By Michael Goldstein
By Dennis Romero
By Sarah Fenske
By Matthew Mullins
By Patrick Range McDonald
By LA Weekly
By Dennis Romero
By Simone Wilson
Jeffrey Anderson’s imitation of H.L. Mencken at the Scopes Monkey Trial would be a bit more enjoyable if his hallowed Boston Red Sox community wasn’t guilty of the same sins he excoriates us Anaheimers for committing [A Considerable Town, “Seeing Red,” October 15–21]. Underachieving ballplayers? Last time I checked, the Anaheim Angels have won one more World Series title in the past three years than the Red Sox have in the past 86. Stupid nicknames for players? Three letters: Y-a-z. Moron fans? I was at game one of the Red Sox–Angels series as well, and the only time police booted an unruly patron from the ballpark occurred around the eighth inning. He was a skinny souse whose gold lamé jump suit billowed as he stumbled up and down the aisles. He sported an Elvis pompadour and wraparounds. He kept cursing loudly around children while swinging wildly at Angels fans like David Ortiz at a Mariano Rivera fastball. And that license plate hanging from his neck by a bona fide junkyard dog chain? Let’s just say that I finally found out which member of our Union calls itself the Bay State.
Wicked smug recap of Jeffrey Anderson’s fun time in Anaheim! Wats-a-mattuh? Baffrooms too clean for him? Not enough graffiti on the foul posts? Too many smiles at the ballpahk? Too few beat-downs? He just probably couldn’t see from his privileged seats (available, by the way, at any ballpark in the USA, if you time your visit to the ticket booth just right).
Too bad he missed it: This one language-challenged mickey attempted to run onto the field, only to be stomped by four of Anaheim’s finest and dragged out on his rashed-out belly, hollering something about “Go Bahstin.” A touching display of loyalty. Woulda made any baseball Dad proud.
I guess Anderson’s bad attitude and jealousy over our nice, new ballpark and good-looking women is understandable. After all, we Angels fans only had to wait 41 years for our World Series trophy. Oh well, doesn’t look like ’04 is gonna be his year, either. And even though we’ve finally sent Michael Eisner packing, he’s still got Ben Affleck in his crowd. Bummah, eh?
Playa del Rey (by way of Anaheim)
BEST AND WORST OF
THE BEST BEST OF
Congratulations! L.A. Weekly’s Best of L.A. issue [October 8–14] is the best Best of by far. However, in “Best Imaginary Destruction of Los Angeles,” Anthony Miller omitted what is without a doubt the best imaginary destruction of L.A. In Jerry Pournelle and Larry Niven’s sci-fi classic Lucifer’s Hammer, which is about the collision between Earth and a comet. This multipage description of the destruction of Los Angeles beats anything filmed or painted on the subject. It includes a die-hard surfer who rides a comet-created tsunami all the way into Westwood, where he wipes out into a Wilshire high-rise. And that’s just a small part of it.
Thanks a whole helluva lot for Andy Kindler’s succinct and achingly hilarious “Go Envy Yourself,” which distills what I have spent thousands in therapy trying to exorcise. This means I’m now envious of him, as well. I hope the Weekly is happy.
Hip Cooks is the worst cooking class experience one could imagine. Disorganized, unprofessional, uninspired, cheap food for a lot of money. Writer Molly Freedenburg should really get out more.
I was very bothered upon reading Mary Beth Crain’s comments about the Los Angeles Philharmonic’s Opening Night Gala Concert [Calendar, October 1–7]. Specifically, she expresses concern that “only the rich will get to enjoy” this particular performance, and questions what happened to the Philharmonic’s push to bring classical music to the people.
This was not the case. The students of the USC Thornton School of Music were kindly given approximately 80 free tickets to this concert by the Philharmonic. It is also my understanding that at least 1,000 of the tickets were given to deserving music students in the Los Angeles area. Clearly, the L.A. Phil was reaching out to the community and should be applauded, not chided, for this thoughtful gesture to the music students and teachers of this city.
For all of the tough work that Drew Barrymore did researching politics for her documentary, one would think that the one fact that she, as a motivated and successful independent woman, could get right in “Angel on the Bus” [Deadline Hollywood, September 24–30] is the year that the 19th Amendment was passed. It was in 1920, not 1923, that women were given the right to vote.
Drew presents herself as a political dumbass, which almost forgives her error, but that writer Nikki Finke and L.A. Weekly didn’t fact check Drew’s mistake shows a lack of respect for the women and men who fought so hard for such an important basic right. It seems like overlooking this major fact puts the Weekly only a notch ahead of Barrymore when it comes to political ineptitude.
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