The Sex Machine

Photo by Tenaya HillsSharkeez in Newport Beach is not for the claustrophobic among us. It's for those who take a Zen approach to ordering drinks. It caters to a crowd that likes its emomusic with frat boys. There's a hefty line to get in, and John the Door Guydoes a hell of a job with that.

Fog machines give the place a gas-chamber feel—like Houston under GWB. Overall, the folk there Friday night were an enjoyable sort, and Nic and I were not immediately ostracized when we broke into our preordained handclapping to whatever song happened to come on, namely “Hollaback Girl.” At Sharkeez, cute girls abound, and drinks are oversized, served in giant plastic tubs with straws the size of a garden hose. I ordered Nic a Sex on the Beach and a shot of Apple Pucker and struck up a conversation with Joannaand Courtney.Fresh off the boat from Chicago, Courtney wanted to “see surfers.” Too bad Sharkeez doesn't have any. But they do play surf videos, and that was more than enough to satisfy her craving. So we danced. And that's when I got pinned between the wall and the grinding rear of Sex Machine.

Sex Machine had been sexin' up all the ladies since we'd gotten there, and I'd made special note of his swaying buttocks as he cloaked the women from behind with his sumptuous moves. Little did I know that I'd fall prey to his moneymaker. Making myself as two-dimensional as possible, I slithered away from the vice grip that was his ass crack, grabbed Nic and proceeded to bounce, but not before I pulled a muscle in my rib cage escaping the clutches of Sex Machine's backside.

Sensing a possible motif in the making, we headed to Shark Clubin nearby Costa Mesa.

This was not to be, however, seeing as when we approached the venue, we were startled to find the fuzzarresting a gaggle of Vietnamese.I tend to get arrested, and four police cars and a fire truck in one place constitute a law and orderorgy in my book, so we fled CSI Costa Mesaand jetted over to The Flingin Santa Ana, which smells like Napoleon Dynamite's pocket and is quite possibly the most heavily reviewed dive bar in the history of mankind. Upon arriving, we were pleased to realize that we'd managed to catch the last few fleeting moments of the music of Eddie Day(who reminds us physically of Wayne Newtonif he'd served in the British Parliamentcirca 1795), jammin' covers. He then proceeded to talk Nic's and my collective ear off, in a non-annoying way, telling us the details of his son's NFLcareer and how he's featured in Pulp Fiction. Last call was 10 minutes after we arrived. Peace out, Fling!

Saturday night, I ventured back into Newport, this time to The Beach Ball, which, by the way, I abso-fucking-lutely endorse wholeheartedly and with a vigor not seen since the right-wingers on Fox started screaming about Howard Dean's screams. Completely unpretentious and jovial by nature, the Beach Ball rocks my socks off. Nowhere else in Newport do good music (Outkast! The Police!) and fun people mix so cohesively with pool tables and cheap booze. The Beach Ball is a giant bosom, imploring you to lay your weary head upon it. Good-looking men kissed on heavyset women, and The Godswere satisfied.

They were less satisfied with Blue Beet, where John Curryworked the door and made absolutely sure that things were spicy(get it?). Right around the corner from the Beach Ball, yet diametrically opposed to it in feel, Blue Beet specializes in being condescending and making you feel ugly. Never before have I been exposed to the level of bronzeness and bulimia that is the Blue Beet crowd. And never before have I considered cosmetic surgery. The layout of this place is ridiculous. It's roughly 97 stories tall and holds about 73 million people, all of whom are at least three times hotter than me. The live music provided courtesy of The Greg Peake Bandwas decent enough to make me momentarily forget how hideous I am; compared to these people, I looked rougher than Harriet Miers' ass. I fled. And then I cried. And then I slapped myself and ate a boysenberry pie.

Challah! Jo************@gm***.com

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