El Vez has left the building

So there I was at the Foothill on Friday night to see El Vez, nuzzling on Greg, whom I've recently demoted from my new fireman boyfriend to the only guy I happen to currently be seeing because he maintains that even if we were married, he would still hang out in strip clubs-but I'm sure it's just tearing him up inside. And he was getting me steadily drunker. On purpose! (Of course, we had just come from the Dragonfly in Hollywood, where we helped celebrate Dial 7's signing with Warner Bros. by consuming freely from the open bar, so it was especially cheap for him. Bastard!) When Greg went to the bathroom, an old friend joined me at the bar, and I was so happy to see him I practically stuck my tongue in his mouth, probably scarring him for life. Foothill and Blue Cafe promoter Steve Zepeda, who was sitting right behind us, most likely got an eyeful of me attacking two men in the space of three minutes. But it's okay, Steve! One was gay!El Vez, of course, is the Latin fireball, the Mexican Elvis-and Elvis, of course, as of Aug. 16, has been dead a long, long time. Damn it, I love El Vez, whose pop-song parodies are about such things as the United Farm Workers and the Zapatista rebels. He's such a good Leftist rock star! And he's got such a sexy little hiss to his voice, especially when he takes off his jump suit and poses his skinny body for us, his adoring public. Viva la revolucion!The singer for the opening band, Cisco, announced: “This ain't no rockabilly. This ain't no psychobilly. This ain't no cute swing-dancing scene. This is country!” But it would have been a lot more believable if the guy announcing it didn't have long sideburns, a greased-up pompadour and a wifebeater shirt on under his red retro jacket. They sounded real Garth-y (Brooks, not Wayne's World), but in the mainstream, not the fun, sense. I felt kind of bad for them. I didn't feel bad for Tom “I Was a Gigolo for the GOP” Lowe, even though the only people I saw at his book signing on Saturday at the Santa Ana MainPlace Barnes & Noble were his mom, his brother, a former teacher of his and his brother's friend. There was also a pretty, very braless brunette whom he introduced to the teacher as his girlfriend, but she modified that. “Uh, sort of,” the brunette interjected. He was just getting ready to split-a half-hour early-when the store manager introduced herself, blowing his truancy plans. No, I didn't feel bad for Lowe; I felt bad for me. I was all dressed-up (heels, even) for a Republican shindig later that evening, and Lowe's book is all about the reporters with big “cans” and the “hot media muff” he's “nailed.” And I was terrified that people would think I was lingering there looking for action. Heck, I don't need that. I've got a new fireman boyfriend. Uh, sort of.Mostly, though, I was confused. Lowe's book is a “novel,” “a total and complete work of fiction.” But the kernel of the story first ran in this paper two years ago as a memoir of his time as a GOP aide, drinking very hard and making it with two hotties at once on Curt Pringle's desk. Entire scenes of his book ran here as God's truth. So now that it's a novel, which parts are made up? The part where he asks a Register reporter to drop a story about him physically attacking the ranking Republican Assemblyman, and she agrees because she's a personal friend and owes him a favor? The part where Pringle (“Brett Alexander”) accepts bribes in return for legislation? The part where the ever-fascinating Arianna Huffington (“Mariella” in the book) drops trou to get a naked massage with him? The part where he engineers Assemblyman Scott Baugh's allegedly ethically impaired election, all out of his pretty little head? I called Scott-he said I could call him that-at his Sacramento office to find out if this last nugget could possibly be true, and the person on the phone offered to transfer me to the press liaison so he could “brief the member.” I thought that was hysterical. But Scott-who called me back from the Assembly floor, and how cool am I?-said that so far as he knew, uh, no. So if that part was made up, it's possible, I guess, that Pringle wasn't taking quid pro quo bribes either. Too bad.Following the abortive book signing, for some mysterious reason, one of my credit cards was working. So I consumed like a good little American before leaving the very cool mall (and I hate malls), where young punks were lying on the floor with their heads in one another's laps. Ah, youth. And with my dress and my multiple shopping bags, I felt like a woman of means. Being a Socialist is harder when you've got instant credit.And then it was on into the night for the Orange County Young Republicans' annual awards dinner at the Balboa Bay Club in Newport-an odd little strip of private sand for those who really don't want to get too close to those other, less-sanitary countians. I wanted to see if any of these fine folk would be partying like, well, Republicans-after all, that's what they do in Lowe's book. On desks, even! But everyone was very well-behaved and polite; there's even a certain breed of young Republicans that really digs on Socialist girls. I guess they figure “hippie chick equals free love.” One even bought me a drink; I was on my own as far as the $40 dinner went, though, so I only stayed for the reception and took it out on the marvelous little egg rolls Miguel was serving. Bob Dornan and I had a cozy little chat about William Butler Yeats-even after I identified myself as an OC Weekly writer. Bob (I forgot to ask him if I could call him that, but I'm sure he wouldn't mind) is perhaps the most jovial man alive-when he's not being absolutely insane. He's a very large man, too, not one you'd want screamin' or yellin' or pokin' his finger at you. But he threw an arm warmly around my shoulder, and we got our picture taken. I plan on using it as my Christmas card. Then he started rattling on about fighter planes again-you know how he does-and I made my escape. Bob, I had nothing to do with this week's cover story! Ours is a friendship too pure for such betrayals. Semper fi!

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