-hour drive from OC! And it's probably Buttercup's spring break then! So why not?! "Ready? Okay!"Leslie Jenks

I mention Leslie's Fabulous Fan Letter of the Week only to point out that I did not take my small buttercup of a son to Angels Fest this weekend, even with two free tickets sticking out of the back pocket of my fine, tight jeans. I'd heard horror stories of lines of 800 waiting for an autograph, although the line to get one's picture taken with the Rally Monkey? Not so long.

Arizona? I'm there.

No, instead of going to Angels Fest (even though there was free parking!), I hung out at Commie Mom's and watched the 42nd Democratic presidential debate of the season. And you know what? It was like porn. We were dripping—with love—for every one of them.

We would all have affairs with John Kerry, we decided, and with John Edwards' lip-growth. Dennis Kucinich—formerly the candidate most likely to put me into a heroin nod, even though according to, he and I are fated for each other like Donnie and Marie—actually made me cry twice with his earnest eloquence.

The Dems are fielding just a terrific crop of candidates, even if we do have our niggles with each of them, and choosing among them is like having to choose between Luke and Owen Wilson. How will we ever decide? Only our vaginas know for sure.


THURS/FEB 19So once, I was "dating" my mechanic for 10 months, and we were both totally into Junior Brown, and I saw Junior Brown was coming to the Coach House, and I called up my mechanic and was all, "Hey, Junior Brown is coming to the Coach House! If I can get tickets, do you want to go with me?" and he was all, "Well, I would think you would invite me after you knew whether you had the tickets or not!" and I was all, "Oh, I get it now! You're a total dick!" but I didn't say that out loud. Instead I was all, "I'm sorry!" So you know what happened? I wrote something about how Junior Brown was coming and I didn't have tickets, and the slide-guitar legend's wife (who was also in the band) called the office and said they'd read the article and there were tickets waiting for me at Will Call! How cool is Junior Brown's wife? And I went! And I didn't take my mechanic. 8 p.m. $23.50. All ages. Coach House, 33157 Camino Capistrano, San Juan Capistrano, (949) 496-8930; FRIIf you are gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgendered, you find Margaret Cho hilarious. I don't find her "funny," generally, but I am impressed by the caliber of underground artists and rock stars she manages to squeeze into her hipitudinal life. Try not to stare at her head if you go see her at the Irvine Improv; Cho has gained some weight (she speaks frankly about it on her HBO special, which at least is a hell of a lot less unfunny than Ellen's HBO special), and the chick's head is like a piata. 7 & 9 p.m. $27. 21+. Irvine Improv, Irvine Spectrum, 71 Fortune Dr., Ste. 841, Irvine, (949) 854-5455. SAT So I'm sitting in Fitzgerald's Sports Pub on Valentine's Day because I am a loser and nobody will ever love me. Ever. However! If I had been there just one week later—say, Feb. 21 instead of Feb. 14—I wouldn't have had to listen to a horribly loud "funk/reggae" band do inept INXS covers. Instead, I could have watched Bridget the Midget(she's in porn, yo), and her band open for China White. Of course, I would have left before China White because I am not an old-school OC punk no matter how many of you I date. 9 p.m. $7. 21+. Fitzgerald's Sports Pub, 19171 Magnolia Ave., Huntington Beach, (714) 968-4523. SUNWouldn't it be great if Bette Midlerwere playing somewhere really intimate—like the Grove Theater—instead of the Arrowhead Pond? Well, she's not. She's playing the Pond. Perhaps you're wondering why I'm recommending the woman who foisted "Wind Beneath My Wings" on us—but she wasn't always a horror show! She used to shake her bosoms in bathhouses, like Margaret Cho does now! Midler's The Divine Miss M was, according to my father, the album of the '70s, and we spent a lot of time spinning the "record" on our "record player." (No, my dad's not gay.) This childhood upbringing should explain to y'all why the old-school OC punk leaves me frigid. I was raised on such wimpy stuff as Manhattan Transfer(I can sing you every word of "Body and Soul"!) and Nicolette Larson ("Mexican Divorce"), but she died. 8 p.m. $45-$250. All ages. Arrowhead Pond of Anaheim, 2695 E. Katella Ave., Anaheim, (714) 704-2400; MON Merle Freakin' Haggard! Apparently he's got a new anti-war anthem? Really? Merle Haggard? The Okie From Muskogee, with his leather boots (still in style for manly footwear) and who doesn't smoke marijuana or take his trips on LSD, or burn his draft card, or let his hair grow long and shaggy like the hippies out in San Francisco do? That Merle Haggard? Well, okay then! Go on and give him some Willie Nelson-style redneck/peacenik love at the Crazy Horse—a great place to see a show, as anyone who was at the Miss Loretta Lynn love-in last year can tell you. Tickets are running out fast. 8 p.m. $25-$74. 21+. Crazy Horse Steakhouse, Irvine Spectrum, 71 Fortune Dr., Ste. 864, Irvine, (949) 585-9000; TUES Come to the Dennis Kucinich for President Volunteers Meetingand learn how to become involved locally in this campaign to replace Bush with—according to these good folks—"the only truly progressive Democratic candidate in the race." You know what? They're liars. All of the candidates are good progressives—all of them. Still, I'm kind of falling in love with Kucinich . . . but I'm still not gonna vote for him or nothin'. 7 p.m. The Living Temple, 7561 Center Ave., Ste. 24, Huntington Beach, (714) 891-5117.

Hey, these Kucinich cats are organized! There's also a Weekly Meetingin Irvine. 7 p.m. Corner Bakery Cafe, The Irvine Market Place, 13786 Jamboree Rd., Irvine, (949) 550-6798.

WED I saw Nina Hagenwhen I lived in New York, at one of those incredibly hip New York venues. I didn't really like it. Still, she's even hipper than Margaret Cho, and she's playing with Texas Terri(whom I also don't really like) and Third Grade Teacher(who are okay). 8 p.m. $17.50. All ages. Galaxy Concert Theatre, 3503 S. Harbor Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 957-0600;

Also? It's my birthday.

THURS/FEB 26 Neal Pollack, the Greatest Living American Writer, was at my house smoking crack this week, and I put local boys Square on the box, and he listened politely for seven songs before he made me change it. So I put on Johnny Cash, and Pollack said he can't like Johnny Cash as much anymore because all the hipsters were so sad when Johnny Cash died that they ruined his sadness (or something; I was smoking crack, too, and I'm sure I'm misquoting him horribly, due to the crack and all), and I said it was okay I was sad when Johnny Cash died because I was even sadder when June Carter died because him I'd been expecting, but her . . . ! Then Pollack said it was even more excruciatingly hip to be sad about June Carter, and I punched him in the throat. So come on out to the Doll Hut for a Johnny Cash birthday tribute presented by Grease Demon Entertainment. 9 p.m. $5. 21+. Doll Hut, 107 S. Adams St., Anaheim, (714) 533-1286; —Rebecca Schoenkopf


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