I went to my sister's yesterday, and she lives in a guest house in South County, with the most beautiful cove known to man right down the steps (yeah, like I'm gonna tell you where), and hardly anyone knows about it, so there are maybe 30 people there, coming and going—for instance, there are two pregnant-and-fat Latina chicks, four teenage boys, two tanned bikini babes frolicking, one young couple getting their engagement pictures taken on a rock, and a couple of old folks covered up from the sun, and there are tide pools, too, and it looks like the kind of beach that would be in some '70s Greek-island soft porn where Daryl Hannah slowly pours white sand across some chick's tanned navel, and across PCH is an organic fruit stand run by a bunch of damn dirty hippies with dreadlocks and no shoes and everything, and they leave the cash register totally unattended right on PCH while they hang out in the tomato beds, which used to be a parking lot, and it never even occurs to them, like, hey! Maybe someone should watch the cash register! God, that is so cool!
We saw Congressman Dana Rohrabacher at Costa Mesa's Kitsch Bar a couple of Saturdays ago while his wife, Rhonda, was spinning, and he was schnockered! He told us lots of funny stories about Prague in 1968 and Vietnam in 1967, where he had journeyed as a “student” or a “journalist” or something else equally innocuous, like maybe a “Cold War spook.” Dana is apparently really good at stemming the tide of Communism. Give him a call! Rhonda, Dana's young and comely wife, was spinning cool old lounge cuts. The best part of the evening was getting to speak the immortal words, “Congressman Rohrabacher? This is Jan from the Vandals.” Jan from the Vandals, by the way, was practically humping his date right on the Kitsch bar.
The 50th annual BMI Pop Awards, given to songwriters and publishers for BMI's biggest-selling acts, was held May 14 in Beverly Hills. Lifehouse was there, and Eve 6! Oh, and Little Richard, Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley, too. Mavis Staples, Johnny Langand George Thorogoodplayed a tribute to the three, and everything was gorgeous and perfect, and I say that as one who only likes to nitpick. But when it became apparent that Mssrs. Berry, Diddley and Richard would not be taking the stage because two of them had already left, my date and I sneaked out. Then I broke my finger.
Fullerton's Concours d'Elegance, held May 19, was a terrific afternoon because we saw the most bitchen Camaro in the history of the world. It was scarlet with a cream stripe. Was it a convertible? Indeed! It was! Perhaps it's my newfound Hessian-ness, but I wanted to marry that Camaro. When the old couple who proudly owned it drove it away, we saw the wheelchair in the rack on the back. Could there be a finer accouterment? I say, “No!”
Linda's Stargazer Lounge, hosted by hometown hero Linda Jemisonherself, opened at the Grove of Anaheim (formerly the Sun, formerly Tinseltown) to smashing effect May 19. Hundreds of all-ages cuties, so darling in their emo-nerd-chic, gathered 'round to stare sullenly at Days Away. Arms crossed and glaring, the girls refused to admit their swarming love, even though they had rushed the stage about four hours early in anticipation. There were even twins singing the words! (Apparently they hadn't gotten the memo about looking bored and jaded.) Wonderlove, meanwhile, put on the rockingest set I've yet seen despite the fact that sexy Brian had a ridiculous fever. Could you tell for a second? No! You could not! And it's that kind of professionalism that's gonna get them all Next Big Thing-y. That and the fact that sexy Brian is really hot. Jimmy Camp was pretty great, too, singing “White Trash Weekend,“ which totally made me want to start stripping, but I wouldn't have been able to get my shirt off over my broken-finger splint, so I would have had clothes just kinda hanging off my arm, which would have been supercool and white trash, but I didn't do it. Sorry. Oh, also, it's incumbent on me to point out that Jimmy and I are “involved.” Or something. Unless we're not again. Let me check the scorecard.
My boss organized a benefit for Children's Hospital of OC (CHOC)at the Grove May 22, and would you believe my luck? It was great! How much would it have blown if I'd had to report otherwise? Yep, Big Sandy was there, being all sweet and friendly, and Billy Zoom was there, being all weird, and Chris Gaffney was there, bumming my cigarettes. I sat in the back with all the cool people who hang out in dressing rooms and drink free beers instead of sitting in front with the people who pay. Great moment: when Billy Zoom—one of rock's great guitarists—arrived only with a lumpy sax case, someone asked him to explain. “I don't pick up my guitar unless I'm getting paid,” he growled, to the extent that one who speaks in hollowed-out monotones can growl. Zoom, by the way, plays his sax the way he plays guitar—legs established firmly on the stage as if in preparation for a physical assault—but less well. Later, as the clock approached midnight, house band leader (and Weekly colleague) Buddy “Blue” Seigal feigned an amp problem and begged Zoom to fix it. Zoom ended up with a guitar in his hands, backing Gaffney—for free!—on an eight-octave run through some long-forgotten blues/R&B/soul/doo-wop number. And then we saw God. We also saw Linda Jemison, who does a lot of benefit work, in some official-looking capacity; she had a clipboard and bought a couple of cases for the dressing room. God bless Linda!
Phil Shane came home from his triumphant Vegas gig for one night only May 26, with a fabulous and eventful party at the codgerly Fling. Occupancy? Let's just lie and put it at maximum-minus-one. Artists, frat boys, gallerinas, s/hims and 70-year-old blondes getting down on the ground and doing the splits all commingled happily for the joyous occasion. Seriously. She was 70, and she was doing the splits. That old lady is my hero. Then I left and went home and dreamed that Nancy Reagan was giving the keynote address at the debutante presentation before the king of France, and the topic was to be some really hard pot-scrubbing messes she'd successfully dealt with over the course of her marriage, and I was trying really hard to get there on time so I could report—for you!—Nancy Reagan's tips for young women about to wash dishes.
Share your dreams with the Girl: co**********@ho*****.com">co**********@ho*****.com.
