Photo by Rebecca SchoekopfPerhaps, like me, you are a junior high school cheerleader.
That would explain, wouldn't it, why you're so very stupid?
Stupid, stupid, stupid! That's you. And me. And it's a story of stupid that's as old as leather pants that lace up the sides.
It's not like you, and I, don't know the men who'll break you down. It's not like you, and I, don't know they're sweet, sweet poison.
Luckily, I've found the cure for rock star love.
Rock stars—the ones who've got your heart flapping around your chest like an epileptic—are bad and wrong in every way. You will not be the one to soothe his tortured heart, you will not be the one to put hope in his eyes. And when he breaks up with you—and honey, he will—it will be with his usual eloquent silence. When he shows up for your “date” with another girl, he's cranked the eloquence up to 11.
Well, do you want to keep living that way, or do you want the cure for the rock N roll itch? The Moseleys will offer you an ointment for it, but I've got nine words and an acronym, which are far less sticky.
Welcome to NAMM, The International Music Products Associationtrade show.
Ain't got a badge? Really think you need one? Just head to the Hilton lobby after the NAMM show closes down for the night next door at the Anaheim Convention Center. There, among the roiling crowds of dudes clogging up the lobby bars like an all-meat diet, you will see what rock stars actually look like when they're not onstage having your panties slung at them.
It's kind of like Shallow Hal: without a stage to showcase their hefty self confidence, and a spotlight to channel your lusty gaze onto their blank slates, the fingers are snapped and the rock-star hypnosis ends. And guess what? Judging by the NAMM geeks, rock stars are schlubs! They're dumpy and pale and have frizzy long hair like 1980 never happened, and you have just found the cure for rock star love. Your drawers will stay lovingly nestled between your cheeks, right where they belong.
Begone, Satans!
We were having a beer and lazily contemplating our underwear—SJ informing me she doesn't care for the boyshorts I favor as she says they give her crotch-wedgies, but that's exactly why I like them!—when we spied some pretty girls flipping their long, luscious hair with a ferocious ennui. Could we snap their picture for the paper? we asked them. If we must . . .
After basking in the glow of the flashbulb, the pretty girls stared us down. “We're going over to the bar,” the one with the prettiest hair said. “See ya.” But wasn't that the bar that they were standing beside? My new mission in life—telling people I am a junior high school cheerleader—never even got a chance to be spoke: Mr. Pretty couldn't have been more bored with our presence if we were The Feynman Lectures on Physics. Volume Three.
See ya.
Call me Black Elk: I speak for my nation.
Raider Nation.
Sunday at the Canyon Inn—okay, so I was hoping there'd be Angels in my outfield, but Adam Kennedy is getting better with the evasive tactics—the lines were clearly drawn. The Real Men were rooting for the Colts because they were playing the Patriots, and a scientific survey of my table proved that we are never getting over the Raiders/Patriots playoff game two years ago—when a Raiders TD run on Tom Brady's fumble wasn't a fumble and thus wasn't a TD—ever. As far as the Eagles/Panthers game, we were going with the Eagles . . . just to piss off Rush Limbaugh.
And apparently our Raiders fan-ness infects everything we touch, turning previously solid and exciting teams like the Eagles and the Colts into the Clippers.
Our love is poison.
Happily, the Canyon Inn—which can put a junior high school cheerleader to shame as far as pure cattiness—was full of warm 'n' friendly old folks and not a snotty young hottie for miles. The beers, they did keep coming, but at lengthier intervals than is proper, as the personable but slow waitress told us she was hung-over. The dudes at our table cocked their brows at that: “Have you ever missed a day's work from drinking?” they asked me.
Our junior high school cheerleading coach says we're not allowed to drink, so, no?
Great Moment of the Week!
The scene: Fletcher Jones Motorcars, Newport Beach. The event: the Riviera party, featuring the icky, Continental-like Maybach in which people could, for a moment, feel what it's like to sit in $400,000 worth of car. People were very impressed by this. The music: DJ Spider quickly carbon-dating us with '80s tenderness, courtesy of Human League. The drinks: fancy-ass vodka being poured by darling Ryan from Kitsch (one of OC's five hottest bartenders, per this very paper, but he's got some silly emo hair going on right now). My new friends: the old ladies in the women's room, who bonded wordlessly with me over the absolutely crocked blondes repairing their damaged pancake makeup for their next stop that fine Thursday evening.
“Let's go to Chat Noir!”
“I'm not going to fucking Chat Noir! Eveeeerrrr! As long as I fucking liiiive! Let's go to the Quiet Woman!”
“Well, I'm going wherever Kedric's going, because the drinks will be free. Kedric's buying me drinks.”
“Kedric's buying me drinks.”
“Kedric's buying me . . . horck!”
“Are you okay? You're okay! Come on, sweetie! Let's go find Kedric and get some drinks!”
Okay, so she didn't actually horck, but it was close! Like where you have to swallow your horck because you ate bad pork! What do you want to bet that pretty girl didn't make it to junior high school cheerleader practice the next day?
And that's what made it the Great Moment of the Week!
Ready? okay! Co**********@ho*****.com">Co**********@ho*****.com.
