The couple draped across the Kitsch Bar was terribly friendly. I mean, really: outgoing and warm and kind and chatty and nice. Something had to be up. Most likely, knowing the kind of unwitting magnet I am for the deviant, they were swingers. Ewwww!
The she of the couple was a pretty, pillowy blonde, with the kind of overly slackened lips that make you fear she might begin drooling. Just like Anna Nicole Smith!
But she wasn't everyone's favorite slurry, nasty, stupid, whiny, icky, meanspirited bucket of Crisco. Nope, she was just a regular old nice-spirited Orange County gal, not one of them Texas heifers—but even so, though she wasn't falling face-down into her soup, she was at least a bit hazy from handsome Ryan's potent beverages. Her lips shimmered under the weight of a thousand layers of icy pink gloss.
The he of the couple, meanwhile, ignored her hints for an engagement ring—something along the lines of a sad, “I don't have an engagement ring!”—and offered me a writing gig; I could get ahold of him though his website, he assured me. I don't know about you, but I'm always trying to hire blondes I meet in bars!
The rest of the dark and mirrored bar on this Saturday night was about half Asian, in various percentages of multiculturalism. Many of the large groups of Pacific Rim friends had at least two black or Hispanic friends sprinkled in for even more street cred than they were already perpetrating, as if they had been art-directed by a really hip urban ad exec to typify our hip, urban, colorblind generation. God, I wish I had my own art director! And I wish I was Japanese! The boys wore Paul Frank; the girls showed off their perfect, buttless bodies in their silly, badly faded jeans. Whatever happened to our peg-legged 501s? The kind that were so tight, they needed ankle zippers and a dose of Monistat?
Meanwhile, the ladies of Revamp had art-directed Kitsch's display wall into a perfect fantasia of purses. With a theme purporting to sort women by their drinks and handbags—um, champagne drinkers are classy, etc.; we didn't see one for Pabst swillers—the glass cases housed a thousand twinkling rhinestones and spangles and baubles and little porcelain statuettes of '50s pinup types with downcast eyes and bustiers and stilettos and perfume atomizers and feathered mules and other things of the very girliest nature. Sprinkled among this fabulous aromatherapeutic bubble bath of a display were purses; most of them looked like sofa cushions and couldn't really be distinguished from one another. But it might have been the lighting. The Revampistas will have their launch Jan. 18 at the Kitsch Bar. Call (949) 734-9000 for info.
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I believe the Weekly in some way sponsored Twinkle Towne, the soon-to-be-dominant force in the crowded field of Irvine Christmas spectaculars. I mean, our name wasn't all over it, like the names of Krispy Kreme and some auto mall were, but our events coordinator, Shelle, gave me eight tickets to the festive festivities. Eight is a lot.
I would feel ungrateful and ill-mannered dissing the sweet attempt at holiday cheer, since there were very large light displays throughout the entire Verizon Wireless Irvine Meadows Lion Country Safari parking lot (and that's a very large parking lot), and there was a petting zoo and one of those big slides and a bounce house and some carnie games that weren't rigged because everyone's a winner, but you have to work your way up until an un-unimpressive prize has cost you $72. After about an hour, we and the sweet-tempered kids of our party actually started to have fun, but by then, we'd blown the rent money on the dart game, and we saw the “real snow,” and it made us sad; it was the kind of “real snow” they might beneficently ship to the children in the ghetto. If possible, Twinkle Towne, might we suggest refurbishing the real snow each day so it's not a big dangerous pit of iced and blended mud? These are suburban children, and they deserve nice things.
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You know what nice suburban children might enjoy? Disney's Toy Story 2On Ice, and I'm not saying that because they invite the media to bring their children for cocoa, cookies and bribes. Nope: the cocoa, cookies and bribes are completely irrelevant. Besides, they made us pay for parking.
I was on eggshells fearing for the safety of the ice dancers, who wore giant costumes and huge masks that must have limited both vision and movement like they were Imagineered burquas. But despite the sadism of the costume designers, only one of the ice dancers wasn't absolutely elegant and awesome. That guy, an extra for the big western number, seemed either new to the cast and choreography or a retired hockey player. He could do the moves (if not as limberly as the gay guys); he just was a few beats behind the rest of the cast—since he was looking to them for guidance. The skaterina with whom he was partnered tried to be game, but her smile was as slushy as “real snow” for poor children. If you can, you should totally get on the PR company's media list. They've got Snow Whiteand101 Dalmationscoming up in the spring! I love those publicity ladies!
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