The Year in Girl
Photo by Denise Truscello•Sauced Newport Congressman Dana Rohrabacher hangs out at the Kitsch Bar while his young hipster wife, Rhonda, spins. Mere feet away, humping his date on the Kitsch Bar bar, is Jan from the Vandals. History is made.
•At Newport Beach's Gulfstream—formerly Cowboy—one guy's opening gambit is "I own two companies."
•Monica braves the freeways from West Covina to attend the Butterfly Lounge and be adored; despite the fact that everyone in this Big Mac Nation is getting steadily fatter, Big Beautiful Women still have to trek long ways to mix with folk who won't stare in insulting, open-mouthed dismay at their massive, jiggly love. When I write about the phenomenon, angry fat chicks write in by the ton.
•I discover at the Olde Ship Pete "The Treat" Dawson. Now everyone go be a fan, right away!
Los Angeles Angels vs. Texas Rangers
TicketsFri., Sep. 9, 7:05pm
Premium Seating: Los Angeles Angels v SEATTLE MARINERS
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Los Angeles Angels vs. Seattle Mariners
TicketsMon., Sep. 12, 7:05pm
Premium Seating: Los Angeles Angels v TORONTO BLUE JAYS
TicketsThu., Sep. 15, 7:05pm
•Darling children pour into Diesel, where they refuse to buy anything, drink free imported beers and watch a mopey shoegazing band. The kids look terrific, but their music is balls.
•At the OC Metro Hot 25 Awards Dinner, Sheriff Mike Caronacalls dead INS guy Harold Ezell—still dead, by the way!—a bigot.
•Meek reporters on the Simon for Governorcampaign plane refuse to ask any tough questions. They also refuse to sit next to me.
•Barry Bonds, trying to one-up good-dad teammate Shawon Dunston, kisses his son in a manner that can only be described as "romantic."
•I spew all over the John Anson Ford Amphitheaterduring Patty Griffin.
•We watch lesbians two-step to The Clashat Club Broadway. They'll two-step to anything!
•At the Fling, a woman in her 40s or 50s, with a bloated liver that looked like a pregnancy, sits in a corner. We pull up chairs near her and borrow her light. "You are very beautiful," she says, slowly and muddily. Seats open up at the piano bar, and we move. I wish we had stayed and been nice to the woman. She is lonely.
•Former Fling master Phil Shane lives the dream and moves to Vegas, where the Tropicana now gets all the Neil Diamond covers it can stomach. The Tropicana can stomach a lot of Neil Diamond.
•The Super Diamondshow at the Mouse House of Blues is full of mortgage bankers and girls named Stacy.
•Governor Gray Davis enters the ballroom at the Democratic Convention to U2's "Beautiful Day." He raises his hands in the air and bounces them there. "Oh, my God! He's 'raising the roof'!" I tell a reporter behind me, who isn't looking. "I know! He is!" she replies. "No, he's actually raising the roof!" I clarify. I don't think she knows what I mean.
• I travel to Capitola, a town near Santa Cruz, with state Senator Jim Brulte's princessy and somewhat out-of-control chief budget officer, to have margaritas on the sand. When we return late to our parking space, the attendant tells us we owed another dollar, just as he'd warned us before we left. The aide refuses to pay and threatens to run him over.
•At diPiazza's, National People's Gangsters Deyo and Chad (also of The Fuzz) tell awesome tour stories involving Washington police with guns drawn, a motorhome that had run out of gas, and a speed freak in a stolen Toyota. The cops, after having them assume the position, prone on the ground, apologized in a friendly manner and escorted them to the nearest town, sirens blazing, to ensure they would make it all the way. Then we talk about Jewish singles mixers and drink scotch.
• What did I hate about NAMM? Well, the people in the trade-show booths ignored me when I tried to catch their attention to ask if I could play their sparkly guitars (Pretty! Shiny!), and I'm totally sure it's because I'm a girl. And I didn't get any free stuff—not even stupid plastic guitar picks. And there were a whole bunch of dickweeds sitting around pounding on drums, and there was a band of guys dressed in Ren Faire outfits, which was funny for a second until I saw how bad the puns were for their names (the band was called Bone, and the members' names were, like, "Tyboneious," which just sucks). And nobody was trying to make time! Music geeks are worse than Trekkies. Trekkies at least want women; they just can't figure out how to stop being Trekkies.
•I'd heard for years about how great fiftysomething country-billy chick Rosie Flores is; it always seemed like she was something good for you, like Life cereal. But spend an evening with her, and you'll want her by your side forever, either as your guitar-shredding wife or as the baby-voiced object of your stalking. Simply, Rosie Flores is the best goddamn thing to hit a stage since the Tiki Tones' goofily gung-ho go-go dancer (my previous pick for Woman I Most Want to Marry) or Jim Morrison's flaccid wee.
•The longhaired guy in the strip mall housing not just Gypsy Loveand The Drink but also Captain Cream's house of flesh shouts to us, not the least bit temptingly, "Let's go smoke some weed and do some blow!" He tries his best, but even his avowal that he was The Lizard King isn't enough to get him starfucked. Anyway, isn't Ian Astbury the Lizard King these days?
•In the girls' room at Mr. J's, boy strippers dance to multiple Phil Collins songs. One dangles his participle (it hangs down creepily in his participle pouch, and he wags it a lot) all over the young ladies who had paid $5 for a "hot seat" where the young men would simulate sex with them. For my part, I think the "hot seat" would work a lot better if you just picked the girls up and slow-danced with them, maybe breathing on their necks, rather than humping their legs like jackrabbits.
•I hate Wyoming.
•I can't tell you the terrible joy of watching Todd Spitzer ready himself for an _on-camera interview. •At Quiksilver's Surf Cultureparty at the Royal Hawaiian, a self-important young man who arrives with artist Sandow Birk is denied entrance. "That's okay, dude," he tells Bill the Bouncer as he turned and stalked off. "I am so over you!" Meanwhile, a muumuued woman in her 40s who claims to be a reporter berates a youngish but weatherbeaten man who is trying to ditch her to talk to a pretty blonde smoking outside. "COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!" she shouts, her words whipping past us all. "I AM THE ONE GETTING YOU IN TO THIS PARTY! WE ARE NEXT ON THE LIST!" No, they never do get in.
•The folks with traumatic brain injuries at Integrity Houseshow me up fierce when I try to Power Jam. The joy is even fiercer than Todd Spitzer and that camera.
•Nashville Pussy's Ruyter Suys crotches on the back of a security guard's neck. She should be the most famous girl in the world.
•Goths at Release the Bats all dance like mimes. Help meee! I'm stuck in a box!
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