A Tale of Two Huntington Beach events ...

Surf City libs have one thing on their mind: Saving the libraries. Surf City conservatives have one thing on their mind: Bare scrotums!

On July 13, 1985, Live Aid—the concert heard around the world—took place simultaneously on two continents. There was one show at Philadelphia’s JFK Stadium and another at Wembley Stadium, and all told some 1.5 billion people watched either in person or on television.

And while the event featured an endless conga line of stars, ranging from Paul McCartney and Queen to Madonna and the surviving members of Led Zeppelin, the king was Phil Collins, the singer/former Genesis drummer who literally performed in the UK, hopped on a plane, then sang in the City of Brotherly Love. It remains one of the greatest two-spot showings in performative history.

However …

Yesterday evening, I did my very own Collins—only instead of two continents, I hit up a pair of rival events in Huntington Beach. And if that doesn’t sound particularly impressive, well … you’d be right. But it was wildly entertaining.

Before I dig in, some quick background: As we speak, Huntington Beach’s city council is occupied by seven full-throttle MAGA douches. These are the people who wear the red hats to meetings; who place a Trump bust front and center; who insisted a new library plaque be an ode to the 47th president. And, as we speak, residents are beginning to vote on a pair of measures that would decide if the council members can continue their restricted section in the library and start a MAGA-infused book review committee. It’s some serious draconian-level bullshit, and if you’re a Huntington Beach denizen and have yet to do so—please vote YES on Measures A and B.

I repeat: Vote Yes.

Anyhow, there were two rival events in Huntington Beach. The first one I attended was held inside the home of a a member of Protect Huntington Beach, a progressive group of folks who believe—strongly—that any sort of book ban would be anti-democratic and harmful to the city. I’d say, oh, 40 people attended, and over Costco pizza and sponge cake, a series of speakers made their cases. The big name was Chris Kluwe, the Huntington Beach resident/former Vikings punter who has become a local political phenom over the past several months. And Chris, as always, was fantastic …

But, to me, the star of the show was Buffie Channel, a Huntington Beach denizen for more than three decades who had recently enjoyed a major moment at a city council meeting when she read a (funny and inventive) children’s story (she wrote) about the fools sitting before her. On this night, Buffie treated the crowd to individual sagas about each council member, then—as a grand finale, this gem of gems ...

And toward the end of the event, I pulled Buffie aside. Why? Because something about the woman struck me as simultaneously sad and hopeful; glum and optimistic. She was clearly a person who gave her writing a ton of thought; who needed to find a way to express herself in dark times; who believes in Huntington Beach but has had her insides ripped out by Huntington Beach. I love folks like that. Love, love, love folks like that.

She didn’t disappoint …

I left the meeting around, oh, 7 pm—and as I exited I felt a solid dose of optimism. I can’t say any of the attendees were excessively confident that, on the June 10 special election date, the returns will be a guaranteed victory. But it feels like momentum is on the side of good. Really, it feels as if the MAGA people have overplayed their hand in trying to convince the city that librarians are groomers and Big Brother must decide what is best.

One councilman in particular, a snarly little dude named Chad Williams, has gone out of his way to bring up (porn) every (porn) two (porn) seconds. If (porn) you’re (porn) trying not (porn) to think (porn) of (porn) porn, avoid (porn) Chad.

So, hey.

•••

The second event was held roughly four miles away, inside the garage of Tony Strickland, the former council member who resembles a giant skin popsicle and now serves as a state senator.

And before I delve into it, a quick story …

Back, oh, two decades ago, while writing for the Big Apple-based newspaper Newsday, I was flown to Florida to follow around a legendary Manhattan “adult content” magazine editor who was deep into his retirement. We agreed to meet for lunch, and when I arrived at the provided address it was a swingers club—where married couples swapped spouses and, well, eh, exchanged all sorts of bodily fluids. It was super weird, especially when the subject of my profile told me he was a member, “only because the lunch buffet here is absolutely exceptional.”

For a long time, that was the creepiest spot I’d ever entered …

Until yesterday.

Strickland has a lovely garage. But hanging inside the room were, eh, dicks. And vaginas. And breasts. Lots and lots and lots of dicks and vaginas and breasts. Big ones. Small ones. Fat ones. Skinny ones. If you think I’m exaggerating, check out this photo. The bowling pin in the yellow shirt is Pat Burns—Huntington Beach mayor—gazing toward his phone and likely concealing his erection over panels 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 12.

He was joined at the event by Williams (a religious zealot with a browser history I would pay enormous money to peruse) and Gracey Van Der Mark, the city council member who—despite being Latina—has been photographed flashing the ol’ white power/QAnon sign. I’ve been told by myriad people that Van Der Mark is the primary go-to on the whole book banning thing; that long ago she tried (and failed) to organize a book burning; that despite having an IQ matching Harold Baines’ White Sox uniform number …

… she has something against books and librarians and books suggested by librarians.

I’d never met any of the three council members before, and inside the garage—as I bounded from (proposed) banned book to (proposed) banned book—I debated whether to approach. What would I say? What points would I make? But, midway through my ponderings, I struck up a conversation with two attendees. They were an older couple, both retired and in their 70s. They lingred behind a long table stacked with books—including one, “Pride Puppy” by Robin Stevenson and Julie McLaughlin, that sweetly tells the story of a family enjoying Pride Day. Although inside the garage I tried to hide my liberal identity, for a moment I cracked. I pointed to the book and said to the woman, “You know, I get it. But I have a gay daughter and I don’t see what’s wrong with this one.”

She glanced at the cover, then looked me in the eyes. “I can understand that,” she said. “Everyone has different opinions.”

We actually went on to speak at length. She had a warm smile, high cheeks. She reminded me of 100 different cheerful, loving, sweetie-have-a-cookie grandmothers I’ve known through the decades. And, in fact, told me she had relatives who don’t share her conservative views—“and that’s fine with me. I still love them.” To my pleasant surprise, we agreed that something has snapped in America; that furor and mistrust have gone too far; that political leaders thrive off of hatred; that there was a time when you dug your neighbors without asking or knowing about their politics.

“I miss that,” she said to me.

“Me, too,” I said.

By now, she certainly realized I was liberal and seemed unbothered. I told her my name, she told me her name, and we shook hands. She then returned to her spot behind the table, where the council members were waiting with their talk of groomers and pedophiles and a nation in need of moral order.

I shuffled off to my car.

Thinking of scrotums.