We Love a Parade

Photo by Jack GouldPerhaps you are under the impression that Tuesday, March 7, 2000, has already occurred? Nyet! Due to the vagaries of weekly publishing, it is in truth only Monday, March 6, and you'd do well to remember it.

Because Election Day hasn't happened yet, you will have to wait until next week to find out why all you smug fucks—yeah, we're talkin' about you!—voted to save marriage. You know who loves fags? The sainted Miss Dolly Parton, that's who! And if they're good enough for the Queen of Country Music, they should be good enough for you!

(We particularly loved those radio ads in which the soccer moms noted all the “Yes on 22” signs going up around the neighborhood and reassured one another, “I respect people's right to form relationships with whoever they want.” “Me, too! I'm as tolerant as the day is long! My sister is a lesbian, and she and her partner own a house together right around the corner, and even though I refuse to have such an abomination in the sight of God under my roof, I still send them Christmas cards every single year!” “Yes, it's all about tolerance for other people. We just need to send a positive message to our children that gays and lesbians are really lucky they get to own houses at all, instead of having their property seized and then getting shunted off to ghettos with The Jews to await transport!”)

But that's for next week. This week, we just have the same old tired claptrap about all the fabulous events you missed.

Fabulous Event No. 1: The Laguna Beach Patriots' Day Parade. We awoke on March 4 at the crack of 10:13 a.m. because our lovely and talented sister was ringing our line, wanting to hear the tale of the Humiliating Dildo Incident. We told her, and it was a good thing she had called because we needed to be in Lagayna by 11 a.m. So with just enough time to floss our teeth (gingivitis is a terrible, terrible thing, people; do floss), we exited our charming and cozy bungalow and swam down the 405, the previous evening's makeup cracking on our pretty face.

We were sure the Patriots' Day Parade would have been canceled: lightning was sparking in the sky over Long Beach, and the rain was positively biblical. But that's you. Youwould have canceled the parade—just like you voted for the Defense of Marriage Act. Damn, you really suck, don't you? But the people of Laguna Beach are not such pussies. No, sir!

With raindrops falling on our head, we stood on Forest Avenue and watched as lots of old, old men from various foreign wars marched along in their cammies. Then came the 8-year-olds in cammies, which was really very weird, and we didn't know if they were the children of gun nuts, or if they had been placed in youth boot camps for their wild, wild ways, or if they were junior (very junior) ROTC. They trudged through piles of horse dung and marched in place right before us. “Don't worry about it,” their sarge told them. “We'll march through some water soon.”

After the Children's Crusade came a long column of darling 9-year-old Indian Princesseswith their daddies, whooping it up in war paint. This, of course, caused us to bawl, on the street corner, in the rain, like we'd just been turned out by our very own mamma. “Their daddies looooove them,” sniffled we, but then along came The King's Order of the El Mysah on a flatbed truck, singing “Viva Las Vegas” over and over again (they said they knew six songs, but we think it was only four), and we brightened up immediately.

We followed the fezzed wonders —plus local giants Sam and Anita, whom we see in all the bestbeer lines —around the corner to the Marine Room Tavern, where things were cozy and the Vietnamvets were passing out McCain buttons (Courage. Character. Cwaaazy mothafucka) and the Elvises were holding court, when what to our wondering eye should appear but the San Clemente Scots Pipe Band, decked out in the most adorable kilts and blowing their bagpipes like they'd just lost Bonnie Prince Charlie. They marched in, wailing away, set themselves up on the Missiles of October's stage, and had every drunk in there practically swooning with centuries-old courage and loss. We really ought to change our national anthem to one with bagpipes. They do more to stir the blood than the volleyball scene in Top Gun—if you're gay, we mean.

Fabulous Event No. 2: Steamroller and Mention on March 3 at the fabulous Foothill. This would have been Fabulous Event No. 3, with Johnny Jones at the Blue Cafe being Fabulous Event No. 2, except that Steamroller, from Austin, Texas, was so good that our homegirl Arrissia punchedus. She's like that. (She brought down Dennis Rodman once —actually, the very day he got cut from the Lakers—at the Shark Club after he refused to listen to her tips on playing D.) Perhaps you've been missing her appearances in this column? Well, we haven't! Mention were their usual funky, groovin' selves, bringing out all manner of LBC celebrities and personages with extended jams and dancing like it was Soul Train. But Steamroller blew everyone away. Look, ma! We're AC/DC! Luckily, Joy the Crazy Dancing Girl (whom you can catch most Sunday afternoons doing arabesques to the gospel stylings of Bourbon Jones at the Blue Cafe) was there to shake it like a groupie and get everyone in the mood. Come to think of it, Joy was at Johnny Jones, too. The girl gets around. Then Arrissia punched us. She's got a karmic smackdown coming to her. You watch and see.

Fabulous Event No. 3: Johnny Jones and the Suffering Halos with Peepshot at the Blue Cafe. We were really enjoying Peepshot, bouncing about all happy-like, until we mentioned to our homegirl Arrissia how Mellencampy they were. “I was thinking they were a little more Hootie,” said she, completely ruining our fun. “But you can like them!” We hate that girl.

Only Johnny Jones and the Suffering Halos could ease our pained heart. And they did.

Fabulous Event No. 4: The Laguna Beach Art Walk. No, really! There was all manner of delicious smack being talked on March 2 as a cute local boy pointed out various people who had said pretentious things—and they weren't even us! Then we went back to Jorg Dubin's canyon studio and proceeded to slosh a very fine bottle of red wine onto everything. Sorry, Jorg. If our homegirl Arrissia had been there, we would have sloshed it on her head. You probably like Arrissia, don't you? Don't you? Because Arrissia isn't gay—or is she?She slugs like a boy. We're just saying. God, you and your intolerance really blow.

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