Photo by James BunoanWhen Suparna the Rocket Scientist asked if I would accompany her to JPL Day at Dodger Stadium, I wanted to know only two things: Would there be beer? And would there be math geeks? Yes on both counts? Oh, sugar, I'm in!
But The Dodgers? How utterly poor. I mean, when our own sweet Halos got that tacky new Everlasting Coal and Angel Stadium of Edison, I thought, ew! What's with the tacky fountain? And the stupid giant hat? Must we make everything look like a mall?
But now that I can compare it with Dodgerland for the first time since I was in sixth grade and dear old Dadponied up to be one of the class dads taking us for our very own field trip where we didn't watch the game so much as some hot 19-year-old losers lame enough to be thrilled by attention from 11-year-old girls—there was something distinctly Kevin Federline about them all—well, um, ew! Parceling out shade as if it were oxygen in Total Recall, the brilliant midcentury moderns at Chavez Ravine took some pretty, pretty concrete (just like those Eastern-bloc Communists!) and lovingly slathered it on everything they could find. It was like prison, and I'm never one to pooh-pooh a good stretch in the pokey!
We got there late, we left early, and we loved every freaking second in between, especially since we mostly didn't watch at all but rather took the much-needed time for some hilarious, incisive and quickly inebriated “girl chat”—sans my usual menses talk, which might have drawn b'ars!—that doubtless charmed and enthralled our neighbors, who were mostly nursing fussy babies and nursing warming MGDs. Of course, from our awesome “pavilion” seats, the only time we could see any play at all was when the ball rolled to our new everlasting love, Steve (Dave?) Finley, in centerfield. As are the vagaries of this journey of life on which we journey (now can I go on a reality dating show?) we are now huge Steve (Dave?) Finley fans, and such is the way of the universe: we are fans of his and his only, and only because his was the only name we could see from whence we sat. Next time we're going to sit at the very front of our crappy section so we can yoo-hoo sweet ribaldries to him in between getting drunk and sloppy and burnt of the sun.
We love him, you know, Steve (Dave?) Finley, and all our precious Angels might want to rethink how they've been taking the stick of neglect to our devotion. Adam Kennedy, don't let your love go to town!
From there and since we were in the hood, we went to Sunset Junction. The 24th annual Can't We All Just Get Along Fest for gays and Latinos is supposed to be, like, the coolest fest ever! It's all in Silver Lake and stuff, but we missed the set by X, since last month's fiasco with John Doe has me perpetually out of the mood. Apparently some bloggers saw Fred Durstand Johnny Knoxville and some other people I wouldn't recognize if they gang-raped Gregory Haidl, but the only people I saw were Brett Bixby and CPO from the LBC, plus a dude who looked like Fabio but was almost seven feet tall and who was there with his small young Asian pet. They wore identical ass-shorts, which means they are in love.
All the world loves a lover. And a hot cop. Of which there were two or seven or so, and I expected them to break out a boom box and a dub tape of Super Freak at any moment before ripping off their Velcroed man-panties.
Yay, Sunset Junction! Except you were sort of dull.
I was much more at home—and I really don't consider that a good turn of events—at Corona del Mar's Svelte and Bandera and even The Ritz. First this job turns me into a vomity lush—just like El Prez—and now it has imperiled my very eternal soul! For whom? For youm!
Anyhoo, I'd just finished taping a segment on the new KOCE morning-exercise program Get Up Stand Up With Rick Reiffon the topic “Is Orange County Cool?” which is perhaps the least cool topic in history after “My Secret Affair With John F. Kerry.” (Answer: chortle chortle chortle snort!) So I called my gay husbands and whined that I was hungry. Gay husband No. 1, Riviera magazine editor Kedric Francis(not gay), was already drunk and eating for free at the aforementioned Ritz, and I sped down to the dark, wood-paneled bar like the president with a snoot full of toot. Outside on the lovely patio, a young version of the Dresden Room's Marty N Elaine emoted on each other during Moon River, and the oddly unblinking (like Wesley Clark!) he of the couple sang with a vibrato like a be-Parkinson's-ed Katharine Hepburn on some Elton John. We thought they might have been Vegas refugees from a terrible tiger accident, and we loved them deeply.
But the party was inside, where, at barely five past five, everyone was hammered like they were chairing a meeting at Delta Nu, and they were equally ladylike!
One rad miss was way-schnockered; she was delighting herself sticking up for Bill Clinton's blowjobs for a solid couple of hours. And she shrieked: “WHO'S GOING TO SAY NO TO THEIR PENIS IN YOUR MOUTH? NOBODY'LL SAY NO TO THEIR PENIS IN YOUR MOUTH! 'HEY! HEY! GET YOUR MOUTH OFF MY PENIS!'” Plus, you know, a lot more of the same since it had to last 120 minutes. When a lady at our table demurred that she was a Democrat but thought Clinton's dalliance was terrible because she's a mother, our new friend bellowed, “YOU'RE A MOTHER SO YOU'RE NOT GONNA LET ANYONE SUCK YOUR DICK? 'DON'T SUCK MY PENIS! GET AWAY FROM MY PENIS! I'M A MOTHER!'” Our lady friend was mortified, but you know, the drunk whore was totally right.
Meanwhile, Bandera was no fun except for when I got to have words with some stuck-up sluts, so that pretty much made my night, and Svelte is exceedingly cool and had darling Mary Reilly rolling on the bed on the porch, but by 9 p.m., I couldn't have cared the fuck less because I had to go home and watch Matlock.
Our spy reports from the Ike Turner fiasco at the Blue Caf that every 45-year-old blonde for 100 miles was swaying at the front of the stage for the Tina-slapper/soul legend. “Puke!” said James, departing from his customary greeting, “Barf!” But although James had only savageries to report back about the “weak,” “lame,” “puke,” “young white pick-up musicians” backing him, he had only love for Ike Turner himself. I don't remember exactly what it was, but it was all terribly complimentary, as it should be if you're not looking for Ike to bust his boot in your ass.
Nobody has yet sent me money. CommieGirl99@hotmail.com