[Reg-O-Meter staff memo: With yet another entry this week of the name “Gordon Dillow,” the Reg-O-Meter, after being in operation a mere three weeks, incurred a major, possibly fatal technological malfunction—goddamn Radio Shack parts. Until repairs can be made, the Reg-O-Meter has been shut down. So instead, please enjoy the following slices of bad Reggie behavior from the past week you may have missed, sans highly scientific calculatin’ and shit.]
SUNDAY, MARCH 23
The Weekly’s R.
Strange rumblings are emanating from downtown SanTana, where the perpetually squabbling merchants of Fourth Street seem to be sobering up to the reality that a new wave of invading immigrants--hipsters, artists, and young professionals with disposable incomes--is nibbling away at their bit of the most Mexican city in America. The long-dormant Yost Theater--for decades the center of entertainment life for Latinos in Orange County--is getting readied to become a multipurpose theater that boosters
Sometime after midnight, the day of my book signing. Memphis at the Santora. Soused with half a glass of Maker’s Mark. I teeter outside to flag down Memphis bartender Johnny Sampson, who’s smoking with two guys. I apologize for the interruption, but gimme some bourbon, damnit!
While standing outside, some short hipster type—white T-shirt, massive glasses, funny hat, scruffy beard—begins rambling. I ignore it. He does it again, voice more menacing, directed toward me. Fighting words. Bef
