Photo by Jack GouldOkay, so you want to hear about the fetish nurses. We don't blame you. We know how it is—hoping for a glimpse of the prurient to dilate your eyes with lust. And we pander to you like “Democratic” Assemblyman Lou Correa panders to the Reverend Lou Sheldon because we want you to read this column every week, just as soon as you're done with the “Alternative Couples” personals. We could be talking about the push to remove insurance companies' historic immunity from malpractice lawsuits, or Bertolt Brecht's Theorie des epischen Theaters and how it relates to Durrenmatt's views on Wissenschaft (we just found a paper we once wrote on it in German, and it was extraordinarily well-thought-out and articulate, if we say so ourselves). But fetish nurses are what you want, and fetish nurses you shall have. In a minute.
Saturday, we cruised up to Club 369 in Fullerton for A Perfect Circle—the somewhat secret side project of Maynard from buzz band Tool. There were no fetish nurses there. There were, however, several hundred hip-lookin' LA folks in black leather and good haircuts. Apparently, Maynard and his melancholy Cure shtick are quite a draw. (“Do you think they sound like the Cure?” another musician asked us. “No, they're more Church-y,” we replied, moments before an entire Cure riff was presented in homage. “See? That's straight from the Church!” we exulted, before it was pointed out that we don't in fact know what the hell we're talking about.)
They were fine—moody, clangy and cooler than you and fun. But they had nothing on their middle act, Laundry, which ripped through what must have been a 12-minute version of Pink Floyd's “Welcome to the Machine” that was as full of crunchy guitar-god goodness as a concert by Peter Frampton in his prime. The audience went nuts. Sorry, Perfect Circle. The San Francisco-based Laundry features Tim (formerly of Primus) on drums and vocals (just like Levon Helm, we told him, and he had no idea what we were talking about. “The Band?” we said. “Take a load off, Annie?” we said to Tim's blank stare) and newly married Ian playing a 10-stringed beast like Satan himself was plucking the strings. Even cooler, for a proper socialist vibe, all three bands (we missed Enemy) shared equally in the great piles of lovely money that resulted.
You know what Brecht always said: “Unglcklich das Land, das Helden ntig hat.” But he never said, “Unglcklich das Land, das Krankenschwestern ntig hat.” He probably was down with fetish nurses. We mean, is there anyone out there who doesn't have a thing for nurses and Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders? Then they would have been some very unhappy chilluns had they attended Cupid's Erotic Halloween Ball from 24/7 Productions at the new Sun Theater in Anaheim. The Sun really is a fantastic place for a club: the dearly departed Tinseltown Theatre (it lasted a mere 10 months as the fake awards show) was spacious enough to accommodate tiers of tables (like the Galaxy Concert Theatre's) and a dance floor big enough for 300 packed bodies. Plus, it already had that lovely, well-lit courtyard for the folks who just wanted to be seen, which, judging by the nakedness quotient, people didn't have a problem with at all.
Of course, people are always naked at the Cupid's events, and we were rather shocked not to see any girl-on-girl simulated sex on the dance floor (a Cupid's staple). Still, Cupid's gets the best-looking crowd of any club we've attended, in this case represented by some delicious Fight Club members, including a 6-foot-5 Ed Norton who bartends at Costa Mesa's La Cave. For some reason, even the strippers and porn stars looked pretty instead of haggard and methed-out, and their Playboy Bunny costumes were very fetching indeed, though we were struck with a jealousy as harrowing as any felt by Alanis Morissette when the bunnies exclaimed, “Uh, hotty!” and then started bumping and grinding in the direction of gorgeous bartender Christopher, causing him to knock over his mixing cup while juggling bottles like Tom Cruise in Cocktail. Oh, and there were lots and lots of fetish nurses in white vinyl, leading to some very funny green-eyed sneers. We hope some fetish-nurse catfights broke out after we left.
For sheer creative extravagance, nothing beat the secret Long Beach party Friday night in a location that shall remain undisclosed—we're not sure they've yet got their proper permits, though we know they've been working on them—although we must say we remember a time when a “donation” was a donation and not binding. Humbug.
Still, things they was a-rockin', with dance parties going on in two separate rehearsal halls and an astounding 15 kegs of Sierra Nevada. We saw the most perfect Marge Simpson on God's green earth—her 3-foot beehive constructed from blue soundproofing foam—and a really darling sorority girl with her panties around her knees. There were Olivia Newton-John-ish aerobics instructors with gold headbands, scary monsters, and several Austin Powers—the poor things apparently not aware that the only good thing to come out of The Spy Who Shagged Me was the very touching love relationship between Dr. Evil and Mini-Me. At least there weren't any Fat Bastards. So with everything that was going on, where was the party? In the men's room. Brecht probably would have said, “Die Wahrheit ist das Kind der Zeit, und nicht der Authoritaet.” Isn't that a scream?
Commie Girl recommends the fantastic Irish punk band Flogging Molly, who play every Monday night in November at Linda's Doll Hut, 107 S. Adams, Anaheim, (714) 533-1286. Or give the Girl your own hot tips at
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