I didn't actually witness Brat Pack legend Anthony Michael Hall being turned away from the Swinging Utters show on July 14 at Club Mesa. But blond-about-town Arrissia Owen swears the former geek/ cutie and current force of nature (didja see his scary-monster turn as Bill Gates in Pirates of Silicon Valley? How about his tour-de-force performance in Sixteen Candles?) couldn't get into the jam-packed club. They must not have known he sponsors a reading club at Chapman University. It's true! Also cooling it outside in a line like the one around the Matterhorn were various members of Social D and Nashville Pussy.
Speaking of pussy, I also didn't actually witness the orgy that went down at the recent Libertarian convention in Anaheim. But I'm told by a local wacky Lib (and award-winning political consultant) it involved very alternative lifestyles. How come I never get invited to any orgies?
(I did meet a very nice hardcore pornographer in Malibu this weekend, who wanted me to send his love to Huntington Beach porn-star/OC Weekly cover girl Candy Apples—Candy, Tony says hi—but he didn't invite me to an orgy, either. Do you know who the best person to have at your orgy would be? That's right. Anthony Michael Hall. Is it his clean, close shave? No, it's waking up in his arms. . . .)
You would think an orgy would break out at Live Bait, but you would be wrong. It's like something out of Eugene O'Neill: raw, anguished people who are funnier than Halle Berry's accent in X-Men. You'll laugh! You'll cry! You'll fall down in front of a whole bunch of people, including the one really hot college boy in the black sweater who, sensing that you don't have the decency to be properly embarrassed or ashamed, will internalize it so keenly for you he won't be able to face you and will have to console himself with some dog-faced bimbos over by the back bar.
I'd never been to the meatiest of all of God's meatmarkets before, and with Orange County Democratic Foundation/ Wylie Aitken aide/brunette hotty Sandra Ramos in tow, it was a fascinating slice of sociology. (Sandra, shockingly, is not really Latina, but with her dark hair and eyes, she's able to pass.)
There was the muscle-shirt guy at the bar when we walked in, for instance, with the kind of looks you could tell were once handsome but had faded to a boozy puffiness. He stood by the bar all night, sad and hungry for his college days 15 years before, when girls put out and he had all the time in the world to become his current lonely parody of a self. Sandra and I were ready to cry just thinking about it and amended his history, adding two kids and a wife stuck at home while he moons over the coeds. Now hating him properly, we felt much better.
Then there was the crazy skinny Deadhead chick tearing it up on the dance floor. We appreciated her freedom and her unity with the music. We also appreciated her eyes, which we could see bugging out skeletally from their sockets from a distance of 20 feet—in the dark—and we were sad, maybe crying even, thinking that she didn't have any friends there to keep her company on her trip. After she'd been sitting on a step for a while, the bouncer came over to escort her to a table. He helped her up and her entire face beamed with love. She held his hand happily as he led her away. But did she stay where she was put? No, she did not! For the next hour or so, the bouncer kept having to go find her as she rushed from one spot to another. Finally, he kicked her out, and nobody really blamed him.
On July 15, I skipped the Ruby Diverreunion in favor of the Swallow's Inn. I fell again, but not really spectacularly, like I do every time I go bowling. Constant falling for no good reason besides advanced drunkenness isn't a sign of brain cancer, is it?
The Swallow's was even more crowded than usual, and not just because of the grizzled, yowling presence of Chris Gaffney and the Cold Hard Facts. Didja know Chris Gaffney used to be in a new-wave band and wore sleeveless tiger-stripe shirts and headbands? They played A Flock of Seagulls and Sparks covers. It's true! And aside from the blond monkey girl I was happily ready to punch in the throat, everyone was real nice.
Especially nice were the absolutely blotto guys—they got there early, like September 1972—who leaned in real close when they talked to me and said funny things like, “I like weed 'cause weed don't get you all stupid and shit.”
There were also several nice young Marines who were preceded by their cologne. Many of the nice young Marines came from Texas and called me “Ma'am,” which always makes me want to order them around real bossy and mean to do some pushups and fetch me a drink, but unfortunately, though they were happy to hit the slippery dance floor, none of them knew how to lead properly. They claim it's a regional thing: in Fort Worth, they would never dream of guiding a girl 'round the dance floor. Apparently, girls in Texas are psychic. Apparently, girls in Texas also don't punch people in the throat; every time I tried to go find my object of dejection, they distracted me with beer. It's only so long before I lose my striking good looks to boozy puffiness.
Now dance, rummy! Dance!
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