A Rainbow With Pants On

Photo by James Bunoan”Eyad is a rainbow with pants!” a pal e-mailed last week, encouraging me—for the eleventieth straight time—to catch his friend's Tuesday-night DJ set at the Kitsch bar. In short, he concluded, “Eyad = Love.”

Seven days later, after smiling, singing and toe-tapping my way through not one but two of Eyad's gigs (he had a one-off stint last Friday at Kitsch)—as well as spending countless minutes chatting with him about DJing (in addition to Kitsch, he also has a show on KUCI-FM Wednesdays at 6 a.m. and occasionally moonlights at Memphis' Definitely Maybe); the Beach Boys (he dreams of being like Dennis Wilson, except, you know, for the whole drowning bit); Whittier law school (he's got a year and a half left); Dewar's scotch (“it's tequila with a different name”); and the undeniable beauty of Fleetwood Mac's Tusk (the album, not the song, silly!)—I, too, am convinced that, yes, Eyad = Love.

Then again, seeing as how I instantaneously crushed on him la Molly Ringwald and Andrew McCarthy in Pretty in Pink, it really took me only about seven seconds—and a glimpse of him playing air drums in the DJ booth—to figure that out.


Still, one barfly's giggly crush does not a Clubbed! column make, so it was quite fortunate, then, that Eyad's set last Tuesday at Kitsch had everyone else feeling the love as well—and by “love,” I mean “public sex.”

Oh, sure, the night started off innocently enough: panning around the bar, there was the Bruce Springsteen fan on my left, sporting a large red bandana and stealing kisses from a gorgeous brunette; the table of soused suit-and-tied co-workers in front of me, including one sneaky fellow who would deliver ass pats—to other men, no less!—when his friends weren't watching; and the slightly drunk dreadlocked man to my right, holding hands with and feeding drinks to his girlfriend and her dangerously low-slung jeans.

But then, just as Eyad busted out some T. Rex, the dreadlocked man's girlfriend (now drunk) and her jeans (slung even more dangerously low) waltzed over to the red bandana and began to whisper presumably the most unmentionable of unmentionables—read: threesome propositions—to his gorgeous brunette. She wasn't interested, thankyouverymuch, and turned to the bandana, hopped onto his lap and straddled him. Undaunted—but clearly inspired—the dreadlocked man's girlfriend returned to her table, only to find that it had been joined by one of the suit-and-tied co-workers (now both suit- and tie-less) and his new pal (erm, we'll call her the gymnast—more on this in a moment).

Eyad continued with Lou Reed's “I'm So Free,” and the dreadlocked man's girlfriend—with her jeans, which had now dipped so low she felt the need to unbutton them a bit so they could ride even lower—introduced herself to the co-worker and the gymnast, who returned her greeting—this is the absolute truth! I swears!—by demonstrating how far she could do the splits. And, well. She definitely could do them!

Minutes later, as I deliberated with my friend Sara over whether Eyad was playing Joy Division or New Order—it was New Order, but back me up: there was an overlap period, no?—the gymnast and her new best friend, the dreadlocked man's girlfriend, unable to contain their elation over Eyad's great selection, began making out.

Only theirs was a brief love affair: looking up from the napkin where I'd drawn a heart around Eyad's name, I noticed that the dreadlocked man and his girlfriend had snuck away (credible eyewitnesses spied her giving him a hummer on the sidewalk outside the bar). The co-worker disappeared soon after, leaving the gymnast to sullenly sip her drink for a few minutes before she, too, left the bar, presumably to do the splits elsewhere.

Of course, one could attribute the public sex, the ass pats, the unbuttoned jeans and the hot girl-on-girl action to—oh, I don't know—copious quantities of alcohol, perhaps. But if you ask me, it was all Eyad.

And maybe a little alcohol.


Can you do the splits? Invite me out! eg******@oc******.com">Eg*****@oc******.com

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