If, perchance, you like to suffer fools, by all means head to Capo Beach Bar and Grill at midnight on a Friday. The very first thing we heard as we entered was, “Hey, One Eye!”
For the past several weeks, I've been wearing a pirate's patch over my left eye. It's a very long story that involves insect larvae hatching in my eye socket, lots of green and lavender pus, and either VD or cancer. It's been a Very Bad Week.
Now, the drunk at the bar who addressed me thus wasn't being unfriendly; it was his come-on. And if you've ever been addressed as “Hey, One-Eye,” you know how very seductive it is. Then I played pool with a bearded biker guy who was at least 6-foot-6, and he was so drunk that he took someone else's personal cue-and then he threatened to fight the guy who wanted it back. And then I lit a cigarette, and some guy asked me for one-not because he wanted to smoke it, but because that was his come-on. When he put the cigarette in his pocket (I only had a few left), I told him that it's rude to take one for later, and he slurred something about if I could raise his flagpole, he would let me come over. And then the guy who had called me One-Eye crooked his finger at me to come to him, and I was forced to start screaming that I'm not a fucking dog who comes when she's called, and if he wanted to fucking talk to me, he could get off his fat ass and come talk to me like a fucking gentleman! Boys, it really, really irks me when you crook your finger at me, and I'd wager that most women feel the same. Remember that the next time you're in a bar or club and think you're Rico Suave. And then two people on a blind date were nuzzling each other and were obviously going to be having sex, which is really unfair because the girl was a plastic bitch who'd been whispering about my beautiful sister all night, and the guy was a stuck-up ass, and I don't know why people like that get to have sex when I'm getting positively dusty, like an old maid in a screwball comedy, and goddamn it, don't I deserve some? Baby ain't gettin' no play, children, and I think it may be taking its toll on my justly celebrated good humor, kindliness and gentle wisdom. Maybe if I'd been nicer to the guy who wanted me to raise his flagpole . . .
Saturday was a surprisingly fun day-until we got to downtown Huntington Beach, where there seemed to be a Retard Convention. But more on that later. First, my boy, Jimmy, and I caught up with our homegirl Arrissia Owen at the big Hub shindig at Triangle Square. We watched the skate demo up on the roof of the parking garage, along with such luminaries as artist-about-town Tommy Dougherty; DJ Danny Love; performance artist Squelch; and Alan, the kung-fu fightin' singer from Tex Twil. We all watched in fear as a few dozen guys went through the obstacle course, falling off their boards constantly. All the boards subsequently flew at the heads of oncoming guys, who were also falling off their boards. My inner mother was doing some serious inner scolding.
Then we went to the courtyard to watch such bands as Rooster (they had a new fan, who was at least 50, spinning and rocking out like she was at a Dead show; she's my new hero), the infinitely funky 00 Soul, The Moseleys (including secret Moseley/fashion designer Paul Frank), and a girl group called the Halo Friendlies, whose singer had a Go-Go's thing going on but not in a good way: she was shrill. Then there were the breakdancers, who were truly the bomb; they adopted Jimmy (now known as Jimmy Freestyle, and the kid knows everyone) and started teaching him to pop and lock. Damn, my boy is cool.
So Arrissia and I ditched my cool kid and decided to explore downtown HB. It was ill-advised, but I'm thinking about moving there, and we decided to see what I would be getting myself into. Downtown seems about 80 percent male; you wouldn't think that would be a bad thing, and yet, somehow it is. They maintain eye contact for far too long. It's really creepy.
Short, stupid drunk guy wearing beers-of-the-world shirt at Gallagher's:Hey, baby, you are looking fine tonight.
Me: Thank you.
Can I buy you a drink?
No. Thank you.
You are really pretty, baby.
Stop saying that.
What happened to your eye?
I have insect larvae hatching in my eye socket.
So, are you from around here?
No.
[A few minutes later, during which time I have avoided looking at him or talking to him]
So, you want to go out sometime?
It was the best offer I'd had all week.
Next we hit Red'z, which we hear is a cool neighborhood bar if you're from the neighborhood. But we aren't yet, we didn't know anyone, everyone was staring, and the barkeep was really busy, so we stood by the bar for a few minutes without ordering and then skedaddled. We deep-sixed our plans to stay in Huntington Beach-where else were we gonna go? Hurricane's, where men were hooting at women from the balcony in the most absolutely resistible way? Joker's, which, if I owned a gay leather bar, is what I'd name it?
No. We ran to Club Mesa for the Neil Armstrong Band and filmstar. The Neil Armstrong Band was cool; in the red room, with the singer looking just like a '70s skate-punk teenager, it felt like we were in a music video-maybe Beck, maybe Beastie Boys. Filmstar was a bit heroin-y for my tastes; unless you're blowing a horn, you shouldn't close your eyes while you play your instrument. As always, though, Club Mesa was host to an interesting mix of people. On this night, that included a huge big man in a cheap suit and the oddest worn-white-leather pimp shoes (I felt snotty and guilty for having noticed, but they were). He sang a song very loud that wasn't the one the band was playing, swaying dangerously all the while. Then he lightly punched my friend Steve in the back, and when Steve politely asked, “Oh, sorry, man, did I bump you?” even though he knew he hadn't, the guy scowled at him and growled, “I just needed a little space.” Then he put his sunglasses on. Then he started singing again. He was mesmerizing. And knowing the way this cruel world works, he's probably getting some, too.
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