Radio station 103.7 changed its format from classic rock to talk radio. Listeners disapproved, but was it necessary to have two stations in town playing Boston, Journey, and Heart? And 103.7's new shows are funny. They air one local show, the Dangerous Dick and Skibba show. When I first heard the name of the show, I thought it sounded like a venereal disease and imagined it was going to be a show similar to Loveline on 91X. But Dick and Skibba talk about anything that pops into their minds, which often includes women and partying. Dick has a "radio voice," and Skibba reminds me of David Spade.
When I heard them talking about their good ratings and hosting a beach party to celebrate, I decided to crash it. It was a bonfire at Dog Beach in O.B. on a Thursday night at 10:30. They announced they'd be going there after their show, and I figured at that hour the cops would shut it down.
I arrived around 11:15 and saw their producer, Lindsay, walking through the parking lot with a few guys. Lindsay reads the news on Dick and Skibba's show. She has a peculiar voice that reminds me of Victoria Jackson from Saturday Night Live -- cute and ditzy.
I walked over to the bonfire and heard Dangerous Dick talking to guys who were passing a joint around. Skibba was walking around the fire pit with a bottle in his hand. He had long, dark hair and looked like Jim Morrison. When I said that to Skibba, he said, "Yeah, when that Doors movie came out, I was in college. I got so much tail because of that."
I lit up a cigar. Someone asked me for a hit but was disappointed to find out it wasn't filled with marijuana.
I met two girls from Chicago who had just graduated college. As I talked to them, a guy tripped in the sand and fell into me. I dropped my cigar. Not wanting a three-dollar stogie to go to waste, I wiped the sand off it, and put it back in my mouth. Big mistake. The rest of the evening, I would alternate between taking a puff and spitting sand.
I met a woman with a cast on her leg. She had had surgery and was sitting in a chair, and as I took her picture, she said, "I'm collecting hugs. You have to come give me a hug." As she was talking about getting off a bus in San Diego, I realized that she was the same person who called in to Dick and Skibba's show and told them that she didn't have a place to stay.
There were a few guys with acoustic guitars and someone with bongo drums. A crowd gathered around them as they played.
After listening to them for a few minutes, I was distracted by a group of four having an argument. It was about a guy named Taylor who won on American Idol. One guy said Taylor looked like he was 75 years old with all that gray hair. When another person said he was in his late 20s, someone added that there is an age limit on that show, that they don't accept anyone over 30. A woman came over and said, "I think it's crazy that more people voted for him than voted in the last presidential election." I responded, "Taylor has a better voice then Bush." Another guy said, "That's bullshit!" I said, "It is? Does Bush have a good singing voice?" He responded, "Not that. About more people voting than in the elections. Everyone keeps saying that, but on that show, sometimes people call in and vote 40 or 50 times, so it's not accurate like in a presidential election." Someone jumped in and said, "Yeah, accurate like when Bush stole the election in Florida."
There was one guy standing by himself, and I talked to him for a little bit. He said he used to listen to NPR, but when he tuned into Dick and Skibba, he thought they were funny. He didn't seem to fit in with the rest of the crowd. We laughed about the people walking by in a drunken stupor.
Lindsay walked over, and we talked to her for a few minutes. She told us that a friend of hers saw Minnie Driver walking a dog in North Park, and I told her that local musician Greg Laswell was writing songs with her. Lindsay said she went to school with Laswell at Point Loma Nazarene.
Lindsay mentioned moving to Mission Valley from the beach area. She said, "I feel so classy now. When people come over, I want to say 'Welcome to my apartment. Can I fix you a gin and tonic?'"
I had only been there for 30 minutes when four cop cars rolled up. They shined their flashlights on us and told us the party was over. One officer was pouring out cans of beer. Another asked Skibba about his bottle. He said, "It's just tea, my man." The cop moved on to the others. I wasn't sure why he took Skibba's word on what was in the bottle.
There were four drunk guys, and one was saying, "Dude, hide the beer in your pants." "I don't even have room in my pants for my keys, I can't put beer down there." I asked one of the cops what the rule was, and he said, "No beer on the beach after 8 p.m." Another one said, "It doesn't matter now. The party is over, even if the beer disappears."
As everyone was packing it in, I heard the college graduates talking about going back to the place where they were staying in Rancho Bernardo. My stepbrother and I went over to their place and played drinking games in the garage. I had never played "flip cup" before, but it involved everyone chugging a beer and then trying to flip the cup over using only one finger. I told them I wasn't a beer drinker, so they poured me glasses of wine.