Photo by Jack GouldThe old people left early. Perhaps it was the nude plastic fuckdolls arrayed about the hors d'oeuvres tables (featuring lovely fruit kebabs and soggy California rolls), mouths puckered at the ready. It was brave of the seniors to come at all, of course; the first day the Laguna Art Museum (LAM) advertised April 1's Risk gala, some old lady called up shrieking about porn. And she wasn't even a museum member. At any rate, by the time 9:30 p.m. rolled around, a steady stream of well-heeled museum supporters was making its gracious goodbyes, leaving inside a crowd that consisted solely of hangers-on to the DJs and hairstylists—and that's not code for "gay folks," except we're pretty sure everyone was.
Breeders were in short supply, and even those who were straight didn't look straight. There was the bleached, sweaty-assed, overripe go-go boy, for instance. Who's ever heard of a straight go-go boy? But he and his pretty go-go-girl wife were clearly overheard propositioning a lovely young lady. "We both find you very attractive," he purred from his little go-go box. "But you're married!" the pretty brunette was heard to politely demur, presumably searching for any possible way out. "We have a very open relationship," he explained. Were we shocked? Surprisingly, we were. We've never been hit on by swingers before, unless we blocked it out. Eeeeewww! Swingers!
Despite the high gay quotient and the plastic fuckdolls and the sweaty go-go boys, LAM's atmosphere was low-key. Even the death-defying, Enya-accompanied rope tricks of Cirque du Soleil's Sasha left most people wondering, "Hey! What's Fabio doing on that rope?" Had there been music, as promised, the party peeps (97 percent of whom didn't seem to have ever set foot inside the museum before Saturday) would have flown into action, jamming up the dance floor like a 00 Soul show, where people shimmy up and down one another's bodies like greased eels. But there wasn't music (even the swinging go-go boy was forced to bob his penis about to the music in his head, when he wasn't actually sticking his hand in his pants and stroking himself erect, to the delight of Long Beach rock star Dan Lo Fi Champion and Wahine magazine's Arrissia Owen, who were spotted cooling out on the benches with handsome LAM board member/art teacher John Gunnin), except for the looong Eartha Kitt tunes to which the gorgeously obese Dreamgirls revue was lip-synching. We think drag queens should have to sing their own damn songs. Of course, we also think the space shuttle should be encrusted in rainbow glitter—and we've been giving the matter a lot of thought—so our opinion probably shouldn't count for much.
We squeezed our way to the front for the lingerie fashion show, and we did it for you, people. To sum up: someone wasn't circumcised, the leopard-print calf-length negligee wouldn't look at all the same on a woman whose breasts weren't standing at attention (silicone has never worked so hard), and it looked like Carlos was stuffing. The Santa Monica-based photographers and pretty, pretty model boys (before whom we nonchalantly—and subtly—stood) kept smirking that one of the models was too short and the others were "hags." Meow! We hadn't had that much fun since Saturday morning, when we opened up our Los Angeles Times to discover the headline (obviously the work of a drunken saboteur) "In Shakeout of Internet Tree, Dots Are Poised to Fall," balanced by the headline across the page, "Q. What Causes Anger? A. Long Form of Census." Do we smell an Orange County Press Club headline-portfolio award? We think we do! We also think you should crash the Press Club awards (April 30, 5:30 p.m., at the Costa Mesa DoubleTree Hotel), but then again, we think the Press Club awards are fun, so our opinion probably shouldn't count for much.
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Commie Girl recommends: drinks in the poolside cabanas at Newport Beach's Four Seasons. Since the advent of dot-commery, they can't tell who's a millionaire and who's not, so they'll be nice to just aboutanyone. Of course, we also recommended the Press Club awards. Why do you even listen to us?