March 10, 2016 – OC Weekly

Long Beach Cops Raid Family-Friendly Pot Clinic | French Food for Everyone in Newport Beach | Welcome Back, Savage Love!

March 11-17, 2016 | volume 21 | number 28

O, So Parkway! | ocweekly.com

Which Way, Santa Ana? A native son on what’s next for Orange County’s greatest, most hated city

by Eric Cocoletzi Photos by Julie Leopo

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The County

06 | NEWS | LBC cops raid family-

friendly pot clinic. By Nick Schou 09 | ¡ASK A MEXICAN! | Will Mexico build a wall to keep out people fleeing Trump? By Gustavo Arellano 09 | HEY, YOU! | The first of many anti Trump-supporter screeds to come. By Anonymous

Feature

11 | ESSAY | A native son of SanTana

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inside » 03/11-03/17 » 2016

PERF ORME

on what lies ahead for his town.

By Eric Cocoletzi

D

in back

Calendar

16 | EVENTS | Things to do while

dealing with shrinkage anew.

Food

20 | REVIEW | Order the “army base stew” at Tani in Tustin. By Edwin Goei 20 | HOLE IN THE WALL | Moulin Bistro. By Gustavo Arellano 21 | EAT THIS NOW | Créme Brûlée donut at the Donuttery.

By Taylor Hamby 21 | DRINK OF THE WEEK | Spicy

BLT Bloody Mary at the Hub.

By Gustavo Arellano

Film

22 | REVIEW | 10 Cloverfield Lane: More Lost Season 3 or Season 6?

By Alan Scherstuhl

Culture

24 | THEATER | Raised In Captivity is

still relevant. By Joel Beers 24 | TRENDZILLA | South County’s

best li’l marketplace. By Aimee Murillo 25 | UNDER THEIR SKIN | Adam Vu tattoos the world. By Josh Chesler

Music

26 | PROFILE | The working-class punk hero immortalized by Rancid.

By Candace Hansen 28 | PREVIEW | SnapBack LBC’s ’90s house party. By Sam Ribakoff 29 | LOCALS ONLY | Movements.

By Alexander Vincent

also

30 | CONCERT GUIDE 32 | SAVAGE LOVE

on the cover Photo by Julie Leopo Design by Dustin Ames

O

®

EDITORIAL

EDITOR Gustavo Arellano MANAGING EDITOR Nick Schou ASSOCIATE EDITOR Patrice Marsters SENIOR EDITOR, NEWS & INVESTIGATIONS R. Scott Moxley STAFF WRITERS Mary Carreon, Matt Coker MUSIC EDITOR Nate Jackson WEB EDITOR Taylor Hamby CALENDAR EDITOR Aimee Murillo CLUBS EDITOR Denise de la Cruz PROOFREADER Lisa Black CONTRIBUTING WRITERS Reyan Ali, Dave Barton, Joel Beers, Sarah Bennett, Lilledeshan Bose, Kyle Cavaness, Josh Chesler, Heidi Darby, Alex Distefano, Edwin Goei, Michael Goldstein, Courtney Hamilton, LP Hastings, Daniel Kohn, Dave Lieberman, Alejandra Loera, Adam Lovinus, Todd Mathews, Patrick Montes, Katrina Nattress, Nick Nuk’em, Anne Marie Panoringan, Amanda Parsons, Ryan Ritchie, Gabriel San Román, Andrew Tonkovich, Chris Ziegler

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the county»news|issues|commentary

No Love for One Love

Cops fake doctor’s note to take down family-run Long Beach medical-cannabis dispensary

O

n the afternoon of Feb. 3, Long Beach’s leafy Bluff Park neighborhood resembled a major crime scene. Police cruisers with flashing lights idled near the intersection of Temple Avenue and Broadway Boulevard, while undercover backup units parked on side streets. Asked about all the activity by a reporter who happened by his vehicle, an officer on the scene remarked that the police were busy carrying out a “narco operation.”

But despite the ominous verbiage, the perps weren’t exactly dangerous criminals.

Instead, they were proprietors of the One Love Beach Club, a family-run cannabis collective that had been operating openly, if quietly, in the city for years. Police raided One Love after a detective provided the club with a doctor’s note as well as a driver’s license and proof of city residency.

The sting operation—if you can call it that—flies in the face of state law, which allows cannabis clubs to provide marijuana to patients with a physician’s note.

After the club sent one of its drivers to deliver the cannabis, police pulled over the vehicle, impounded it and arrested the driver before bashing down the dispensary’s door with a battering ram. “They could have knocked on the door, but they had just started using the battering ram and wanted to see how it worked,” said One Love’s owner, Jeff Abrams, who was out on a delivery when the raid took place but whose two adult sons were detained inside the shop. “They were right there with the key, but they smashed it in, and they were giddy about how well the battering ram worked.”

Although the police claim to have confiscated 600 marijuana plants, Abrams says that, in reality, only one-tenth of the plants were flowering. “They took 59 mature plants and 60 mother plants that never flower,” Abrams explained. “The rest were 512 clones that we sell to people so they can grow their own cannabis and stay out of harm’s way of the Long Beach narcotics division.”

The police also carted off all of One Love’s patient records, which Abrams says is a violation of the dispensary’s federal privacy rights. “This was a closed facility— no public going in or out,” Abrams said. “A lot of our members are teachers and other people who don’t want to be seen walking into a marijuana dispensary just to get their medicine,” he continued, adding that one of his patients is a DEA agent.

Abrams opened One Love in 2009, back when the Long Beach City Council was eager to regulate pot shops and figure out a way to make cash on the cultivation and

BY NICK SCHOU #RESPECT: ABRAMS (CENTER LEFT) AND HIS FAMILY

ONE LOVE

sale of cannabis. He and his sons (college graduates who had tried their hands with a dispensary in Los Angeles but were hoping to stay closer to home) met with city officials and were among the “lucky” winners of the city’s November 2010 lottery, which allowed several dozen dispensaries to apply for permits. “We were on the front page of the Long Beach Press-Telegram,” Abrams recalls, with more than a hint of bitterness in his voice. “We paid 17 different fees to various Long Beach city agencies. Everybody wants to put a hand in your pocket, but that’s okay.”

By the time the city reversed course and passed an outright ban on storefront dispensaries in 2011, Abrams said, he had spent tens of thousands of dollars making his dispensary meet the city’s strenuous codes. He considers himself luckier than some of the other lottery winners who invested hundreds of thousands of dollars in high-tech cannabis-cultivation and -distribution centers that have never opened, despite the fact that in both 2010 and 2014, city residents overwhelmingly supported initiatives to regulate and tax medical-marijuana collectives in the city.

“We have a 15 percent tax on recreational marijuana and a 6 percent tax on medical marijuana on the books already,” Abrams said. “But the city has taken in none of this revenue for six years, and now they have the balls to ask for a 1-cent sales tax because they are broke, instead of just allowing revenue collection from

the marijuana industry.”

The timing of the raid of the One Love dispensary highlights the city’s bipolar stance on medical marijuana. On Feb. 2, the City Council voted down a proposal by Councilwoman Suzie Price (a prosecutor with the Orange County district attorney’s office) that would have allowed delivery services to operate legally in Long Beach.

Although the city had initially considered allowing 36 delivery services, that number had gradually dropped from 27 to 18 to nine. Price’s measure would have restricted the number of delivery services to just four—a number viewed as a betrayal by medical-marijuana activists such as Abrams—but apparently still too high for her colleagues to allow.

Despite the failure of Price’s pro-delivery ordinance, not to mention the raid of his club, Abrams said he will continue to deliver cannabis to his roughly 300 members. “I promised my patients we will never stop serving them unless I am dead or in jail,” he said. “Within 24 hours, I had vendors stepping up to help me with inventory. There is always a way. We are the cockroaches, and they think they can stomp us out, but they can’t.”

Along with his wife and two sons and another driver, Abrams faces misdemeanor charges stemming from the raid; the driver who was arrested during the raid was charged with felony transportation of $150 worth of marijuana. Because of the driver’s legal status, Abrams

declined to make the driver available for an interview. However, another driver who worked for One Love until the day of the raid agreed to speak anonymously.

“My delivery job was one of the more unexpectedly fulfilling jobs of my life,” the driver said. “Many of our patients were people with limited mobility who, even if the ban on storefront dispensaries were lifted, would still have trouble accessing their medicine without the delivery service. The gratitude that many expressed was very touching.”

On two separate occasions, the driver recalled, he was told that he was doing “God’s work,” which, he says, was more appreciation than he’d ever received in any other job he’s worked.

“I delivered to patients with MS, cancer, cerebral palsy,” the driver continued.

“I never once feared anything from any of them, but there was always the fear of being arrested.” After the raid, when the other driver was charged with a felony, he reluctantly quit. “I no longer could fool myself into thinking that the Long Beach City Council and police force wouldn’t go out of their way to interfere with sick people getting their medicine,” he said. “Mission accomplished, Long Beach, I guess.”

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»V GUSTAVO ARELLANO DEAR MEXICAN: What are Mexico’s residency requirements, and how do you apply for its version of a green card? Because if that racist fuck Donald Trump gets elected, I’m outta here. We’ve gone too far in the past 40 years (20, if you’re from the South) to go back to the days of Jim Crow. Eight years of George W. Bush was bad enough.

Not Going to Put Up With That BS DEAR GABACHO: The detailed answer is in my book; the short answer is Mexico’s probably going to end up building the border wall to keep out gabachos such as you who didn’t do enough to defeat the Drumpf.

DEAR MEXICAN: Do you think that maybe television is part of the reason for this mass migration of people from Mexico and elsewhere to the United States? For example, the show you probably know, The O.C. And what is it we see on The O.C.? We see bikini-clad babes and buff lifeguards who live on the beach in nice houses with green lawns. They have exercise machines that look like UFOs and fancy sports cars. They have lots of food, good booze, lots of sex—and, most important, lots of money. On TV, we advertise the U.S. 24/7 .We have rock & roll, gangsta rap, reggaeton, and WWE. We have those brave detectives from NYPD keeping order in the streets and the NYFD, who will show up at your door in 15 minutes or less after you dial 911. We have Russell Crowe, Sharon Stone, Madonna, U2, Sly Stallone, Daddy Yankee, Snoop Dogg, George Lopez, Cheech and Chong, Larry the Cable Guy, J-Lo, and all our ambassadors and politicians smiling into the camera and saying, “Come on over and play with us. Come on over and get some of this! Come on over to Fantasylandia, with your host, Barack Obama.” Hey, it’s only just across the border.

I Watch Too Much Glenn Beck

DEAR GABACHO: American television? The only thing Mexicans ever picked up from it was The Simpsons, which remains one of the most popular gabacho shows in Mexico, even though Homer’s name is Homero and Bart goes

by Bartolo. Other American shows are popular, but that’s not what drives Mexicans to come over; it’s the jobs, estúpido. And given there ain’t many right now, not as many Mexis are crossing over. You want a better conspiracy?

Go investigate whether Thomas Alva Edison was really Tomás Álvaro—the answer may surprise you!

DEAR MEXICAN: My mom has long thought it cute and fun to quiz waiters in Mexican restaurants on how to say things in Spanish.

When I was a girl growing up in an incredibly non-diverse area (Oregon), she said it would help me learn Spanish and that I should take advantage of these rare opportunities to talk with native Spanish speakers. But I’ve always felt it was a little rude, maybe even condescending, to impose upon service people in this way. Is it?

I Also Watch Too Much Glenn Beck DEAR GABACHO: Todo tiene its time and place when it comes to learning Spanish.

Getting it on with a Mexican? He’ll teach you the language of love. Protesting Donald Trump? You’ll learn so many ways of saying “chinga tu madre” that you’ll be able to walk the streets of Tepito with ease. But while a Mexican is working and serving you? Proceed with respect. If business is slow, quiz away; if they’re occupied, leave them be. Otherwise, they’ll tell their fellow meseros in the back of the kitchen about the loud gabacha and spit in your chips—as they should.

ASK THE MEXICAN at themexican@askamexican.net, be his fan on Facebook, follow him on Twitter, or ask him a video question at youtube.com/askamexicano!

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»V ANONYMOUS RIP, GOP!

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HEY, YOU! Send anonymous thanks, confessions or accusations—changing or deleting the names of the guilty and innocent—to “Hey, You!” c/o OC Weekly, 3941 S. Bristol St., Ste. 39, Santa Ana, CA 92704, or email us at letters@ocweekly.com.

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HEYYOU!

ou are the suit in the black Prius with the bumper sticker supporting Trump for president. I’m trying to imagine a world in which the president of the United States is also one of our least diplomatic citizens. He represents greed. If you are any kind of conservative, get behind someone who won’t embarrass the party. Dealing with the international community is not like a dinner party where we can all just lower our heads and hope the caviar will keep our crazy uncle from telling his story.

BEACH BODIES ARE MADE IN THE WINTER

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A RC -17, X201 6 MMON THH X11X–X , 2014

CONTINUED ON PAGE 12

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BY ERIC COCOLETZI PHOTOS BY JULIE LEOPO

|

A NATIVE SON ON WHAT’S NEXT FOR ORANGE COUNTY’S GREATEST, MOST HATED CITY

|

T

ell anyone in Orange County that you’re from Santa Ana, and you only get two reactions. The most common one by far is a facial expression—a smirk, a retch, a laugh, a twitch, something—that’s then followed by a litany of the city’s sins. Too many gangs, too many immigrants, too many people dwelling in one house, too dangerous, too dirty, too corrupt, too radical, too loud, too brown—really, just too Mexican. They hear about changes happening in downtown, but no way they’re traveling there . . . yet.

Or you get the other, seemingly nicer one: Santa Ana is cool! It’s gotten “safer” and “better,” but we can still do better if—if we get more development, more cool restaurants, more hipster bars, more diverse (read: fewer Mexicans). That we’re on the cusp of becoming the best Santa Ana that has ever existed, one that’s finally worthy of becoming a destination, or at least a spot for Sunday brunch with the girlfriend’s parents who live in Mission Viejo and whose grandparents graduated from Santa Ana High School, class of ’65, back when things in the city were . . . better.

For those of you who can’t accept Santa Ana as it is—already the greatest city in Orange County—I have this to say: Fuck you. Fuck you for thinking your boring-ass suburb is better, safer, cleaner, richer—everything you think Santa Ana isn’t. Fuck you for fearing us. Fuck you for only visiting us after reading the latest breathless travelogue that treats us like a Bhutanese village in Orange Coast, Thrillist, Refinery29 and even this fishwrap. You’re only now realizing how much we kick ass after folks decided to dress up a small part of downtown (DTSA, in their lingo) while praying desperately that visitors ignore the rest? Stick it up your ass—we’ll always be the Golden City, with or without your approval.

|

WHICH WAY, SANTA ANA?

11

COUNTY COUNTY | CLASSIFIEDS | MUSIC | CULTURE | FILM | FOOD | CALENDAR | FEATURE | THE | CONTENTS | | | CLASSIFIEDS | MUSIC | CULTURE | FILM | FOOD | CALENDAR | FEATURE | THE | CONTENTS MM ON THHX11 X–X , 2014 A RC -17,X201 6

| OCWEEKLY.COM | 12

Which Way, Santa Ana?

» FROM PAGE 11

The haters will always hate, but it’s the latter, seemingly benevolent people who embody everything wrong with how OC thinks about my hometown. The common mistake for people who have bought into this idea that we’re on the cusp of something big is that they look at the downtown and think it symbolizes Santa Ana as a whole. The truth is that downtown Santa Ana only makes up a small fraction of the city while the rest of it is still practically the same, save for a few newly paved streets and the widening of Bristol Street. The truth is, only Santaneros rep the other Santa Ana, the real SanTana, the one all those cheesy promo videos never show yet serves as the lifeblood of the whole town.

Out here, the chinitos at the liquor stores are still down to sell you a single beer for a buck fifty and a loosie for 50 cents. Old men and women wake you up every trash day, picking through dumpsters and trash cans for all the recyclables you stupidly threw away. Here, you can drink your chela outside with some veteranos and hear their prison stories while watching two dogs (no collars, unspayed, balls still hanging) in heat get it on in the middle of the day, in the middle of the street. Unapologetic, crazy, big, bad SanTana.

We’re OC’s id—the true place of liberty in Reaganland. And that drives the rest of Orange County insane. They’d rather come up with petty monikers such as “Stabba Ana” or “Chuntana” in order to put us down, but fuck you! We Santaneros have read what y’all been leaving on the websites of the Orange County Register and OC Weekly. I’d like to see those same vatos come over here and actually say that to our face—we’ll fuck you up!

But something interesting is happening.

The very things that made Santa Ana look so authentically appealing to new investors and residents in the first place—the pastelcolored façades; the nonstop soccer on school fields, front lawns and even parking lots; the rough-yet-charming-and-alwayspulsating-with-life edges that no other OC town has—are the very qualities that are now in more danger than ever before. City officials are getting ready to remake the whole town, not just downtown, in their

Brave New Urbanist image. So it’s time to fight. Unless we learn to love who and what we are, all of it—from the Foodbeast kids to the eloteros, Noche de Altares to Grand Central Arts Center—the very reasons that make Santa Ana the top of OC will disappear.

I should know. Born and raised in Santa Ana, I’ve managed to kick it with all strata of people this city hosts. I’ve done so many things both to and in Santa Ana: rocked out at greaser parties with punks on Standard, played handball with cholos in Delhi, gotten drunk with the poets and artists atop the highest buildings, even discussed politics at Students for a Democratic Society meetings with socialists at Santa Ana College. I’m the editor of a zine, Santanero, a nearly 4-year-old art publication riddled with slander and defamations of character. I’ve been a lunch lady at more than a dozen different elementary, middle and high schools in Santa Ana. I’ve rubbed elbows with the city’s wealthiest property owners and most powerful politicians as they’ve shared their thoughts on how they’d like to shape and change my home-

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think 2008 is a good place to start.

That’s the year the Crosby, that wondrous restaurant/bar, opened its doors and blew the whole gentrification thing wide open—the downtown never saw anything quite like it. The Crosby was unifying, barrier-breaking, and it emitted a sense that the youthful, multicultural togetherness that we were all witnessing within its dark space just might spread into the rest of the city and put an end to the days of hateful, blinding violent ignorance directed at Santa Ana. I remember standing in the kitchen, working as a cook, and seeing a type of people I had never seen before in the city walk through the door. Later, I learned they were called “hipsters,” they had to be made fun of—and they weren’t going away.

From that moment on, the winds of change hit every corner of downtown.

People wanted more, and property owners got wise to it all. Mexican-owned businesses that had operated for decades were getting the bum’s rush out and replaced with all things—anything—new. All of a sudden, Santa Ana was good enough for nonMexicans again.

Backdoor maneuvering started. The City Council drafted a “Renaissance Plan,” the blueprints for a gentrification master

project. They also began the initial stages of envisioning a 4-mile, $250 million lightrail line now scheduled to open by 2019, designed to rip right through La Cuatro, the Fourth Street that once passed as downtown Orange County, which whites abandoned in the 1960s to Mexicans who saved the very buildings that the grandchildren of those white-flight gabachos now desire.

It was a different feeling than when Santa Ana first took a shot at being cool for the rest of OC—in the early 2000s, when the first lofts were finally finished, artists actually populated the Artists Village, and the über-hip Costa Mesa restaurants Memphis and the Gypsy Den strolled into town. Back when I would play the open mic at the Gypsy Den on Thursdays, I’d talk to a lot of different people from out of town and some would admit to visiting Santa Ana mainly because they heard it was “really ghetto.” They had grown up with adults telling them horror stories, and now they were old enough to see the place for themselves. They actually liked the thrill of not knowing what to expect—whatever the fuck that means.

Violent Stabba Ana: It’s something OC residents have porned out on for decades, and they are doing so again after the March 3 stabbing death of 23-year-old Nathan Joe Alfaro of Westminster during a show at the recently opened Underground DTSA club. Back in the 1940s, the then-Santa Ana Register devoted weeks of coverage to a supposed pachuco invasion from Los Angeles terrorizing residents. During the late ’60s, that same rag blared headlines about rampaging “negroes” who had joined the local Black Panther Party chapter and the Mexican kids who joined them during a downtown riot sparked by a racist theater owner.

Why, just last month, the Register did a front-page, weapy-moany feature about the increase in shootings this year—catnip for the Barcalounger set. To think some people look at our town as if it were a theme park is straight-up weird. Someone should really write their thesis on this because these people actually exist and some are not ashamed to admit it.

But those were Santa Ana’s golden years—when downtown and the rest of the city were overwhelmingly Mexican, when the hipsters were just curiosities, when the

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town while I listened, biting my tongue.

Even as a little kid, I got the sense there was something unique about living in Santa Ana, where having thick-ass skin and working hard is a requirement. I used to play Street Fighter II at the liquor store by my family’s clothing shop. Every Friday, I would see about 10 vans pull up and drop off dozens of field workers, men and women, the brownest people I had ever seen— strawberry-stained paychecks in hand, their pants covered in dust and red from head to toe. The liquor store immediately reeked of el campo as soon as they walked in. That image of them standing in line, looking as tired as they were but looking forward to the weekend and promise of a better life, is burned into my mind forever. As I got older and kept seeing the same scene, I realized the rest of Orange County was like life on easy street—and that Santa Ana’s way was something to defend.

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city’s actual white residents still refused to visit because there were too many quinceañera shops. There was the freedom to be whatever the fuck you wanted. Ironically, it’s because of this bohemian scene that our city officials began to smell the potential dollars at stake and, thus, the opportunity to pivot toward the hipsters. City officials had pushed downtown as an artists’ colony since 1994, even painting “Arts and Culture” on our iconic water tower. But in 2006, a new slogan went up: “Downtown Orange County.” We were now OC’s shiniest new toy, artists and residents be damned.

Soon after came a people who even the OG white hipsters couldn’t help from biting their steez: Asian hipsters. No shame in their game, you know? But seeing all these Ray Ban-sporting, IM King-wearing Frenchified young people partying in the hip-hop mecca that was the Crosby made it easier for closet Mexican hipsters to embrace the Chipster within. Together, hipster Asians and Chipsters Instagrammed and tweeted and Facebooked and Yelped DTSA to new notoriety, bringing in more money, more restaurants, more businesses.

It was a hell of a monkey wrench thrown into the debate about gentrification. Before, it was white people invading our downtown—and gabachos are easy to vilify as racists and outsiders. But how could you talk trash on kids of color who graduated from Saddleback High and wanted to pig out on shrimp and grits at Little Sparrow?

How could you argue gentrification was racist when it was Vietnamese and white kids going to the Yost Theater, a place that had been exclusively Mexican for generations? People did, but it was an argument that didn’t hold as much power anymore.

I’m one of those Chipsters, kinda. Those hipsters, by just being, sent the message that Santa Ana’s days of segregation and race-trashing might come to an end, that we could learn to co-exist with anyone and everyone. My generation of Santaneros really felt we could actualize a different Santa Ana, one where we felt the barrios remained sacred and gentrification-free while we sinned in DTSA. However, that dream came to an end two years ago, when Kim Pham was killed just outside the

Crosby, a death that sparked national headlines that let everyone know Santa Ana was just not there yet.

The downtown quickly emptied (except for the East End, where the Chase family had essentially leveled the old Fiesta Marketplace and replaced it with a hipster garden of foodie, film and fashion delights). The Crosby closed, along with the pioneering Memphis At the Santora. Business fell for the remaining businesses by as much as 75 percent, as the hipster Asians and their multicultural brethren simply weren’t coming back.

Our generation of Santaneros could’ve mustered up the courage in others to actually live and not just play in Santa Ana, by hanging with us back in our hoods instead of just meeting at the neutral grounds of bars and eateries. And that could’ve exposed our compas to more of OC than just the blocks they knew. Instead, true diversity and all the good things it brings flickered away by candlelight when mourners paid their respects to Pham. The message was clear: Nonstop partying isn’t the way to “make” Santa Ana great. There had to be another way.

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ver since Pham’s death (and now the recent murder of Alfaro; fucking Stabba Ana), there’s a sense that a cohesive, ultra-eclectic town has slipped through our fingers. The city and developers know this; that’s why they’re working overtime to butt in yet again with their latest vision.

In late January, Santa Ana hired a bunch of shiny consultants to hold meetings— some private, some public. The most prominent were under the umbrella of something called the “Santa Ana Arts Future Community Engagement Week.” According to the email blast, its purpose was for local art advocates to meet and “assist in the development of the Santa Ana Arts Master Plan, a comprehensive project to strengthen arts and culture for all of those who live, work or play in Santa Ana.” In other words: “Hey, this art thing was really popular once. Tell us how we can capitalize on it.”

I went to a handful of these meetings.

Every time, there was a grip of people who complained they had heard this promise of an arts revival from the city before, and they weren’t buying it this time, either. There were also a few who said that if we as residents ever expected to see some real change, the heads at the top had to roll. It got to where the moderators had to keep reminding us we were not there to discuss politics—just art!

It was clear the real issue was our burning desire to address the change that’s happening. The people of Santa Ana were tired of the same land-swapping, pot-moneygrabbing Mayor-for-Life Miguel “Don Papi” Pulido and everything he stood for. Our guitar-strumming, French-talking invisible chilango mayor isn’t pulling his weight these days with the locals, living beyond the outskirts of downtown. Back in ’86, when Pulido was first elected to the City Council, he was seen as the progressive vato who would surely back up raza on all corners of Santa Ana. But he sold out long ago, and

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it, Drink it, Smo ke

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To see more photos of Santa Ana by Julie Leopo, visit ocweekly.com/slideshows.

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LETTERS@OCWEEKLY.COM

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“S

anta Ana, born and raised” is what I say when people ask me where I’m from. It feels amazing to say it and know it’s 100 percent true. The comments and opinions of others never distort that feeling, never enter my mind while I utter those five words. Growth and transformation come through pain, and a lot of that pain has forged our community in such a way that we can look at one another and recognize the same baggage— and how to move ahead.

The city’s movers and shakers keep ignoring this. The Santa Ana Arts Collective project, a $26.5 million affordable-housing project specifically for local artists, will soon take over a five-story tower. La Bodeguita, a former warehouse run by Centro volunteers that staged underground fandangos, is getting torn down for an affordable-housing

project everyone expects to become another gentrifying front. New developments are slated for southeast, downtown, anywhere with vacant lots. But while these mulitmillion-dollar plans are getting approved, the rest of the city is idly watching and wondering, “What about us?”

Our politicians have made it clear: We won’t invest some real money or interest in the rest of Santa Ana unless it’s going to generate tourist dollars. And when it’s time, adiós, motherfuckers.

Activists fear what’s going to happen. But I don’t worry. We’ll never stop being who or what we are, no matter the amount of negative publicity or gentrification hurled our way—you can’t shake us. We’ll continue to rattle the walls of Orange County for decades to come and shape its future, whether the naysayers like it or not.

What’s that Gandhi saying liberals always like to quote? “Be the change that you wish to see in the world.” Change is heading to SanTana, and those of us who know and love the city have work to do to keep others from fucking things up. Trying to be another Portland or Austin or similar playground for outsiders is the last thing we need, the last thing on our mind. We’re too busy being ourselves, the only city in Orange County with the huevos to be everything that no other city can ever come close to matching, try as they might.

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these paisa-preneurs a debt of gratitude.

Back then, whites were complaining these Mexicans would ruin the city, but the truth was far from it. Those small-business owners—not the artists, not the new restaurants, not the developers—saved downtown from becoming extinct and became an economic engire for the rest of the city. Those mexicanos didn’t stay in the past; they moved forward with what was around them and what they saw ahead. Simply put: Provide a quality, homegrown product while not forgetting where you’re from, and Santa Ana is yours.

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that’s why Santaneros must come out of it in spades. We have activist groups galore, including the Centro, Latino Health Access, Santa Ana Boys and Men of Color, and Copwatch Santa Ana—all essential, all fighting necessary fights. But, as important as they are, they don’t appeal to the grand sweep of Santaneros. Our youngsters respond more enthusiastically to businesses such as Suavecito Pomade, Kilson Street, barbershops and restaurants. Many of these trailblazers were born and raised in Santa Ana, with the guts to start their dream during a recession while still maintaining their Mexican roots, both in their message and their services. They exhibit the qualities that we Santaneros crave and respect the most. We love it when the little guy (or mujer) can take a great idea that makes lots of money while still figuring out a way to keep it real.

They’re the best example for young Chicanos to look up to and inspire them to actually fight the gentrification going on, and it’s also the road easiest to travel.

It’s been done before: My own father, with merely an elementary-school education in Mexico, zero English skills and no money, came to Santa Ana and opened two clothing stores that he and my mother ran for 23 years. This was Santa Ana in the ’80s, back when gun holdups were expected at least a couple of times a year, no matter what type of business you were running. Having a fusca put in your face while trying to earn a buck was a normal thing.

Every hipster who hashtags #dtsa, every building owner in downtown, owes

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thanks to the Centro Cultural de México folks and its pals, Pulido is finally getting term-limited out of office in four years.

But politics and protests can only go so far, cabrones. And those meetings provided me with a moment of clarity: The best way to maintain a vibrant, true Santa Ana is in the hands of those of us who grew up here—those who can march into the future anchored by knowledge of the past and present, who can articulate it, who know the best of the city and the worst, who can walk the line between our working-class essence and the desires of the younger generation for something more.

It’s the great untold divide in the city, the kind that breeds Chipsters who care more about their desires than protecting the past. My generation admires the hustle our fathers and mothers represented throughout their immigrant generation. However, my generation gets frustrated with them.

We long ago realized the subordinate attitude acquired by our elders exemplifies a weakness developed as a byproduct of suppressive conditioning. It’s the plight of the paisa and his pocho children. It creates feelings of resentment, of shame, of rejecting your own culture for something else—the classic immigrant narrative, now amplified in our globalized, always-connected lives.

Being stuck in that type of self-hating conditioning is poisonous (and you see it too often in the homeboys who keep shooting one another up). The developers and politicians love this Freudian fuck-up in us and capitalize on it again and again. And

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Rockabilly Sock Hop

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Orange County rock & roller J.P. McDermott knows his fundamentals—in fact, when it comes to his music, he gets right back to rock’s first light in the mid-’50s, when country and R&B big-banged into something raw and maybe even frightening, at least to stalwart Chamber of Commerce types. You know the score: revvedup guitar, propulsive rhythm and probably a certain kind of hiccup in the vocals and a couple of lines in the lyrics that get right to the legal limit of scandalousness.

McDermott is known as a Buddy Holly historian, but here he’ll be presiding over a wide-ranging romp through rockabilly and adjacent genre mutations. Dress appropriately and win prizes, get a free drink if you donate a pair of new socks, and note that all proceeds from the show go to charity.

Rockabilly Sock Hop for a Great Cause at Eureka Building, 1621 Alton Pkwy., Irvine, (949) 220-6500; www.westernbop.com.

7:30 p.m. $20. —CHRIS ZIEGLER

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THE COLORS! THE COLORS!

Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen A bromance is a beautiful thing. And when the bros in question are a couple of delightful silver-fox TV personalities, you may as well take that show on the road. Andy Cohen and Anderson Cooper celebrate their love by putting it on display with their touring show, AC2: An Intimate Evening With Deep Talk and Shallow Tales. And the tour is stopping right here in our fair county. At Segerstrom Hall in Costa Mesa, the unscripted stage chat will feature candid talk sure to range from intense world policies to intense Housewives drama. So get your fill of all things Andy and prepare for an evening filled with laughter and lies, bromance style.

AC2: An Intimate Evening With Anderson Cooper and Andy Cohen at Segerstrom Hall, 600 Town Center Dr., Costa Mesa, (714) 556-2787; www.scfta.org. 7:30 p.m. $62-$105. —AMANDA PARSONS

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THESE COLORS DON’T RUN

Blacklight Run

How would you like to get covered in glow powder for charity?That’s exactly what happens at the traveling Blacklight 5K Run, which makes a stop at the Irvine Meadows Amphitheater today. Even if you’ve never accomplished a 5K before, the focus is less on a race format than on the immersive experience of getting covered from head to toe in 100 percent natural, nontoxic powder that glows in vibrant pinks, greens, blues, oranges and yellows in the Blacklight Zones and Blacklight Run After Party. Participants will raise funds for the Phoenix Children’s Hospital & Children’s Miracle Network and receive bunches of swag.

Blacklight Run at Irvine Meadows Amphitheater, 8808 Irvine Center Dr., Irvine; www.blacklightrun.com/irvine.

Check in, 3:30 p.m.; race, 6:30 p.m. $20-$65. —AIMEE MURILLO

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Seeing Green

Irish Heritage Parade & Festival Céad míle fáilte! Or, if you’re not up on your Gaelic, “a hundred thousand welcomes” to all who have a drop of the Emerald Isles in their blood—and those who like to get pissed for any reason whatsoever. The LBC is the perfect spot to do just that, and you’re invited to culturally appropriate anything you think is Irish because it’s probably not, such as “top o’ the morning to you” (thanks, The Quiet Man), Killian’s Irish Red and Lucky Charms. Nonetheless, you can kick up your kilt to live music by the Humble Hooligans, poorly attempt step-dancing and guzzle craft beer—not all of which is green.

Go get your cultural stereotype on and chew up heaps of corned beef and cabbage, and remember: It’s St. Paddy’s, not Patty’s, Day. Irish Heritage Parade & Festival on Pine Avenue between Sixth Street and Broadway, Long Beach; irishheritageparade.com.

2 p.m. Free. —SR DAVIES

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Mel Brooks . . . Back in the Saddle Again!

“Blazing Saddles, for me, was a film that truly broke ground. It also broke wind . . . and maybe that’s why it broke ground,” says director Mel Brooks of the campfire scene in his audacious 1974 film filled with heavy flatulence—reportedly the first in cinematic history. Blazing Saddles is one of the most iconic comedies of all time, with its intrepid heroes Sheriff Bart and Jim “The Waco Kid,” evil Hedley Lamarr, and a town called Rock Ridge, where everyone’s last name is Johnson. See it on the big screen at Segerstrom Center with the rare treat of a Q&A with Brooks himself.

Mel Brooks . . . Back in the Saddle Again! at Segerstrom Center, 600Town Center Dr., Costa Mesa, (714) 556-2787; www.scfta.org. 3 p.m. $49-$89. —AIMEE MURILLO

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[CONCERT]

GIVE US FEVER Dengue Fever

SoCal’s eclectic and oh-so-charming ’60s-throwback outfit Dengue Fever play the Constellation Room, bringing with them sparkly, psych-y Cambodian rock/ pop of a forgotten era.They have traveled the globe playing both large festivals and intimate shows. Celebrating the one-year anniversary of 2015’s The Deepest Lake, Dengue Fever released a limited-edition, very-cool-looking, burgundy-splatter vinyl. Cross your fingers there are some at tonight’s show.

Dengue Fever with Winter at the Constellation Room at the Observatory, 3503 S. Harbor Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 957-0600; constellationroom.com.

8 p.m. $15. —ERIN DEWITT

tue/03/15 �� � � �

Writing’s On the Wall ‘Flux’

SNOWBIRD PACKAGE

800.827.2946

fashion and beauty shifts throughout the decades. The Doll Show & Sale will feature a myriad of Barbies, from the vintage bathing-suit-clad edition to designer Barbies, with all the bizarre novelties in between (anyone else remember Wheelchair Barbie? No? Okay). Find that elusive doll missing from your collection, or just marvel at the illustrious career of this ultimate style chameleon.

Doll Show & Sale at Holiday Inn, 7000 Beach Blvd., Buena Park, (760) 630-2089.

10 a.m. $5. —AIMEE MURILLO

3/7/16 3:09 PM

Jasmin Sanchez’s new show at Grand Central Art Center will automatically stand out from the gallery’s previous exhibitions for the simple fact that Sanchez’s intricate India ink, pencil and pen creations are applied directly to the gallery walls in “Flux,” an installation that attempts to blur the lines between her random art and the physical space provided by the architecture, to find the balance between the natural and constructed worlds. Her inky lines and paint marks channel her light, vibrant energy and highlight the passivity and immobility of the building they inhabit.

Jasmin Sanchez: “Flux” at Grand Central Art Center, 125 N. Broadway, Santa Ana, (714) 567-7233; www. grandcentralartcenter.com. 11 a.m.

Through May 15. Free. —AIMEE MURILLO

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thu/03/17

[POETRY]

RADICAL JAMS Feminist Open Mic

Want to smash the patriarchy with a poem, song or a good ol’-fashioned rant?The LB GRRRL Collective is calling all feminists, queers, gender outlaws and allies to its monthly open-mic night, hosted this time at Rainbow Juices.The event is strictly B.Y.O.B. (bring your own blanket, that is!) for all to enjoy the courtyard and free expressions of woke folk.

Tonight’s featured artist is Plasmic, a MOREi gender-neuONLINE OCWEEKLY.COM tral synthpop singer from Mission Viejo. Feminist Open Mic is a sober event, but that doesn’t mean you can’t get intoxicated from the feels of mad knowledge before dropping the mic!

Feminist Open Mic featuring Plasmic at Rainbow Juices, 246 E.Third St., Long Beach; www.facebook.com/ lbgrrrlcollective. 6:45 p.m. Free.

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—GABRIEL SAN ROMÁN

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World of Wonder

Embrace of the Serpent

SCAN

Drunken Lullabies Flogging Molly

What better way to kick off Irvine Meadows’ farewell season than with a St. Patrick’s Day gig from Flogging Molly? As the seven-piece, Los Angeles-based, Celtic, punk outfit near their 20th anniversary, their highly energetic live show, led by front man Dave King, has allowed them to grow from local phenomenon, once signed to SideOneDummy Records, to international favorites. With support from fellow SideOneDummy alum Gogol Bordello, this is one of the band’s largest local gigs to date and comes just before they hit the high seas with their Flogging Molly’s Salty Dog Cruise Cruise. The bigger news, however, is that the band are readying their first album of new material since 2011’s Speed of Darkness, which could be on display, especially if they’re in the holiday spirit.

Flogging Molly with Hepcat and Gogol Bordello at Irvine Meadows Amphitheatre, 8808 Irvine Center Dr., Irvine, (949) 8558095; www.irvineamp.com. 5 p.m. $51-$905. —DANIEL KOHN �� � � � � � � �

Strange Brew Opaline

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Making its world premiere at Long Beach’s Garage Theatre, Opaline (A Delirium for a Parched Planet) is Fengar Gael’s magicalrealism romance/detective mystery play. It begins with the discovery of the body of a woman who has apparently had too much absinthe to drink. A forensic scientist’s investigation leads him to a distillery that produces a strange liquor that induces deliriums for its consumers, while an ancient Greek sorceress comes back to life and sets her sights on unleashing an unearthly plague on all mankind. Opaline has never been performed for the stage before, except for some staged readings at several playwright festivals all over the country. Be among the first to experience the surrealist events that take place in this award-winning play.

Opaline (A Delirium for a Parched Planet) at the Garage Theatre, 251 E. Seventh St., Long Beach, (562) 433-8337; thegaragetheatre.org. 8 p.m. Through March 26. $15-$25. —AIMEE MURILLO

M A RC H 11 -17, 201 6

Although Colombian director Ciro Guerra didn’t walk away with an Oscar for Best Foreign Film at last month’s Academy Awards ceremony, his film Embrace of the Serpent is a winner. It spins a poetic yarn about an Amazonian shaman named Karamakate, the last remaining member of T H I S CO D E his tribe, who travels TO DOWNLOAD THE FREE OCWEEKLY over a 40-year span IPHONE/ANDROID APP with two different FOR MORE EVENTS OR VISIT scientists in search ocweekly.com of the rare yakruna plant. Using black-andwhite cinematography, Embrace of the Serpent, based on the very real diaries of scientists Theodor Koch-Grunberg and Richard Evan Schultes, extols indigenous heritage whilst decrying the horrors of colonialism that have gone on to shape South America’s cultural history. In the world of cinema depicting places (and people) outside the Western gaze, this one’s a must-see.

Embrace of the Serpent at the Frida Cinema, 305 E. Fourth St., Santa Ana, (714) 285-9422; thefridacinema.org.

5 & 7:30 p.m. $8-$10. —AIMEE MURILLO

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HOLEINTHEWALL

»V GUSTAVO ARELLANO

À Nous la Yummy MOULIN BISTRO 1000 N. Bristol St., Newport Beach, (949) 474-0920; moulinbistro.com.

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Korean M*A*S*H-Up

EDWIN GOEI

You should order the ‘army base stew’ at Tani in Tustin—but only that

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join the “army base stew” ranks with me, I enlisted a few friends. Half of them were budae jjigae virgins, but the other half were connoisseurs. They were there to guide us through the terrain.

Both groups oohed and ahhed when the pot came out, gurgling on a lit camp stove set to simmer. We smelled the fumes coming off the soup. It was the unmistakable aroma of ballpark hot dogs and stinging red pepper. On top of it all was a square of uncooked ramen that we pushed down into the liquid to soften. We ate the noodles first, but consuming the rest of the soup required bowls of rice—lots of rice.

The rice is not optional. The soup is too caustic and spicy to eat by itself. You need the rice as a buffer. But as we spooned ladle after ladle of the luncheon-meat brew into our bowls, we discovered what the people of Uijeongbu did more than a half-century ago: the sharp, sweet and spicy funk of the Korean broth was a perfect foil to the soft and salty SPAM. In fact, everything that wasn’t Korean—the bologna, the fat-rimmed scraps of ham, the frankfurters sliced on the bias—became the best versions of themselves. This was a great dish: filling, satisfying, unexpected.

The budae jjigae is the only thing you need to order at Tani. Actually, it’s probably the only thing you should order there. Tani serves a few sushi rolls, holdovers from its previous incarnation as Monster Sushi, an all-you-can-eat sushi concept, but I’ve not yet had any rolls that weren’t disappointing. On the first few I ordered on one visit, the rice was dried up. A roll I tried on a different day seemed to be missing a few ingredients the menu said it contained.

And though Tani advertises its friedchicken-and-Cass-beer combos in big posters and at very reasonable prices, I found the fried chicken was just fried chicken. The powdery-crust-covered pieces are hacked into smaller chunks apt for sharing, but with the high benchmarks of fried chicken now set by the Koreanstyle masters such as Krave and Love Letter, Tani’s hens are stuck at the level of American supermarket deli.

Tani is still adjusting its menu. Korean bar staples such as corn cheese have been crossed off, but samgyetang (ginseng chicken soup)—which felt out of place among a menu filled with late-night munchies meant for eating accompanied by oceans of soju—is still offered. And though Tani advertises a beef tonkatsu, it was unavailable the two times I asked; in its stead, the staff offered me chicken or pork.

A lot of substitutions occurred without warning when I ordered the mixed skewers. The picture on the menu promised a dozen kushiyaki-style sticks of meat that included steak and shrimp, but our order had only seven. Worse, five of the sticks were composed of chewy intestines, funky offal and other mystery meats we failed to identify, let alone swallow. It was then that we decided that—as far as mystery meat goes—we were better off sticking with the SPAM. TANI 13832 Red Hill Ave., Tustin, (714) 573-2855.

Open Mon.-Thurs., 11:30 a.m.-3 p.m. & 5-10 p.m.; Fri.-Sat., 11:30 a.m.-3 p.m. & 5-11:30 p.m.; Sun., 3-9 p.m. Dinner for two, $30-$50, food only. Beer, wine and soju.

GARELLANO@OCWEEKLY.COM

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ave you ever heard of the Korean dish called budae jjigae—better known as “army base stew”? It’s a big cauldron of broth made brick-red with gochujang, pepper flakes and kimchi— typical ingredients in a Korean soup. But when you dig in, you start finding SPAM, hot dogs and ham instead of, well, anything that’s actually Korean.

The origins of the dish, of course, can be traced back to a particular Korean town during the Korean War. When food was scarce, the people of Uijeongbu used the supplies made available to them by nearby U.S. Army bases. Out of necessity, they created budae jjigae from whatever they could get. In so doing, they inadvertently invented what’s arguably the first Asian foodie fusion dish. But just as with SPAM musubi in Hawaii, the mash-up became popular and ingrained in the culture. These days, if you go to Uijeongbu, you’ll find scores of restaurants specializing in the dish, the wafting scent of kimchi and hot dogs mixing in the air.

Though I’m an avowed lover of SPAM, I still had some misgivings. I avoided ordering the dish whenever I saw it on a menu. The excuse I had was that there was always something else more compelling to eat—and with less luncheon meat involved. But in addition to that, ordering budae jjigae needs buy-in from at least three other people. Everywhere I saw it, budae jjigae was served family-style in a big pot and cost nearly $30.

When I saw the dish being ordered at every table at the new Tani in Tustin, I realized I couldn’t ignore it any longer. To

BY EDWIN GOEI

rder! Square foot for square foot, no restaurant in Orange County gets more gawkers than Moulin Bistro. Hell, even if you’re one of Newport Beach’s society ladies who colonized one of the patio seats for your squad last year, you inevitably wander and stare and get lost in the place. You’ll drift off to the patisserie portion, with its rows of macarons, éclairs, tarts and that French pastry that’s like the love child of a Sno Ball and a raspberry Zinger. But you’ll also notice the dozens of goods flown in from France: quince paste, mango vinegars, sardines. Then you get distracted by the arsenal of baguettes and croissants coming out of the bakery. You follow the curved counter from there and see the pâtés, the cornichons, the fromages, the dried sausages, the to-go salads, the hot trays . . . and then finally the register.

Actually, Moulin has registers throughout its space, knowing full well customers get lost yet want to order immediately.

Order! The great thing about Moulin is that it’s a French restaurant for all levels of eaters. High-schoolers and college kids just getting into Godard and Amélie can dip their toes into Gallic cuisine with jambon sandwiches, tart niçoise salads and a couple of crêpes. People who’ve walked the Champs-Élysées last fall will delight in the croque monsieur, cheesy and unafraid of butter, or a roasted chicken that’s the best spun hen this side of an Armenian restaurant. But what makes Moulin such a smash (a Laguna Beach branch is scheduled to open this summer) is the uncompromising, restless vision of chef Laurent Vrignaud. He hosts weekly three-course dinners every Tuesday that require reservations and sell out quickly, always switching up the offerings to reflect some rustic meal or other (the pork cheek confit last week was nearly lustrous). If you can’t get in, Vrignaud also preps a daily special (usually a French classic such as boeuf bourguignon or pâté au saumon) that usually sells out by lunch. All the meals taste of a Frenchman who misses his homeland dearly and has coped with his nostalgia by cooking his heart out. So stop gawking, and order!

M ON TH X X–X X , 2014

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NOT YOUR DORM RAMEN

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food»reviews | listings

1

CRUNCH CRUNCH

TAYLOR HAMBY

Crack Into This

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Pike Restaruant and bar is&a neighborhood place for ike Restaurant Bar is a meeting neighborhood localsmeeting and out-of-towners alike,and conveniently locatiedalike, on 4th place for locals out-of-towners St. Retro Row in long beach, CA. We serve a full menu til midnight, conveniently located on 4th St. Retro Row in Long 7 days a week and feature the best microbrews in the us.

Beach, CA. We serve a full menu ‘til midnight, 7 days Nightly entertainment includes quality local bands and djs.

3316 E 7TH ST, LONG BEACH, CA 90804 @thegoodbarlongbeach

a week and feature the best microbrews in the US.

Crème brûlée doughnut at the Donuttery

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egardless of what you may think of crème brûlée’s flavor (and if you don’t like it—to quote Bart in The Simpsons episode in which he was a bloated rock star and a metal Milhouse told him, “It used to be about the music!”—“SLAG OFF”), it’s hard to deny how fun it is to take a spoon and crack that sucker. The Donuttery manages to replicate the experience of the iconic French dessert—in doughnut form.

The 24-hour Huntington Beach experimental-doughnut shop known for red velvet, pumpkin and vegan doughnuts, as well as bacon maple bars, has perfected a decidedly American twist on a European delicacy. It’s essentially a glazed, custard-

DRINKOFTHEWEEK »V GUSTAVO ARELLANO

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filled doughnut with crystalized sugar placed atop it. Each bite has a satisfying crunch at first and ends with a mouthful of smooth custard and pillowy dough. The sugar cracks like glass right in front of your mouth.

It’s a bit pricy for a doughnut at $2.50 apiece, but hey, it’s more fun than a Cronut on crack.

FEED YOUR BODY & SOUL EVERY OTHER SUNDAY HOUSEOFBLUES.COM/ANAHEIM

THE DONUTTERY 17420 Beach Blvd., Huntington Beach, (714) 847-7000.

THE DRINK

It using green tomatoes, which immediately gives the drink a savoriness few Bloody Marys can match, fresh tomatoes or not. Next comes a hefty squirt of agave syrup and Worcestershire, tarted up with parsley, garlic, lime juice and red THE HUB wine vinegar. Jalapeño and serrano heat comes via the infused vodka. And while the BLT garnish is great, and the bacon salt garnish a plus, this Bloody Mary is so delicious—unctuous, refreshing superb—that it really doesn’t need either.

Congrats, Hubsters, for your win—see you soon. I’ve got some catching up to do. . . .

THE HUB 1749 Newport Blvd., Costa Mesa, (949) 356-5544; www.thehubcm.com.

21+ event

Artopia is OC Weekly’s annual event celebrating the vibrant art scene across Orange County. From visual and performing to fashion and film, art is featured in many forms throughout the venue and paired alongside inventive food and drink sampling booths. 10 local artists are chosen during The Creatives contest, by OC Weekly staff and readers, to exhibit their work in an interactive gallery experience.

$25

TICKETS ON SALE NOW!

Includes light food and drink samples plus access to cash bar, free photo booth, live music and art exhibits!

Call for Artwork!

Send samples and info to marketing@ocweekly.com by march 23, 2016

For more information visit

ocweekly.com/artopia

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opefully, you were able to get into our recent Fresh Toast event at Newport Dunes—more than 1,000 of ustedes were able to finagle tickets to the sold-out party, which featured 40 of OC’s best restaurants getting their brunch on. We’re going to make it manageably bigger next year and increase the participants in our Bloody Mary Battle.

We only had eight participants this first go, a number I’m sure will easily double next year. And while all were game, the clear winner was the Hub in Costa Mesa with its Spicy BLT Bloody Mary. I’ve always enjoyed the Hub’s hefty yet thoughtful brunches, yet I must shamefully admit I had never had its version until Fresh Toast. Man, do I have a lot of drinking to catch up with.

» TAYLOR HAMBY

M A RC H 11 -17, 201 6

Spicy BLT Bloody Mary at the Hub

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Mary Elizabeth Winstead outfoxes the end times in 10 Cloverfield Lane

BY ALAN SCHERSTUHL “SO, WHATEVER HAPPENED TO WALT?”

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MICHELE K. SHORT

where: a tight white tank-top.

We also can tell because Winstead is adept at puzzling things out as we watch, letting us see her eyes take in each clue around her, and suggesting, with quick glances or a hitch of her swooping eyebrows, that she’s resolved to take resourceful action. Seeing what she does next—with a lighter she has lucked upon or a crutch she’s whittled into a shiv—is one of the film’s true thrills.

Even when Michelle is playing nice for her captor, Winstead’s eyes are alert, even calculating, and Trachtenberg usually lets us know everything that she does. That makes 10 Cloverfield Lane engaging in a way Hollywood events usually aren’t: It invites us to work out what her next move should be. It’s like one of those lockedroom team-building games where you have to figure out how to escape with the couple of items you’ve been given, except with John Goodman insisting that, no, actually, you don’t want to get out—this is a survival bunker, and there’s been an attack of some sort, terrorist or alien or Cloverfield, and the air outside will kill

you. Michelle’s glimpses of the farmland surrounding the shelter aren’t encouraging, and Goodman’s Howard, a stern and prideful rule-maker, keeps insisting she should be grateful he bothered to save her.

(Also that she should use coasters and resleeve any DVDs she watches.)

All that setup gets paid off, generously, in spectacular fashion. This is no tease like that time when the Lost gang found an underground bunker, but then didn’t actually open it until the next season.

I’ll say nothing of the film’s revelations except for this: The brash madness of it all is, as the multiplexes demand, “fun,” but it’s kids’ stuff compared to the tough, tense scenes of Michelle plotting, behind her mask of a face, as her captor/savior prattles on about his own preparedness for the tragedy he insists has wiped out the rest of humanity. Such scenes play out around a cozy dinner table or in an underground living room tricked out with a “Home Sweet Home” cross-stitch. That perverse domesticity must be the inspiration behind the boldly ludicrous title: What’s next, I Married Cloverfield? (The

10 CLOVERFIELD LANE was directed by Dan Trachtenberg; written by Josh Campbell, Matt Stuecken and Damien Chazelle; and stars Mary Elizabeth Winstead, John Goodman and John Gallagher Jr.

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n one key way, the kinda-maybe sequel 10 Cloverfield Lane might be the purest example yet of the J.J. Abrams house style. Directed by first-timer Dan Trachtenberg but produced by Abrams (Super 8, Lost, Alias, Cloverfield, etc.), the thriller is yet another of the fannish wunderbrand’s mystery boxes, a genre tease whose marketing makes a secret not only of its twists, but also of its very premise. The innovation this time? Now the characters are actually inside the mystery box itself, either by proud choice (John Goodman’s whiskery survivalist), desperate fear (John Gallagher Jr.’s even more whiskery builder bro) or terrifying, mysterious happenstance (Mary Elizabeth Winstead).

That’s no spoiler. Some three minutes in, after opening titles that give jarring new meaning to the term “smash cut,” Winstead’s Michelle awakens in a cinderblock cell, cuffed to a cot and bleeding from a head wound. But we immediately glean how resourceful she is, as she’s wearing the official uniform of intrepid young women in genre movies every-

film was originally titled Valencia and had nothing to do with Cloverfield until deep into production.)

As a game-like, simulationist PG-13 horror chamber piece, 10 Cloverfield Lane is a success: well-shot and -staged, arrestingly acted, edited with a crisp unpredictability. It’s less compelling in terms of character and meaning. There’s bite in Goodman’s portrayal of an American classic, the troubled dude so well-prepped for doomsday that he’s clearly rooting for doomsday to come. But the character suffers from mystery-box plotting: To ensure we’re always guessing, he can’t just come out and tell Michelle, in the early scenes, what exactly is supposed to be going on.

He’s so slow to spill the basics of the scenario you might think that the marketing team has them under embargo even inside the movie itself.

Of course, that gives Michelle more time to improvise weapons and escape plans, the specifics of which prove more compelling than the bigger secrets. Since her immediate situation is so nerve-racking, it might make sense that Michelle never finds time to mourn her friends, her family, her aspirations. (She had wanted to be a fashion designer, a skill that, amusingly, actually comes in handy.) Even without moping, the film still goes slack in a short middle section in which the survivors become something of a team, watching movies, spinning Tommy James on a jukebox or playing the Game of Life. The screenwriters—Josh Campbell, Matt Stuecken and Damien Chazelle—never master the shifting power dynamics you might expect in a three-character stage drama. Winstead and Gallagher each get a monologue about their lives before whatever has happened, but all context for the speeches has been trimmed out, leaving the actors to perform them for us without any warmup—they come across like audition pieces rather than revelations of character.

The good news is that there’s more bad news before you know it, and Winstead, an actress with chops and potent star power, is right back to raw-eyed scheming—and inviting us along with each turn of her mind. Her Michelle is a welcome revision of final-girl horror plotting: She’s usually a step ahead of us, and she’s always striving to get out there even further. Maybe she’ll be back in Cloverfield Goes Bananas.

MO N TH X X–X X , 2 014

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The Final, Final Girl

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film»reviews|screenings

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OPENING 10 CLOVERFIELD LANE See “The Final,

Final Girl,” page 22.

ONGOING THE BOY AND THE BEAST Mamoru

London Has Fallen takes place mostly in the dark, where nobody can see the budget. (R) Scott Tobias. Countywide.

RACE There is precisely one attempted coup de cinema in the Jesse Owens biopic Race, which otherwise defaults to the backlot handsomeness of other Great Men tributes from Hollywood. In 1935, Owens (Stephan James), then a Freshman sensation on the Ohio State University track team, returns to the locker room after practice and has a run-in with members of the unintegrated football team, who pepper him with racist taunts.

Owens’ enlightened coach, Larry Snyder (Jason Sudeikis), steps up and advises him to “block it out.” He does. The camera zooms forward in a mesmeric stutter and the sound drops to white noise, like a train tunneling through a mountain. This is a useful metaphor for Owens, who will win four Olympic gold metals a year later in Berlin. And it’s a useful metaphor for Race, which cuts an aerodynamic swath through the headwinds of history. In the filmmakers’ defense, the once-over-lightly approach to Owens’ story may be the only way to tell it efficiently; the ugly politics surrounding the Berlin Games are difficult to parse, to say nothing of the discrimination Owens faced back home. The screenplay, by Joe Shrapnel and Anna Waterhouse, Wiki-skims through the fascinating basics. The relationship between Owens and Snyder is central, but Race follows the pattern of so many sports biopics in which it’s white patronage that makes black triumphs possible. Race also has the surprising nerve to connect Owens’ story to that of Leni Riefenstahl, who’s shown documenting the Games for her 1938 masterpiece Olympia. She’s played with robust spirit by Carice van Houten, but a Jesse Owens biopic is an unusual place to celebrate Riefenstahl.

(PG-13) Scott Tobias. Countywide.

TRIPLE 9 Bad cop movies—whether bad movies about cops or movies about bad cops—can be like those Arctic core samples from which scientists determine long-gone CO2 levels, only they’re measuring American anxiety about police authority. Pop on John Hillcoat’s agonized pulp thriller Triple 9 in 20 years, and you’ll at least have evidence of the current wariness toward the militarization of that now-stouter-than-thin blue line. This is a bad cop movie in both senses of the phrase—one thick with murderers, dope-sniffers and special-ops monsters, all prepared to put their own concerns and safety above those of the public. An exemplary cast runs through the motions of shooting innocents and betraying each other. The story isn’t complex, but its telling is tangled. A character suggests to the Mafia one of those ideas so crazy that it just might work—in this case, the “Triple 9” of the title. (It’s police code for an officer killed in the line of duty.) The mobsters have tasked the team—featuring non-entity characters played by Chiwetel Ejiofor, Anthony Mackie, Norman Reedus and Clifton Collins, Jr.—with thieving a Who Cares from an Impregnable Wherever.

How to buy the time for the job? Trick a local thug into assassinating an earnest newbie cop (Casey Affleck) who has harassed him. The logic: Every P.O. in Hotlanta will rush to that scene instead of the heist. The ending is grim, which perhaps is supposed to say something about crime not paying. But since Triple 9 riffs on, rather than examines, our

ambivalence toward police state-ism, it illuminates nothing for us today. (R) Alan Scherstuhl. Countywide.

THE WAVE (BOLGEN) The Wave posits the inevitability of the natural disaster of its title—that, as with Californians and “the Big One,” every Norwegian in the wave’s fjord-side path is living on borrowed GMT+1 time. Our hero is an anxious geologist at an early-warning center named Kristian (Kristoffer Joner).

If his calculations are correct (spoiler: they are), only he knows that a rockslidetriggered tsunami will soon ravage the Åkneset mountainside. Roar Uthaug’s film is more of a slow burn than its Hollywood counterparts, devoting its entire first half to Kristian’s vain attempts at preventing the waters from rising. His inevitable failure is signaled by a siren that echoes through the mountains so ominously you’ll think Ragnarök has come. The Wave is less a conventional disaster movie than a movie that happens to be about a disaster, a small distinction that makes a world of difference when it comes time to care what happens to any of these people; this is one of few films of its kind in which you’re in no rush to see the full force of nature’s wrath. (Even if you are, the event is so localized that there are no obligatory shots of iconic landmarks being washed away.) It’s all about the before and after, both of which prove more riveting than the 85-meter-high wave itself—not that it isn’t a sight to behold. (R) Michael Nordine. Countywide.

ZOOTOPIA In Zootopia, animals do a lot of the things that animals in Disney movies usually do: They speak, to begin with; they walk upright and wear funny clothes; they exhibit attitudes that align or ironically misalign with their species’ appearance and reputation; they hold jobs; they experience outsized emotion and moral doubt.

Which is to say that, in Disney’s almostaudacious new animated feature, the animals behave less like actual humans and more like humans found in movies.

What sets Zootopia apart is the way it uses the terms of anthropomorphism to emphasize its central questions: What does it mean to be civilized—i.e., to be human—what does it mean to be an animal, and is it possible to be both? If that sounds heavy, never fear: Zootopia also features a lion named Mayor Lionheart (J.K. Simmons), a bunny named Judy

Hopps (Ginnifer Goodwin) and an anthembelting gazelle (named Gazelle) voiced by Shakira. A biblical variety and number of God’s adorably styled creatures populate this allegory of discrimination and tribalism. Boroughs like “Little Rodentia” and “Tundratown” separate the mice from the polar bears; despite its claim of harmony between species, Zootopia’s animals selfsegregate, something the film suggests is inevitable within even the most inclusive society. In case we miss the analogies for sexism, racism and bigotry that run somewhat rampant in Zootopia, the screenwriters use language borrowed from debates on diversity and civil rights as well as the realm of microaggressions. Zootopia’s mission gets clouded in scenes where the DMV is staffed entirely by sloths that behave . . . exactly like sloths. It’s an easy laugh, but one that cuts against the movie’s diligent parsing of how insidious a silly stereotype can be. (PG) Michelle Orange. Countywide.

“POWERFUL

AND ” PERSUASIVE. -THE NEW YORK TIMES

TRAPPED A FILM BY DAWN PORTER

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found a doozy of an inspirational story in British ski jumper Michael “Eddie” Edwards, a working-class bloke with dreams of Olympic glory. Or it would have, had Edwards not finished dead last in two different events at the 1988 Games in Calgary—but whooped and flapped as if he’d won the gold. Now Edwards’ story has been packaged as Eddie the Eagle. A tacky embroidered sweater of a movie, it has the populist tone of those TV packages for the Olympics, only at 20 times the length. It tiptoes around the stickiest questions about Edwards’ (Taron Egerton) legitimacy, invents a hard-drinking American coach (Hugh Jackman) out of whole cloth and covers most of its hero’s athletic progress in a training montage set to Hall & Oates’ “You Make My Dreams Come True.”

Short of outfitting Edwards with a beer helmet as he careens down the inrun, the film’s commitment to broad feel-goodisms is absolute. From director Dexter Fletcher’s perspective, there are only two types of people: those inspired by Edwards’ plucky resolve and the Finnish snobs or bureaucratic prigs who insist that he’s denigrating the sport. If there’s a reasonable position somewhere in the middle—the person who admires Edwards’ determination but respects the cruel meritocracy of athletic skill—Eddie the Eagle isn’t aware of it. The hero is a jumper-come-lately dodging a future as a plastering apprentice; the villains are Olympians who have been honing their craft since the age of six. Unless their stories are colorful, their achievements don’t matter. That’s true of primetime Olympics broadcasts—and of Eddie the Eagle. (PG-13) Scott Tobias. Countywide.

LONDON HAS FALLEN The first, worst, and most profitable of competing presidential-assault thrillers from 2013, Olympus Has Fallen treated a terrorist attack on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue with the utmost seriousness, like a scenario that had been gamed out on Fox News.

In essence, it was another “Die Hard in a [blank]” shoot-’em-up, but because it was about totally plausible matters of national security, the only fun it offered was whatever one-liners Gerard Butler squeezed out. At the time, it felt like a Bush Administration relic that had slipped into Obama’s second term, a chest-thumping affirmation of American might against all threats foreign and domestic. And yet here is London Has Fallen, which moves the action to a monument-rich European capital but is otherwise the same generic, po-faced bore as the original. To a score flooded with choral wailings—this selection must be labeled “scary brown people” on the Hollywood soundboard—leaders from around the world arrive in London for a funeral, including U.S. President Benjamin Asher (Aaron Eckhart), accompanied by Mike Banning (Butler), who leads his secret-service detail. It turns out to be an elaborate trap, with traitors working together to knock off heads of state. Banning and President Kick-Ass not only seem to anticipate such catastrophes, but actively train for them in competitive morning jogs and boxing sessions. Taking over for Antoine Fuqua, Swedish director Babak Najafi dutifully lays waste to the city, lopping the towers off Westminster Abbey and ensuring that at least one London bridge is falling down.

The action never stops once the first car bomb is triggered, but the second half of

M A RC H 11 -17, 201 6

Hosoda’s The Boy and the Beast works with many common anime tropes but doesn’t find anything new to say about them. On the streets of Shibuya, nineyear-old runaway Ren (Aoi Miyazaki) discovers a portal to a world populated by anthropomorphic animals. There, he grows up in an uneasy apprenticeship with the gruff, bear-like Kumatetsu (K ji Yakusho) before returning to the human world. In its exploration of an intersection between human and animal realms, The Boy and the Beast echoes Hosoda’s masterpiece Wolf Children, and the adult Ren being a ringer for that film’s Wolfman probably isn’t a coincidence. But where the lushly emotional Wolf Children dealt with girly things—a mother’s relationship with her difficult children, a teenage girl finding her path—The Boy and the Beast has lots of grunting and sword-fights and general manliness. It’s well-made, and the scenes in urban Shibuya are particularly lovely, but there are glaring story holes even by anime standards: A major plot thread requires that the beasts be fooled into believing that Ren’s fellow human child Ichir hiko (Haru Kuroki) is indeed an animal because he wears a long plush animal hat. It’s an adorable hat, to be sure, but just because they’re beasts doesn’t mean they should be quite that dumb. (PG-13) Sherilyn Connelly.

Century Huntington Beach and XD, Huntington Beach; Edwards University Town Center 6, Irvine.

DEADPOOL Deadpool is his film’s own junky, retrograde RiffTrack, cracking endlessly about balls and gayness, about burn victims and 90s bands and the conventions of superhero movies.

Marvel comics’ “merc with a mouth” is a sort of shock-jock Spider-Man, with the Punisher’s arsenal, Wolverine’s healing powers, and the dialogue of one of those open-mic comedy dudes who believes its some kind of courageous truth-telling to point out that men like blowjobs.

Onscreen, he can’t go a minute without a one-liner about jerking off, or calling bad guys “cock thistle” or “wheezing bag of dick tips.” In a tense moment in his precostume life, talking with his love (Morena Baccarin) over how he’ll dealt with the cancer that’s killing him, he spouts with some wistfulness, “If I had nickel for every time I spanked it to Bernadette Peters.” Between the patter, Deadpool’s about splatter, some of it memorable: Deadpool pinballs the severed head of Mook A to take out Mook B, and he cheerily loses the use of every limb, Monty Python and the Holy Grail-style, fighting the immovable Colossus (Stefan Kapi i ), on loan from the X-Men movies.

It’s all too much, by design, and it’s also by design that carping about it make you feel like a killjoy. Go ahead and go nuts if your life has a void in it that can only be filled by a superhero who gets an eyeful of Gina Carano and immediately declares that she must have a “wang”—and later compares her to Rosie O’Donnell. You just can’t pretend it’s radical, on-the-edge comedy when the hero picks the same joke targets as Donald Trump. (R) Alan Scherstuhl. Countywide.

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Neurotically Essential

» AIMEE MURILLO

STAGEStheatre’s Raised In Captivity shows the groundbreaking play is still relevant

BY JOEL BEERS

�

YOU’RE TILTING, BRUH

L

ocated in a tiny isolated neighborhood by the sea, the Marketplace is San Clemente’s best-kept secret. When it was known as the Yurt, it held special art shows, classes and small-business bazaars that allowed local vendors and artisans to showcase their merch swapmeet style on the sidewalk. Now with a new name, the Marketplace continues its monthly markets every second Sunday of the month. And its spring kickoff promises to be a full-blown party, complete with food, music and drinks. Here’s a roll call, then, of some of the better vendors scheduled to appear:

STAGESTHEATRE

Lucas Gust), who serves as the unintentional catharsis for Sebastian and the second act.

The play deals with inessential stuff such as mortality, faith, guilt, and the internal and external barriers that so many people erect to deal with or avoid them. Characters either react through stormy bluster or shutting down completely, but it’s painfully clear the one thing they so yearn for—genuine connection—is impossible. Unless it’s not.

And while it’s a bit long-winded at times and Silver’s reliance on monologues occasionally comes close to derailing the comedic train, his constant application of the knife blade to the throat of the family dynamic—extended to society at large— always keeps things lively.

Director Jack Millis doesn’t do a whole lot with the production, but he also doesn’t mess it up (though a key confessional monologue from the therapist in the second act could definitely use some more lighting). What he does best is not play up the loopy lunacy; it would be

really easy to just step on the accelerator and run over this family, as well as the entire well-mannered school of theatrical civility that Silver seems to be skewering.

The bite is still there, but instead of exaggerating the madness, Millis and company take moments to focus on the halting attempts at honesty and intimacy these insular, incredibly fucked-up people are yearning for. That gives this very dark and, at times, uncomfortable play moments of deep poignancy, and it makes the play’s final image between two hopelessly flawed individuals resonate.

(One note for STAGES: Either add a line in the program that there’s an intermission, or announce it at the end of the first act. For once, I was just as confused as the rest of the sheeple whether the play was over or to be continued.)

RAISED IN CAPTIVITY at STAGEStheatre, 400 E. Commonwealth Ave., Fullerton, (714) 525-4484; www. stagesoc.org. Fri.-Sat., 8 p.m.; Sun., 2 p.m.

Through April 3. $18-$20.

THE PRETTY CULT. Among OC’s holistic, witchy vendors, the Pretty Cult sells occult-inspired clothing. They have a series of flannel shirts featuring a different tarot patch emblazoned on the back, as well as slick jackets and shorts that exude a grungy, Goth-y cool. www.etsy.com/shop/ThePrettyCult.

THE BEARDED KITTY. Living up to its memorable name, the Bearded Kitty offers some ravishing clutch purses, wallets, belts, camera straps and other accessories with gorgeous illustrations and designs grafted onto the fine leather.

It makes custom orders as well. www.instagram.com/thebeardedkitty.

AHART4ART. Kim Gonzalez creates fantastic, aromatherapy-diffuser jewelry that both looks lovely around your neck or wrist and releases soothing, refreshing fragrances from essential oils wherever you go. Gonzalez also offers handmade handbags with such charming embellishments as decorative clasps and embroidered fabric. www.instagram.com/ahart4art.

AMURILLO@OCWEEKLY.COM MARCH MARKET at the Marketplace in San Clemente, 201 Calle de los Molinos, San Clemente; www.facebook.com/ themarketplacesc. Sun., 10 a.m.-4 p.m.

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n the mid-1990s, the future seemed incandescent for several things: world peace (remember the socalled peace dividend?), the end of crime in America (the 1994 Violent Crime Control and Law Enforcement Act) and the recording career of Alanis Morissette.

It also looked bright for Nicky Silver, a New York-based playwright whose The Pterodactyls and Raised In Captivity earned him consecutive Drama Desk awards for Best Play in 1994 and 1995.

The pieces, both of which were picked up

by South Coast Repertory, were break-out works for Silver.

But then he ran afoul of Ernest Borgnine. Seriously. The dude went after Silver for naming a 1998 play at San Diego’s Sledgehammer Theatre My Marriage to Ernest Borgnine, and the theater received a cease-and-desist order, forcing him to rename it My Marriage to Marisa Tomei.

And while Silver hasn’t exactly been living on the streets since (he has worked at highly acclaimed theaters in New York City and Washington, D.C.), it wasn’t until a Broadway production in 2012 that we’d heard much from him on the Left Coast.

So, STAGEStheatre’s production of the 20-year-old Captivity is a perfect time to revisit Silver’s work and ponder whether it has stood the test of time, or if it was just a fitful spasm of caustic fury, signifying nothing. The verdict? It still has legs.

Mainly because neurotic people and the families they call home, or run from in terror, are still around.

Sebastian (a likeable and tormented Robert Dean Nunez) has returned to the one place he least wants to be: the house in which he grew up. Or, more precisely, a nearby cemetery where his mother (Jill Cary Martin, seen in a hallucination at the end of the first act) is being laid to rest.

His sister, Bernadette (a high-strung but funny Jamie Sowers), and her dentist husband, Kip (an affably dorkish Christopher Diehl), are there as well, and it’s clear that no one’s at her graveside to mourn for the departed matriarch. Thrown into this mix is Silver’s best comic creation, Hillary MacMahon (a nuanced and blisteringly damaged Christi Pedigo), Sebastian’s shrink, who stumbles around the stage in the second act like a much cuter but still self-blinded Oedipus, determined to get clean for her countless sins (the biggest of which, apparently, is being alive).

With that quartet of neurotic weirdos, the most well-adjusted people in this play are a killer serving life in prison, who is also Sebastian’s pen pal (eerily sympathetic Rob Downs), and a methaddicted male prostitute, Roger (a solid

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culture»art|stage|style

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NOT BIG BEN

COURTESY OF ADAM VU

Around the World in Seven Tattoos

Jim Morrison Celebration - Featuring

An Amazing Live Concert Recreation

Adam Vu of Dana Point is off to create inkster history

�

UNDER THEIR SKIN »V JOSH CHESLER

Follow Adam Vu’s journey via his Instagram: @adamvunoir.

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seven,” Vu says. “It’s the only club I’ve ever wanted to join. I think we’re all supposed to tattoo a 7 on each other or something, but I don’t even care about that. I just really want to be part of that club.”

But being a part of that club isn’t enough for the ambitious ink slinger.

Aside from being the youngest to accomplish the task, he also wants to do it in an impressive amount of time. While it took Tuttle decades, Vu intends to knock it out in one trip. “If you’re single and don’t have kids, it would be easy to do all these different places in three years or in seven years,” Vu says. “You go somewhere, tattoo there, and then come home and recuperate. I didn’t want to do that. I wanted it to have some extra meaning and get it all done without taking a break.”

While many tattooers complain about having to travel to another state for a convention, Vu believes he’s better when he’s on the road. Even when he’s not tattooing, Vu travels the world for fun and to visit his girlfriend in Germany. There’s just something about living out of a suitcase that’s appealing to the artist.

“I’m at my best when I’m traveling,” Vu says. “After I graduated college, I learned more in one year on the road than I ever would’ve in twentysomething years of schooling. You can’t teach creativity, and you can’t teach life experience, but those things go hand in hand if you’re traveling.

You don’t even know what kind of a person you are until you travel.”

8pm

M A RC H 11 -17, 201 6

e had a private studio in Dana Point. His loyal clientele allowed him to have relatively steady income doing the types of tattoos he enjoyed doing.

He had a solid network of friends, family and other tattooers to help him along whenever he needed something. Adam Vu had just about everything a young artist could want.

But it wasn’t enough.

Vu left his studio in January to accomplish one of his long-term goals: to tattoo on all seven continents. It would make Vu only the second person to conquer the feat, as old-school tattooing icon Lyle Tuttle finished his journey two years ago at the age of 82.

Of course, Vu isn’t starting from scratch. His current voyage, on which he plans to spend roughly a year, will be the longest of his career. In addition to tattooing, his wanderlust led him to another art project: modifying paintings in cheap hotels around the globe (see “Adam Vu Transforms Cheesy Motel Art Into Beauty,” Jan. 6).

As Vu sees it, being the second—and youngest—person to tattoo on every continent is one of the biggest accomplishments he could possibly achieve. “If I were to die tomorrow, [this journey] would be the one thing that I did of any lasting substance,” Vu says. “I accepted a long time ago that I’m not going to be the best at tattooing because there’s no such thing. You don’t have to be the best to do this; you just have to want to do it.”

His refined prison-style blackwork tattooing is clean and stands out from nearly anyone else’s ink, but he knows it’s not for everyone. Tattooing on every continent, on the other hand, is something no one can ever take away. “There’s supposed to be a club of the first seven guys to do all

Saturday March 26th

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music»artists|sounds|shows

The Anarchist Next Door

Meet the working-class punk hero immortalized by Rancid

BY CANDACE HANSEN EAT YOUR HEART OUT, JOHN LENNON

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e’s instantly recognizable, sporting his perpetually bleached hair, faded black jeans and black v-neck sweater. Brad Logan’s grating vocals and power chords cut through the sold-out Observatory crowd like a chain saw. Bodies fly through the air, which is thick with pot smoke, sweat and spit. A pit the size of a swimming pool quickly engulfs the entire floor. Leftöver Crack front man Stza routinely announces the band is from New York City, but among the East Coast, crusty politicos onstage is a man from a place known less for squat houses and protests and more for flip houses, corporations and conservatism.

Logan has been a working-class hero in the Orange County punk scene since the 1980s. Immortalized by Rancid in a song for Chef Aid: The South Park Album (aptly titled “Brad Logan”), Logan has been a member of Leftöver Crack and played in dozens of local acts. He co-fronted the criminally underrated hardcore band F-Minus, who screamed in scathing opposition to corporate greed and punk apathy.

And after 30 years in the scene, Logan isn’t letting up. With new releases from both Leftöver Crack and his new Huntington Beach-based feminist hardcore band Rats In the Wall, national and international tours, and an upcoming book, 2016 is shaping up to be a year of revival for an OC legend with whom many have yet to be acquainted.

Before becoming a politically charged guitarist and front man, Logan was an

ALAN SNODGRASS / FAT WRECK CHORDS

H.B. boy who idolized Elton John with a fierce love for music. “My mom would bring me home records that she would get at the swap meet for a quarter,” recalls Logan, listing the original pressings of Alice Cooper, KISS and Black Sabbath she scored. He also remembers attending shows with his dad at Anaheim Stadium.

Getting an electric guitar for Christmas as a kid would change Logan’s life. Shortly after, he made his public debut, plucking his way through Cheap Trick covers at a school talent show.

As a teen, Logan was influenced by bands that pushed the boundaries of underground music, embracing local hardcore bands as well as acts such as Nick Cave, X-Ray Spex and Wire. He became an active guitarist in the 1980s SoCal punk scene, starting with a band fronted by Tony Alva’s little brother, Mark, who coincidentally was the first to give Logan a punk haircut. From there, he played with proto-peace punk band Hari Kari from San Pedro and scored short Southwest stints with the Misfits and Hüsker Dü. “Bands that I was in didn’t really break up; they just sort of dissolved,” Logan says. “Not because there was a problem, but because there were no expectations. . . . Bands were just something you did ’cause you couldn’t get a fucking job.”

To keep himself surrounded by music, Logan toiled “as a shitworker” for record labels and as a stagehand for Goldenvoice during the ’90s, which led to a gig as Rancid’s guitar tech for their . . . And Out

Come the Wolves Tour.

At his first show, Logan failed miserably. “I knew how to change strings, and I knew how to play guitar, and that’s it,” he says. “Fortunately for me, the guys in Rancid came from the same background that I did, and instead of firing me, they kept me on and humored me.”

What started as a temporary gig turned into a five-year career and close friendship. Tim Armstrong even wrote a song about Logan, inspired by morning tour conversations and brainstorms over coffee. “I would tell him my stories of what it was like to be a punk kid from Orange County,” Logan says, “and one day, he told me he put a song together based on all the stories.” It was an honor, considering Armstrong is a hero of Logan’s.

“That song is about growing up a punk in Orange County and being fucking tortured by it. To me, the fact that he would even do it was a gift in itself; it didn’t even matter that it made it onto a soundtrack or a record.”

F-Minus can trace their roots to a similar brainstorming session between Armstrong and Logan.

Upon returning from tour, Logan curated his ideal lineup by hitting up locals he respected who weren’t part of the “bro-wear lifestyle.” Over the years, the roster included bassist Jen Johnson, Amery Smith (drummer from Suicidal Tendencies) and guitarist Sara Lee (sister of Reel Big Fish’s Aaron Barrett). After Lee left, Erica Daking took her place, and the newly solidified quartet quickly

signed to Armstrong’s Hellcat Records.

Their songs were like 30-second explosions of angst over politics and growing up in OC. “We scared the shit out of your average Epitaph punk fan; jocks would [heckle us],” Logan says. “Guys would yell, ‘Show us your tits!’ And we wouldn’t have it. . . . We gave them zero reaction—the girls would stonewall those motherfuckers.”

Despite label backing and powerful music, the band didn’t catch on and disbanded in 2006.

Logan also helped to record Stza’s former band Choking Victim in a NYC squatturned-studio in 1999 and connected them with Hellcat Records. After the selfproclaimed “Satanic crack rock steady” crew broke apart, Stza approached Logan to play guitar for his new group, a ska/ hardcore powerhouse that has become known for their hard-hitting, oftensatirical songs criticizing the militaryindustrial complex, police violence and homophobia. The demo tapes Stza sent Logan would become Leftöver Crack’s first 7-inch as well as the full-length Mediocre Generica.

Leftöver Crack have become a punk staple, thanks to multiple releases and years of touring. More than seven years after Mediocre Generica, the band released Constructs of the State on Fat Wreck Chords last November. “The new record is my favorite so far,” Logan says with the genuine excitement of a teenager. Recorded over a span of six months, Constructs of the State features guest appearances from and collaborations with such legends as Operation Ivy’s Jesse Michaels and Crass’ Penny Rimbaud.

In 2001, Logan started the label Blacknoise Records—originally so he could release works by his friends Morning Glory (Ezra Kire from Choking Victim) and Nausea. He also puts out albums by his own projects, including his newest band, Rats In the Wall, co-fronted by Logan and former Gather front woman Eva Genie.

Although he never thought a career as a musician would be attainable, Logan has spent three decades as Orange County’s friendliest anarchist next door and an international agent of political ska and hardcore. His dedication to radical music and widening the perceptions of what can be done in punk continues to be reinvigorated, his purpose defined and his focus sharpened.

“People have this attitude that punk is something you have to grow out of, that when you grow up you have to do sophisticated music,” he says. “But I don’t see any problem with continuing to work within punk, pushing the boundaries without being cookie-cutter and the lowest common denominator, because punk and hardcore don’t need to go out like that. If you ever see me with an acoustic guitar, fucking shoot me.”

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music» MIAMI U COLORS!

proudly presents the fourth annual Every city has its interesting characters: the artists, the inventors, the dreamers, and the visionaries. OC Weekly’s annual OC People Issue celebrates 30 of them.

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hitting the streets

March 17th, 2016

Back-In-the-Day Get-Down

DJ ICY ICE

SnapBack LBC brings a ’90s house party to a downtown club

�

napBack LBC is the kind of club night at which everybody knows your jam. From Snoop Dogg’s “Ain’t No Fun” to Roxanne Shante’s “Go On Girl” to Jay Z’s “Big Pimpin’,” you can be sure the attendees at SnapBack LBC can recite every line word for word. Every Friday night below the Federal Bar in downtown Long Beach, a crowd with more hip-hop knowledge than your average clubgoer’s comes out to take in the music of 1980s and ’90s hip-hop the way it was always intended to be heard: in an inviting house-party-like atmosphere.

The dress code is casual. There are security guards, but bodily harm is more likely to come from a new friend slapping you on the back, rather than some drunk dude wanting to start a fight. Attendees are here to listen and dance to music that was made to dance to and listen to in a group setting, without the drama and pretense that sometimes accompanies club nights.

“If you go to Las Vegas or some clubs in Orange County, it’s different—totally different” says DJ Icy Ice, one of the main DJs and organizers for SnapBack LBC, as well as a parallel SnapBack night on Thursdays at the Federal Bar in North Hollywood. “It’s almost like we want to transport you back to an old-school ’90s house party. That’s the vibe; that’s the ambiance. Of course it’s in a club, but we want you to feel like you’re in a house party that’s just jammin’, and people are singing and rapping along to the songs.”

Growing up in Carson in the mid-’80s, Icy Ice experienced and participated in the cultural and musical heritage that he now pays homage to. “I grew up in an

BY SAM RIBAKOFF era where hip-hop was just growing,” he recalls. “I’d walk to school, see [graffiti] pieces on the walls, get to school, and MCs were always, like, kinda in, like ciphers rhyming, things like that, and then people were always trying to breakdance.”

He was always musical and came from a musical family, but it was Icy Ice’s first experience seeing a DJ at his middleschool dance when he fell in love. “I was like, ‘Oh, man, I got to be that,’” he says. “‘I gotta learn how to do what he’s doing.’”

Soon, he was hunting down friends who had DJ equipment, going over to friends’ houses and playing with their older brothers’ stuff. “And so it was that whole process, that’s what sparked it for me, and then listening to the KDAY mixmasters. Just that whole experience back in the day.”

Ice went from looking up to legendary DJs such as Julio G and Tony G, who were cutting up Run-DMC’s “It’s Like That,” to making major moves himself with the Beat Junkies, eventually getting into radio by deejaying at the Beat 92.3, the revamped KDAY and, currently, Power 106, all while continuing to spin around LA, from Grammy to birthday to record-release parties.

“It’s based and rooted with DJs,” says Ice about SnapBack, especially as regards the LBC location, which has drawn performances from the Baka Boyz, Grand Wizard Theodore and Talib Kweli. “We’re keeping that essence.”

SNAPBACK LBC at the Federal Bar, 102 Pine Ave., Long Beach, (562) 435-2000; lb.thefederalbar.com.

Every Fri., 10 p.m. Free before 11 p.m.; $5 after. 21+.

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Hey, Orange County/Long Beach musicians & bands! Mail your music, contact info, high-res photos & impending show dates for possible review to: Locals Only, OC Weekly, 3941 S. Bristol St., Ste. 39, Santa Ana, CA 92704. Or email your link to: localsonly@ocweekly.com.

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M A RC H 11 -17, 201 6

uring a recent tour through the U.S., Movements were stopped in their tracks by the bane of every band’s existence: a broken-down tour van. A piece of the engine gave out while in rural Idaho. The opportunity to make the best out of a bad situation came when they stumbled upon an outdoors/hunting store, where they bought some bows and arrows. They spent the next few days roaming the hills and mountains, shooting at trees for target practice.

“It was an awesome time, despite the van troubles,” says long-haired drummer Spencer York. “To this day, we still bring our bows and arrows on tour.”

The thrill of playing in the woods sounds like the kind of pastime these young South County twentysomethings would pine for on their latest EP, Outgrown Things. But the ability to have fun and stay focused is just as important to them.

Since signing to Fearless Records last year, the quartet have released a debut single, “Protection,” and are under contract to produce an EP and three full-length albums.

The Mission Viejo band self-released three singles at the beginning of 2015: “Protection,” “Buried” and “Scripted.” The songs were an amalgam of driving, pounding drumbeats, big guitar hooks and visceral screams intertwined with melodic vocal melodies. The singles gained a lot of attention while the band promoted themselves the old-school way, passing out fliers outside venues.

“We had our first gig at Chain Reaction in January 2015 after going around, giving out fliers and spreading the word on social media,” York says. “I’d say that first show was the most memorable one because a surprising amount of

people were singing along to our songs, something none of us experienced in previous bands.

It was simply unreal, to say the least.”

A main draw for their fan base are the uncompromisingly raw, confessional lyrics released by singer Patrick Miranda, as well as the frenetic energy the band produce onstage. “Since the first demos we released, we have grown a lot as musicians—something that shows in this record,” York says. “Patrick has grown a lot vocally since the start of the band as well.”

Their new EP tells a tale about growing up and facing the loss and uncertainty we all experience. To support its release, Movements are going on tour with fellow Fearless label mates Real Friends—but with a twist. The entire tour is going to be at such unconventional venues as bowling alleys, skate parks and burger joints, and every ticket is only $5. The concept was devised by Real Friends, who’ve played big stages and large tours for the past few years.

They figured that it would be a very personal experience for their fans and themselves to make a DIY-feeling tour, supporting local music scenes across the country.

No matter where they perform, Movements are masters in the art of bonding with their fans with their songs and the perilous obstacles (and broken tour vans) that inspire them.

“Our music can be very sad, but we are sharing our experiences with our listeners so they will realize they are not alone,” York says. “We all go through hard times, but with the help of others, we can be strong and turn a negative into a positive.”

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7PM 5-YEAR BURGER AFTER X OBSERVATORY

ANNIVERSARY: 8 p.m. The Observatory, 3503 S. Harbor Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 957-0600; observatoryoc.com.

CHON: 8 p.m., $14-$17. The Glass House, 200 W. Second St., Pomona, (909) 865-3802; theglasshouse.us.

THE DUSTBOWL REVIVAL: $15. Saint Rocke, 142 Pacific Coast Hwy., Hermosa Beach, (310) 3720035; saintrocke.com.

THE KILLER WEST: 9 p.m., free. Don the Beachcomber, 16278 Pacific Coast Hwy., Huntington Beach, (562) 5921321; donthebeachcomber.com.

THE MIDNIGHT WHISKEY BAND: 9:30 p.m.-1:30 a.m., free. Silky Sullivan’s Restaurant & Irish Pub, 10201 Slater Ave., Fountain Valley, (714) 963-2718; silkysullivans.com.

MUDLUX & NOAH KING: 11:59 p.m., free. The Wayfarer, 843 W. 19th St., Costa Mesa, (949) 764-0039; wayfarercm.com.

N A P S, PLATONIC, VIOLENT VICKIE: 9 p.m., $5.

Que Sera, 1923 E. Seventh St., Long Beach, (562) 5996170; thequesera.com.

PARADISE CITY: 7 p.m., $15. House of Blues, 1530 S. Disneyland Dr., Anaheim, (714) 778-2583; hob.com/anaheim.

POOR MANS CHANGE: 8 p.m., $8-$10. The Wayfarer, 843 W. 19th St., Costa Mesa, (949) 764-0039; wayfarercm.com.

POSSESSED BY PAUL JAMES: 8 p.m., $11-$13.

Alex’s Bar, 2913 E. Anaheim St., Long Beach, (562) 4348292; alexsbar.com.

ROCKABILLY SOCK HOP: 7:30-11 p.m., $20. Eureka Building, 1621 Alton Pkwy., Irvine, (949) 220-6500; eurekabuilding.com.

ST. LUCIA: 9 p.m. The Observatory, 3503 S. Harbor Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 957-0600; observatoryoc.com.

SANGRIA BAND: 8 p.m., $10 after 8 p.m. Original Mike’s, 100 S. Main St., Santa Ana, (714) 550-7764; originalmikes.com.

THE SHENANIGANS: 9 p.m., free. Muldoon’s Irish Pub, 202 Newport Center Dr., Newport Beach, (949) 640-4110; muldoonspub.com.

SLAVES: 7 p.m., $15. Chain Reaction, 1652 W. Lincoln Ave., Anaheim, (714) 635-6067; allages.com.

SATURDAY, MARCH 12

A LOT LIKE BIRDS: 7 p.m., $12-$14. Chain Reaction,

1652 W. Lincoln Ave., Anaheim, (714) 635-6067; allages.com.

THE BARSTOW BOYZ: 9 p.m., $5-$7. The Wayfarer, 843 W. 19th St., Costa Mesa, (949) 764-0039; wayfarercm.com.

BURGER X OBSERVATORY 5-YEAR ANNIVERSARY: 8 p.m. The Observatory,

3503 S. Harbor Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 957-0600; observatoryoc.com.

DEAD RINGER: 9 p.m., free. Muldoon’s Irish Pub, 202 Newport Center Dr., Newport Beach, (949) 6404110; muldoonspub.com.

FAITH AKO: 6 p.m., $15-$25. Don the Beachcomber, 16278 Pacific Coast Hwy., Huntington Beach, (562) 5921321; donthebeachcomber.com.

THE GET DOWN BOYS: 2 p.m., $45-$50. Saint Rocke, 142 Pacific Coast Hwy., Hermosa Beach, (310) 3720035; saintrocke.com.

HOLLYWOOD BLONDE: 9:30 p.m.-1:30 a.m., free. Silky Sullivan’s Restaurant & Irish Pub, 10201 Slater Ave., Fountain Valley, (714) 963-2718; silkysullivans.com.

NIGHTWISH: 7 p.m., $42.50-$100. City National Grove of Anaheim, 2200 E. Katella Ave., Anaheim, (714) 7122750; citynationalgroveofanaheim.com.

POWER SERGE: 7 p.m., $18-$35. House of Blues, 1530 S. Disneyland Dr., Anaheim, (714) 778-2583; hob.com/anaheim.

ROY G BIV: 7 p.m., $12. The Glass House, 200 W. Second St., Pomona, (909) 865-3802; theglasshouse.us.

THE SACRED BRIDGE: 8 p.m., $10-$30. Christ Cathedral, 13280 Chapman Ave., Garden Grove, (714) 282-6024.

STONE SOUL: 8 p.m., $10 after 9 p.m. Original Mike’s,

100 S. Main St., Santa Ana, (714) 550-7764; originalmikes.com.

UNSCARRED: 6 p.m., $12. Malone’s, 604 E. Dyer Rd., Santa Ana, (714) 979-6000; facebook.com/MalonesConcertVenue.

SUNDAY, MARCH 13

BURGER X OBSERVATORY 5-YEAR ANNIVERSARY: 8 p.m. 8 p.m. The Observatory,

3503 S. Harbor Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 957-0600; observatoryoc.com.

GABI SANDOVAL: 7 p.m., $10. Chain Reaction, 1652 W. Lincoln Ave., Anaheim, (714) 635-6067; allages.com.

GENE LOVES JEZEBEL: 6 p.m., $10. Gaslamp Restaurant & Bar, 6251 E. Pacific Coast Hwy., Long Beach, (562) 596-4718; thegaslamprestaurant.com.

IREESH LAL: 6-8 p.m., $7-$10. Saint Rocke, 142 Pacific Coast Hwy., Hermosa Beach, (310) 372-0035; saintrocke.com.

SLIPPERS: 8 p.m., free. Alex’s Bar, 2913 E. Anaheim St., Long Beach, (562) 434-8292; alexsbar.com.

MONDAY, MARCH 14

DENGUE FEVER: 9 p.m. Constellation Room at the

Observatory, 3503 S. Harbor Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 957-0600; constellationroom.com.

JOE BLANCHARD: 10 p.m., free. Auld Dubliner, 71 S. Pine Ave., Long Beach, (562) 437-8300; aulddubliner.com.

PROFESSOR COLOMBO: 9 p.m., free. The Wayfarer, 843 W. 19th St., Costa Mesa, (949) 764-0039; wayfarercm.com.

THE SEX TAPE SCANDAL: 8 p.m.-2 a.m., free.

Blacklight District Lounge, 2500 E. Anaheim St., Long Beach.

YOUNG THUG: 8 p.m., $30. The Observatory, 3503 S. Harbor Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 957-0600; observatoryoc.com.

TUESDAY, MARCH 15

MY ROCK BAND: 9 p.m., free. The Pike Bar & Fish

Grill, 1836 E. Fourth St., Long Beach, (562) 437-4453; pikelongbeach.com.

UGBK BAND: 7 p.m., free. Original Mike’s, 100 S. Main St., Santa Ana, (714) 550-7764; originalmikes.com.

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 16 CITY NEVER SLEEPS: 7 p.m., $10-$12. Chain

Reaction, 1652 W. Lincoln Ave., Anaheim, (714) 6356067; allages.com.

EXPANDING OC HIP-HOP: $5. Doll Hut, 107 S. Adams St., Anaheim, (714) 533-1286.

THE MEMORIES: 9 p.m., $5. The Wayfarer, 843 W. 19th St., Costa Mesa, (949) 764-0039; wayfarercm.com.

MILD HIGH CLUB: noon, free. Cal State Fullerton Becker Amphitheater, 800 N. State College Blvd., Fullerton.

TECHNASIA: 10 p.m., $10. La Cave, 1695 Irvine Ave., Costa Mesa, (949) 646-7944; lacaverestaurant.com.

THURSDAY, MARCH 17

DISTURBED: 8 p.m. The Observatory, 3503 S. Harbor

Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 957-0600; observatoryoc.com.

THE DROPPERS: 5 p.m., free. Muldoon’s Irish Pub,

202 Newport Center Dr., Newport Beach, (949) 6404110; muldoonspub.com.

THE DWARVES: 9 p.m., $13-$15. Alex’s Bar, 2913 E. Anaheim St., Long Beach, (562) 434-8292; alexsbar.com.

IN MY LIFE—A MUSICAL-THEATER TRIBUTE TO THE BEATLES: 8 p.m., $35-$55. Irvine Barclay

Theatre, 4242 Campus Dr., Irvine, (949) 854-4646; thebarclay.org.

JUNIOR BOYS: 9 p.m. Constellation Room at the Observatory, 3503 S. Harbor Blvd., Santa Ana, (714) 957-0600; constellationroom.com.

KANDI JONES: 9 p.m., $5. The Wayfarer, 843 W. 19th St., Costa Mesa, (949) 764-0039; wayfarercm.com.

REGGETON NIGHT WITH MR.PELON: 7 p.m., free.

Original Mike’s, 100 S. Main St., Santa Ana, (714) 5507764; originalmikes.com.

THE SMITH STREET BAND: 7 p.m., $13-$15. Chain Reaction, 1652 W. Lincoln Ave., Anaheim, (714) 6356067; allages.com.

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I’m your average straight, 42-year-old, white guy, married for a little less than a year (second marriage for both). We have an active sex life and are both GGG. My wife wants to be forcibly fucked—held down and raped.

Normally I’d be all over this because I do love me some rough sex. My issue: She told me she was traumatically raped by a man she was dating prior to me. All I know is that it involved a hotel room and him not stopping when she said no. So for now, I play along, but I know I’m not taking things as far as she’d like. I’m over here wondering if her previous trauma was a result of her encouraging forceful sex and regretting it later, and I worry the same thing could happen to me. Or is she trying to relive the experience? Should I fear her motivation and the potential consequences?

Am I overthinking things?

Tremulous Husband Is Needing Knowledge When it comes to rough sex—particularly when it involves role-playing forced-sex scenarios— overthinking is preferable to underthinking. But before we think through your specific issues, THINK, a few points of clarification.

A woman who’s into rough sex, even forcedsex/rape-role-play scenarios, can still have been raped by a partner—and a rape can occur during what was supposed to be a consensual forced-sex/rape-role-play scene. If your wife withdrew her consent and her former partner continued, it was rape.

Also, THINK, lots of women fantasize about “rape,” which I’m putting in quotes here because these fantasies typically involve a woman being “taken” by someone she’s attracted to, and lots and lots and lots of women are victims of rape.

Obviously there’s going to be overlap between these two groups. Your wife’s forced-sex fantasies could have nothing to do with her rape—it could be a coincidence—or your wife may be one of those people (not all of them women) who have eroticized a past sexual trauma (not always rape), and playing with a partner she trusts provides her with feelings of control and catharsis, empowerment and pleasure.

But what about you, THINK? You worry “the same thing could happen to me.” By that, you don’t mean, “I could be raped!” You mean, “I could be falsely accused of rape.” That’s a pretty big and disrespectful leap. What you’re saying is, “I think my wife is lying when she says this other man raped her—and I don’t want her to do the same to me.” I’m not sure what to do with that. I mean, I don’t think your wife is lying, THINK, and I don’t know or love your wife. You presumably know and love your wife, and yet you’re worried she may be setting you up for a false rape accusation. That’s some dark shit—that’s some Gone Girl shit, that’s the plot of some horrible Kathleen Turner/Michael Douglas shit movie from the 1980s.

If you’re really concerned about protecting your own butt, THINK, then have a nice long conversation with your wife about her fantasies over email. I’ve given that advice to people negotiating edgy and/or forced-sex scenes with strangers or near-strangers. It feels odd to give that advice to someone negotiating a fantasy role-play scenario with his spouse. But here we are.

Don’t tell your wife you wanna chat over email because you’re worried about needing an alibi. I would suggest that you believe your wife, first off, and that you have this conversation over email—two anonymous accounts created just for this purpose—because it will allow you both to be more thoughtful and less inhibited (sometimes these things are hard to discuss face to face). Tell her you don’t want to accidentally

SAVAGELOVE »V DAN SAVAGE

traumatize or trigger her, first and foremost, but you also don’t want to wind up traumatizing yourself. You would feel like a monster if you hurt her while attempting to fulfill her fantasies.

Finally, THINK, this isn’t something your wife will wanna do just once. So take baby steps: Increase the intensity gradually, from scene to scene, check in afterward, Google “sexual aftercare” and read the piece on Curve that pops up (it’s a lesbian website, but the lessons/advice/ insight are generally applicable), and keep having long conversations—via email or face to face—about what’s working for her and what isn’t. Good luck.

I had given up on relationships after a failed marriage and another partner trying to kill me (no joke). Then, after five years single, abstinent and lonely, I met a man who frustrated me, turned me on and was understanding about my trust issues. I’m excited about a future with him—except for two things. First, he says he loves me, but he’s not sure yet if he wants to spend the rest of his life with me—he’s not sure if I’m “The One.” He also has needs I’m not able to fulfill. It may not seem like a big deal to most people, but swallowing is out for me, as I was orally raped when I was a teenager. I’ve worked my way up to enjoying giving head, but come in my mouth makes me cry.

And I can’t give head after anal. He says these are the things that make him come the hardest.

I’ve asked him if my inability to provide these things are a “deal breaker” for him and he says no, but when we get into bed, he talks about me doing them the entire time we’re having sex. I’ve asked him to stop, and he says he will, but it doesn’t stop. He will also have sex only in the positions he likes, and if I ask for something different, he’ll just stop having sex with me, leaving me frustrated. If letting him go so he can find the right person to fulfill his needs makes him happier, then I feel it’s the right thing to do, as much as it would hurt.

Failing At Intimacy/Love You need to let this guy go for your own happiness and sanity.

I know you were alone for a long time—alone and lonely—and you know who else knows that?

Your shitty boyfriend, FAIL, and he’s leveraging your desire to be with someone against your right to sexual autonomy and your need for emotional safety. You have an absolute right to set your own limits, to rules things in and out, and to slap “not open for discussion” labels on some things.

Ruling two things out—swallowing and ATM— particularly for the reasons you cite, is perfectly reasonable. If he can’t accept that, if he’s going to hammer away at those two things endlessly, that should be a “deal breaker” for you.

You see his inability to determine if you’re “The One” as a separate issue, FAIL, but it’s of a piece. He’s refusing to make you the one—“The One” is an act of will, not an act of God—in hopes that you will submit to his sexual demands.

I have a hunch that swallowing and ATM aren’t really the things that make him come the hardest. If it was anal and cunnilingus you couldn’t do, FAIL, then those would be his favorite things.

Because the issue here isn’t whether he’s “sure” you’re the one or the sex acts that make him come the hardest. This is about him controlling and degrading you. DTMFA. Listen to the Savage Lovecast recorded live on Valentine’s Day in Portland at savagelovecast. com. Email Dan via mail@savagelove.net, and follow him on Twitter: @fakedansavage.

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Preheat oven to 340°F and bring a large pot of salted water to a boil for the macaroni. Cook the macaroni until al dente. Drain the macaroni and rinse with cold water. Return it to the pot off the heat and toss with vegetable oil, set aside. In a large pan, melt the butter and cannabis butter over medium-low heat. Whisk in the flour, milk, half-and-half, salt and pepper. Stir mixture until thick enough to coat the back of a spoon, about 3-4 minutes. Stir in 2 cups cheddar and mix. Add cooled macaroni and mix again. Pour mixture into a buttered 9 x 13 casserole dish. Combine leftover 1/4 cup cheddar, cheddar crackers and panko and sprinkle evenly on top of pasta. Bake until golden brown, about 30 to 40 minutes.

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2975 Red Hill Avenue, Suite 150 | Costa Mesa, CA 92626 | 714.550.5940 | free online ads & photos at oc.backpage.com

CONDITIONS: All advertisements are published upon the representation by the advertiser and/or agency that the agency and advertiser are authorized to publish the entire contents and subject matter thereof, that the contents are not unlawful, and do not infringe on the rights of any person or entity and that the agency and advertiser have obtained all necessary permission and releases. Upon the OC Weekly’s request, the agent or advertiser will produce all necessary permission and releases. In consideration of the publication of advertisements, the advertiser and agency will indemnify and save the OC Weekly harmless from and against any loss or expenses arising out of publication of such advertisements. The publisher reserves the right to revise, reject or omit without notice any advertisement at any time. The OC Weekly accepts no liability for it’s failure, for any cause, to insert an advertisement. Publication and placement of advertisements are not guaranteed. Liability for any error appearing in an advertisement is limited to the cost of the space actually occupied. No allowance, however, will be granted for an error that does not materially affect the value of an advertisement.

To qualify for an adjustment, any error must be reported within 15 days of publication date. Credit for errors is limited to first insertion. Drawings, artwork and articles for reproduction are accepted only at the advertiser’s risk and should be clearly marked to facilitate their return. The OC Weekly reserves the right to revise its advertising rates at any time. Announcements of an increase shall be made four weeks in advance to contract advertisers. No verbal agreement altering the rates and/or the terms of this rate card shall be recognized.

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