Photo by Tenaya HillsIt was one of God's perfect weekends, a perfect storm of a weekend minus the special effects and George Clooney. It was a weekend, in short, of ass.
It was a weekend, in fact, of so much ass—and not a one that wasn't fine and luscious—we were single-handedly cured of our obsession with breasts.
Breasts are so Feb. 1.
Never let it be said that we're stuck with the times.
First, we were inspired. The OC Weekly's Burlesque party at the Galaxy Concert Theatre Friday night (celebrating last week's filthy, impure Heart Day issue) featured many, many girls posing tableaux-vivant style up on the Galaxy's wide stage. Mostly, they bent over and slapped one another with riding crops, which Suparna the Rocket Scientist and I thought was really terribly sweet, although in some cases, they bent over vanity tables and applied blush, and sometimes, they sold lemonade—slowly—before smacking one another some more.
God, this paper is totally Satan's tool. (Many thanks to bitter, defeated ex-congressman Bob Dornan for pointing this out to us oh-so-long ago, along with the necessary reminder that we are responsible for the spread of “infected bodily fluids.” French kisses, Bob!)
The party, which would have been the party of the year if we hadn't gone to one the very next night that featured, oh, a concert byTom Fucking Petty, also featured a guest walking around with three inches of ass cleavage showing above her porny lo-jeans and some people who offered to shoot Botoxinto our faces. “We're too young for Botox,” I told the lady with the needles full of Botulism, since Suparna is 28 and I am only almost 31 (gifts may be sent care of OC Weekly, 1666 N. Main St., Ste. 500, Santa Ana, CA 92701 on or before Feb. 25! Thank you in advance!). Still talking to the lady and always, but always, polite, I added, “But thank you!”
“We also do collagen, chemical peels . . .” She rattled off a whole list of ways she could help us be less ugly. “Would you be interested in collagen or a chemical peel?” she asked with as close to a frown as she could muster when we seemed uninterested in letting her Frankenstein (or Wildenstein) us up. Listen, bitch: What part of “We're too young” don't you understand?
Then Dita Von Teese came onstage, and the mean lady with the needles was all but forgotten. We were floored. We were staggered. We were expecting more of the excruciatingly hip beauties (like the Velvet Hammer) we've seen in the past, but Dita wasn't trying to outcool us. Instead, she made us proud to be women, even women with all their ribs and non-Victorian waists that allow us all the lung capacity God gave us at birth. We wanted pasties and giant fans made of red feathers, and we wanted, like Dita, to be able to exit a womyn-sized martini glass without falling onto our pelvises.
Falling onto your pelvis is totally not fun.
There was a handsome young man on the dance floor during the show; he wasn't a stranger—he was our new friend with pot! We were just working up our newfound confidence to chat with him when our friend Phil came over and started rubbing our shoulders.
Great. Peter, we'll take Phil for the block!
Afterward, we were chatting with a girlfriend when I pointed out the lesson I had learned from Miss Von Teese. “We don't have to look like that,” I said. “We just need to point our ass at people and mean it.”
Our friend concurred. “When I want to make love with my husband,” she said, “I can't say, 'Honey, let's make love,' or he says no. I have to show him the booty and let him think it's his idea.”
Men. Aren't they stupid?
The very next day, we moseyed on over to the Crossroads of the West Gun Showat the Orange County Fairgrounds. There, we did not point our ass—you never point a weapon unless you're willing to fire it—but we did load up on jerky, and I bought a gun for my small buttercup of a son and looked at all the pretty dolls and figurines of piggies. You didn't know there were lots of piggy figurines at gun shows? There are, Blanche. There are. Also? First editions of the compleat works of Teddy Roosevelt, which is actually hella cool, and hardly any Nazi stuff, which was hella disappointing.
Just a few hours later, we had the hottest ticket in town. At least, I did, and the publicist who knew damn well Suparna wasn't my photographer pretended not to notice that she wasn't even lugging a lens. Thank you, publicist lady!
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Now, I have been to the St. Regis four times. And every time now, I have watched old mean rich people throw down with the security. It's thrilling to watch, really. Rich people do not take instructions from the help. (The best of the lot came when the Times' society scribe, Ann Conway, threatened not to write about the Waterman's Ball—for charity!—unless her husband was seated at her table immediately! God bless that self-important old hag!)
In the case of Art for AIDS Saturday night, we watched an old white man threaten not just to have the security wretch fired, but to also get his entire security firm yanked from the hotel as well. Why? He didn't want to wear his wristband. It was pissy museum people (in addition to AIDS Services, the event benefits the Laguna Art Museum), pissy fags and the pissy rich—all in one place! Oh, yes—and Jackson Browne.
And, oh, we enjoyed it!
As did everyone. One girl in a prom dress swayed by the staircase, moaning that she didn't have her keys. “It's okay, sweetie,” we reminded her. “You gave them to the valet.” Another leeeeeeaned onto her escort in a slow-motion dive. The publisher of Riviera passed out in her chair.
People were fucking plowed.
When Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers came on—and I am an even bigger Tom Petty fan than the guy behind me who kept foghorning, “SMOKE A CIGARETTE, TOM PETTY!” because Tom Petty was smoking a cigarette—we tickled the guard's rump at the front of the stage, and he let us right up! The rest of the guards, though, truly, were a bunch of cunts, making mean faces and telling people, “You are going to cause trouble!” if they tried to dance at the front of the stage. One old-man volunteer in particular was manhandling people, who were somehow reminded of an inner decency long enough to not manhandle him back—and he was asking for it. And so if we had to choose a side, we'd go with the pissy rich people over the fake-bacon—except the fake-bacon who let us have the key to the kitchen once we waved our butt in their vague direction. Respect the rear, people. For reals, yo.
I see you, baby. Co**********@ho*****.com">Co**********@ho*****.com.
Eight Days
Love Week
Thursday, Feb. 12 Students for Science and Skepticism hosts a Darwin Daylecture, with Dr. Francisco Ayala speaking on “Darwin's Greatest Discovery: Design Without Designer.” Do you see what happens when you send your children off to “college,” with its filth and its cults and its communism?! College education is The Debil! 7 p.m. UC Irvine, Rowland Hall 101, Campus N W. Peltason drs., Irvine, (949) 824-2511. Friday The Hamburg Ballet makes a rare appearance with its American premiere of Nijinsky, the schizophrenic stud. Okay, fine: he also invented modern dance. Thanks a lot, Nijinsky! 8 p.m. $20-$75. Orange County Performing Arts Center, Segerstrom Hall, 600 Town Center Dr., Costa Mesa, (714) 556-2122; www.ocpac.org. Saturday
Yay! Yay! It's Love Day! Us, we got no love. Last year round about this time, we were even engaged, but now? Not so much. Nope. No Love Day for us. But are you in love? Then by all means, don't do anything exciting or requiring a lot of thought: rely on a fancy restaurant to do your talking for you! McCormick N Schmick's in Irvine has given the subject all the thought it needs and herewith presents Get in the Mood With Romantic Food!It will doubtless include lots of oysters and asparagus; it's the needing-to-pee caused by asparagus that puts pressure on your urethra, making it feel tingly! Oooh, la, la, romance! Call for reservations. Through Sun. $49.95 per person. McCormick N Schmick's, 2000 Main St., Irvine, (949) 756-0505.
Sunday
I'm not much for “exercise”—me and Tawny Kitaen are pretty much in complete agreement on that—but I am all for thieving! So take a look at the title of this bike ride—The Ride It Like You Stole It Bike Race—and tell me that doesn't sound awesome. There's a one-mile-loop course and races for all categories, from Cat. V-Public to Elite, whatever those might be. Race times and fees vary by category. Registration, 7 a.m. $16-$25. 2103 University Dr., Rancho Dominguez, (714) 356-1214; www.californiabicycleracing.org.
Monday
Okay, so it's not Love Day anymore. And it's a Monday. And most of us have to work. But if you're the kind of person who can pop $435 for Cupid's Bliss, then it's not like you really need to worry about things like Monday, now do you? Here's the spiel: indulge in a 25-minute couples candlelit aromatherapy bath (with scented seawater) while you sip champagne. Then it's a 110-minute romantic ritual partner massage in which you'll receive a 50-minute instructional session to learn professional massage techniques. The session ends with a 50-minute side-by-side Pacific Waters Spa signature massage with private therapists. This thing is really more for Riviera's readers than ours, but if we keep writing about their shit, maybe they'll offer us a pity facial. Through Feb. 29. $435 per couple. Pacific Waters Spa, Hyatt Regency Huntington Beach Resort and Spa, 21500 Pacific Coast Hwy., Huntington Beach, (714) 845-4912; www.spa.hyatt.com.
Tuesday
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Go see Peter Pan. It's still playing at the Block at Orange, among other places, and is the most ungodly beautiful movie I've seen this year. (Yes, I saw Lost in Translation, and it was good, and it was pretty, but didn't you think it was kind of racist?) Not only is the movie beautiful, but it's also got the sexiest nine-year-old you've seen in your life. My friend was horrified at the lust she felt. Serious, actual lust, not the half-hearted kind of lust you feel for Prince William that's more “imagining the wedding” than “imagining the cock.” Dude, the kid's nine. And he's freakin' hot.
Wednesday
Feng Shui specialist Sandi Miller gives a fun and informative seminar titled Feng Shui Your Way. Dude, are we still doing this? Really? 7 p.m. Borders Books N Music Caf, the Block at Orange, 20 The City Dr. W., Orange, (714) 279-8933.
Thursday, Feb. 19
With Avoiding Medication Misadventures, Bradley R. Williamsleads the way to safe and effective drug-taking. SEE? WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT COLLEGE! All those wacked-out homeschooler ladies with the craaazy eyes are totally RIGHT! 10 a.m. Cal State Fullerton, Mackey Auditorium, 800 N. State College Blvd., Fullerton, (714) 278-2414.
