Anytime I can have an evening filled with a bucket of laughs without risking my mug on the front page of TheDirty... it's a great thing!  The evening starts off with Rosalind Russell aka "The Goat Lady" and I driving all over town trying to figure out where the heck THE LAGUNATICS was performing.  Frustrated and out of ideas Rosalind calls up Stu Staffer to get the location.  We finally make it  to our seats although a bit late...and OH MY G#D!

The performance!  One of the highlights for me, was the "Mike" and "Cindy" trying their best to secure the new position of THE GREETER.  So funny.  I also really enjoyed the "It Had To Be CHEWED" performance.  Making fun of the enormous herd of goats we employ to eat up the shrubs surrounding the city to prevent fires.  And the people who appose them.

Yes in this town nobody can agree on anything.  We are very passionate about our views and the way we want things done.  So it was really really funny to see the characters in their "Laguna Beach Attire."  Complete with neon tshirts and snippy attitudes.

Fellow Lagunatics...If you are lucky enough to live in a town with "Lights Ordinances" and other oddities such as Butch Nuns, dancing goats and the one and only can not miss this performance. 

Get your hot ticket to Lagunatics.
To donate money towards the cost of a goat to a family in need in Nepal go to

My Random Evening Shenanigans
My NIGHTLIFE column is a funny thing.  I'm sort of a geek. Love playing chess and I'm pretty much always up for a hike in the woods or a Star-Wars marathon.  I would dress like Princess Leia every day of the week, if I thought it would not land me in a mental hospital.  So when I was offered a job as a nightlife columnist, I lied through my teeth and said - "Sure, I can do that!" 


I was married for several I'm sort of out of the loop when it comes to dating - what are the cool pick up lines?  Still not sure.  But I do know one thing...if you put on a short red gets the guys attention!   Anyways...if you feel like a little laugh, just read my past night-life columns...apparently my friends think it's hullarious to read about my struggles with the opposite sex...don't worry I won't take it personally if you laugh at me...I laugh at me all the time.

Do you know of any HOT SPOTS in the OC area I should check out and write about?  Leave me a comment!


"If looks could kill, there's going to be a mass murder tonight!" I announce to Lisa as I walk out my front door, wearing my new $9.98 Forever 21 coral-red Kelly Bundy-inspired dress, some trusty Burt's Bees lip balm, and my hair in a ponytail braid. I've been eating nothing but farmers market produce all week in anticipation of my interview with hot Brazilian Fernanda Rocha, the newest Real Housewife of Orange County.

But the night doesn't really go down as planned. Does it ever?

Since Lisa and I have a couple hours to kill, we decide to use the press passes for the Sonatasia performance that I scored from creator David Parker. We rudely show up late to the Mandarin Fine Art Gallery, figuring that there could be some cute nerdy guys in the room, so we might as well give it a go. Gallery owner John Tabacek, at least, is sort of cute…

But the beautiful melodies of pianist Wan-Chin Chang and bassist Chris Hornung that fill the room are shattered as Lisa blurts out, "Those look like good seats!" We're rewarded with some not-so-appreciative glares from a few artsy-fartsys.

As luck would have it, Elliot Goldkind, the composer of the evening, is sitting right in front of me. And next to him, the ultra-geeky (yet super-cute) Rocko Harris, a budding composer who could be Johnny Depp's brother (or Edward Scissorhands' cousin, but that's good enough for me). I move in for the kill. As I’m changing seats so I can sit next to Rocko, I glance around the room and wonder why I'm the only one wearing a neon color among a sea of gray, beige and denim. Rocko starts talking about “the big world of classical music”… I just agree with whatever he's saying.

Next is a trip to K'ya Bistro Bar, not only because I need some sweet-potato fries, but this is also where we'll rendezvous with Fernanda. While waiting for a table, we head to the lobby, where cute local piano player Dean Rod serenades the room. If you're a little tipsy and you squint your eyes, Dean looks a lot like Dr. Oz. I beg him to play Joe Jackson's "Breaking Us in Two," a request which he nicely accommodates, and I shamelessly start singing along. A gaggle of uptight plastic-surgery addicts look on, and I can't tell if they approve of my performance—all the Botox in their faces make it impossible to determine.

We finally get our table, where we meet Jill, a very sweet transvestite. How am I going to explain my new friend to Fernanda? But Fernanda is lesbian, so no worries; she'll be open-minded. What’s not to love about a good tranny, anyway?

Fernanda Rocha arrives, and she's … stunning. She might look like another rich, spoiled housewife from the TV show, but I discover that not only is she hot, she's also super-smart. She has a degree in kinesiology, owns the Jiinga Brasil clothing line, produced her own Brazilian Booty Workout DVD, and she’s the co-owner of the Art of Fitness & Day Spa on Coast Highway.

“It’s clear you're living the American dream," I tell her. "Yes," she says, smiling, “and now I’m a citizen. It would not have been so easy for me to live as an openly lesbian woman in Brazil. I feel like this is my place in life. I’m meant to be here.”

Fernanda is so hot and intelligent that I find myself flirting with her! I tell her she has perfect skin. “It’s a Brazilian thing,” she says. I ask how she feels about life. “It feels like all of the dots are connected now.”

OK—I can’t take it anymore … there's no way I can wait for the new season's March 6 premiere. It’s time to get the dish on the rest of the housewives.

I ask Fernanda how she got along with the girls. “I really like Gretchen," she says.
“I like her too," I tell her. "I’ve met her, and she’s really nice. Tamara seems like she would be really fake just to get airtime.”

Fernanda smiles and laughs, cryptically telling me that I'll just have to watch the show to find out what happens.

"My connection with Tamara was how I first got involved with The Real Housewives. The show is a reality show, but some of it is not so real, and I had no idea what to expect. If asked to come back, I know what I would do differently.”

I beg Fernanda to come dance with us, but she’s exhausted from work and her recent trip to Brazil. So I joke, “There really was no interview. I just tricked you into hanging out with me!” We all laugh and then take lots of pics together until we get some good ones.

Lisa and I end up at the Sandpiper, which is packed with boys. I set my sights on Hot Indian Chief. “Am I actually dreaming?” I ask myself, as he whisks me onto the floor, where we do some salsa dancing. And I’m sure he’s not gay, so … score! He ends up giving me a ride home but doesn't invite himself in. Hmmm … maybe he was gay after all.


The night begins with what would seem to be a ridiculous episode of Punk’d at the Laguna Art Museum, which is debuting its new exhibitions.

“Wow. Plexiglas, in a big pile of sand. Are we supposed to take this seriously?”
I say this, turning to my girlfriends in disbelief. Anna-Maria and Lisa attempt to coax me into sitting in the sand for a photo. Lurking in the corner is a chair with a thousand rusty nails in it, along with a razor blade and other random debris.

Apparently, this is art.

I assume things can't get worse, but I'm proven wrong. In the adjacent room, among many other gems, one piece stands out—a large, rectangular, stretched, white furry thing.

“The North Pole called … it wants its polar bear rug back,” I blurt to an elderly woman next to me. She ignores me and walks away.

Anna-Maria turns to Lisa and I. “The label says White Furry Painting. That's not a painting, it's an acrylic faux-fur rug on a wall!”

At this point, I'm super-pissy. I didn’t want to go out in the first place, so I speak up.
“I'd rather go to church than stay here any longer, guys.”

We drive over to Mozambique for a late dinner. The music is tribal, the ambience is sexy. I’m back from the Dark Side. We’re seated, but soon there’s a commotion across the room. Trailer Park Girl, being loud and crazy for some unknown reason—and it’s only 9:30!

Our first round of drinks arrive, we toast, I sip. “Oh. That's why she’s hammered.”
The lychee martini warms my throat, but later, the big, beautiful African mojito tries to murder me—it’s potent witch potion.

My gluttonous side sets in as I order more food than any self-respecting girl should eat. My gal-pack looks at me like I'm crazy—“What? I’m going to share!” The apps arrive, and I'm like a primal animal, ripping into my first juicy prawn, which I’ve drenched in spicy sauce. My mouth is … on fire! And then the mahi-mahi in all its tender glory, and the spicy fries, and then …
… is that Faizon Love across the room? The guy from Couples Retreat?

“Hey, Faizon!” I yell, then run over to give him a big cuddly hug. “I write a nightlife column,” I announce, then grab his big hand and drag him over to meet the girls so we can snap some pictures.

I ask him for his digits, he’s jotting in my notebook.

“Oh—and your autograph?” I say, batting my eyelashes.
He scribbles it in my book.

Shamelessly, I ask, “Would you autograph my bosoms?”

He smiles. “Maybe later. Text me.”


I give him another hug and The Faizon heads out. We head upstairs for some dancing to a Beatles tribute band, when I notice that “Paul McCartney” is actually the guy I saw a few weeks ago being “David Bowie” in a Bowie tribute band! ”No, no, no …” I sputter, and we all laugh hysterically.

I dance for a song, but all the drunken couples bumping into me (along with the fact that I had eaten too much) was a turnoff. Then I spot an adorable Italian boy in the corner and sit right next to him. He says “hi.” I realize he’s wasted … no longer interested.

As for the Oscars themselves, I stop at the Hotel Laguna for the broadcast and wait for Christian Bale to make his appearance … there! Finally, he's on the red carpet. I don't like the beard. Or the suit. But I still love you, Christian!


The night begins with me freezing my butt off as I walk downtown in what could either be a really hot or, I suspect, a really ridiculous ensemble. It’s sort of a Last of the Mohicans meets ‘80s pop-star look, consisting of a curve-flattering, blue-laced, rouged mini-dress paired with a garage sale leather jacket-o-fringe. But it’s comfy, so I’m good to go.

I'd been told by numerous sources that women’s clothing boutique Katharine Story is the place to be, so I head over. When I arrive, it seems that every gay man and cool-cat hipster in town is already there.

As I make my way to the back of the room for my plastic cup of white wine, I’m also checking out the reason for the hubbub: the erotic art show. And yeah, it’s erotic all right—lots of mixed-media and oil-based sexual fantasies on canvas. There are beautiful photographs and busts of busts.

I make it to the wine table, where I'm greeted by two of my Laguna Beach gays. There are also two large plates of cookies, which aren’t exactly the kind you’d find in the snack aisle at Albertsons, baked as they are in the shape of girl parts and boy parts.

"I better get one of the boy-part cookies, because I know I'm going home alone tonight,” I tell my friends. Suddenly, two hot model boys adorned only in their underpants emerge from a hidden closet next to me! Hmmm … maybe I'm not going home alone after all. …

As I follow/stalk the boys, I get sidetracked by Redz, bassist for local band Rebel Rockers. I’m a real fan of his—a groupie, actually! I tell him that his performance at the Here Comes the Sun flood relief concert was really great. He smiles, we cuddle up for some cute pics, and I’m positive I could have his heart on a platter if I wanted it. But not tonight …

There’s Katharine, our super-sexy tall and blond hostess, sort of the Laguna Beach version of Cameron Diaz. She’s showing off her wife-beater tank, which has the words NAKED IS THE NEW BLACK printed on it. We exchange a few pleasantries and snap pics, and then she’s whisked away by her posse. It's a busy night.

Finally I make it over to the underwear boys, who are dancing up a storm. Introductions are in order: There’s Christopher Pavlik, who looks like a young Ricky Martin, and Nate Blizzard, whom I lock eyes with, and I instantly recall how I’ve always told my friends that I would never, ever become anyone’s sugar mama. But right here, right now, as I gaze at Nate’s delicious little snow cone of masculine perfection, I’m rapidly starting to embrace the idea.

Local hobby photographer Jim Rue leans over and tells me, "Wouldn't it be nice if they could actually dance?"

"It doesn't matter!" I tell him.

I make my way over to the DJ table, where scruffy duo Brothers from Another Mother are keeping the scene smoking with their spins, then make my way outside to snap pics of local "car-tist" Scott Alan and his new wiener doggie, Amber. Scott is the guy responsible for the ever-evolving spaceship VW that's normally parked on Forest Avenue.

"Wait, let me stand in front of some hot scenery," says Scott, as he wiggles to the front of the store window where Christopher is gyrating in the window in nothing but his Calvins. Apparently, I’m staring.

“You’re staring!” says a woman passing by.

“Annnd?” I reply.

A gaggle of golden girls laugh devilishly along with me. Time to head out …


Art Walk Night!

Dressed to kill in my short clingy red dress with long sleeves and a low-cut neckline highlighting my Dolly Parton bosom, I'm ultra-prepared for an awesome evening.

My pal Melinda drives over to our first stop, and her boyfriend coolly hops out of the car dressed like a sort-of Irish version of Lenny Kravitz. He opens the big glass door of the Swenson Fine Art gallery, which is catered for a "press only" event. I'm thrilled to be in the Cool Press Club—for about three minutes, until I realize I'm the youngest person in the room. By a lot.

I spot "The Stu" from Stu's News and offer to write for his online newspaper. "I can't have you write for me, you write for my competitor," he quickly chirps. I suppose it was my egregious faux pas to want yet another local news organization to pay me for my genius.

I take a sip of red wine out of my plastic cup and plot my possible follow-up with Mr. Stu. After two trips to the catered table (the guac was gooood), I'm done and want to leave. Melinda and her boyfriend are in agreement.

We head next door to the newly opened Rock'n Fish and take seats at the bar. By a total uncontrived accident, I'm sitting right next to a very-good-looking Richard Gere/Hot Older Guy type, who's dressed perhaps a little too casually. He's instantly in lust with me and offers to buy me a drink. I order a mojito, and the bartender goes to town on the mint, pounding away at it until it screams for mercy. I take the first sip ... naughty and delicious, just like the rest of the night.
East Coast Boy comes in with a big smile on his face, happy as a clam to see me again (I met him at Melinda's dinner party a month ago, where we had a flirt festival). He sits on the other side of me, dressed like a preppy Bostonian.

Hot Older Guy then coaxes me into trying my first raw oyster. It takes me several minutes to build up the nerve to slurp one down. Everyone is watching me almost have a panic attack—but it's actually good, a perfect mouthful of oyster, lemon and Tabasco.

So I'm sandwiched between East Coast Boy and Hot Older Guy, who are buying me drinks left and right. Things start getting blurry, I'm getting tipsy, but life does not suck! Hot Older Guy orders me garlic cheese bread (crunchy, gooey, spectacular), then it's time for goodbyes. After all, we have art to try to see.

We head to Forest Avenue, and I'm holding onto East Coast Boy's arm for dear life—I know that at any moment, I could trip and make an idiot of myself. I see my Krishna temple friend Kevin, and he joins our group. We enter a gallery ... and then I spot Geek Squad Guy.

We have a history. Don't ask.

I pretend not to notice, but after several choruses of "Gabrielle! Gabrielle! Gabrielle!" I can no longer ignore him.

"Did you buy anything?" I ask with a forced smile. He points to a couple of pieces he bought, then goes back to his Geek Squad friends, whom he obviously doesn't want to introduce me to. Oh well ... tonight I have men fighting over me. Nothing will spoil my good mood.

We walk up to Brussels Bistro and hover for the rest of the night. I'm meeting more hot guys. One is a tall rancher from Montana who, for some reason, is playing a didgeridoo. He hands me a bundle of sage as a gift. Lovely, but ... he's already married.

I tell him I'm looking for a cowboy who looks exactly like Christian Bale.

"I have a buddy in the gallery next door," suggests Montana Man. "He owns a boat docked out of Newport Beach."

Like a hungry wolf, my ears perk up, and I immediately have him escort me next door ... where I'm instantly disappointed. He's not ugly. But he's also not Christian Bale's twin.

Ah, well. Back to Brussels, some token Facebook photos with our group, and my night seems complete. I'm ready to go home, alone.

"Goodnight, boys and girls," I announce. "Thank you for being awesome. Tonight I'm flying solo!"
I love Art Walk Night. Maybe next time I'll actually see some art.

About this column: Come along with your new bestie, Gabrielle Sunheart, as she enjoys flirting, gossiping, sipping, snacking and prowling her way through the nightlife scene in Laguna Beach.
Where in Laguna Beach should Gaby explore next? Tell us in the comments.


My friend Melinda comes by to pick me up for our Girls' Gay Night Out. She drives crazily to Forest Avenue, and I fear for my life as well as for the pedestrians around us. At times it feels like she could actually drive over cars and buildings
She parks on Forest next to a car belonging to a woman who she swears is one of the Real Housewives of O.C. Since I'm a gay man trapped in a girl's body, I get giddy over all things Bravo and start jumping around as if I've won the Mega Millions jackpot.

As we walk toward 230 Forest for the cheapest posh meal two hungry gals can get, we peer into all the nearby stores and eateries, hoping for an "accidental" meet-and-greet encounter with the newest Housewife ... but no such luck. We don't get to meet her at all. If it was even her.

Sitting down to nosh, the dark-haired server I've branded Waiter McHottie strolls up, trying to hide the fact that he remembers me from the last half-dozen times I've been in for the $6 Caesar salad. We order, and then I tell Melinda how he looks just like Johnny Depp. If you cross your eyes.

"No, he doesn't!" she spits, incredulously.

Oh, well. I vow to keep flirting with him.

"Can't you tell he's gay?!?" Melinda asks with a mixture of appal and intrigue.

"Gee, thanks," I tell her, "but I know you're making that up just to ease my pain."

We drive over to Bounce, Laguna Beach's last gay bar, for Monday night karaoke. I hurry over to the songbook and write down the ones I want to sing, and then we get our dance on with a gentleman Melinda and I call Exotic Fantasy Twink, whom I've had a crush on for some time.
Suddenly, a hot blonde who looks like a refugee from a '90s boy band comes over and tries to swoop in on my action.

"Get your hands off my twink!" I protest.

"I had him way before you ever did," he retorts.

I laugh, hiding my jealousy, and keep dancing, deciding that the best way to resolve this beefcake standoff is to booty-shake, happily sandwiched between both of them. Yay, diplomacy!

A few tunes later, and somehow I'm alone on the dance floor. But not for long—here comes a straight (and very drunk) guy who gets so close that I have to wriggle away. But he's relentless.

"Schling a duet wiff me!" he demandingly slurs. Stupidity sets in, and I agree to do it.
He needs help remembering the name of the song from Grease he wants to sing, which leaves me rolling my eyes.

"We're in a gay bar, for god sakes!" I blurt, and then I walk up to the first gay couple I see and retrieve the title in seconds.

"It's 'You're the One That I Want.' "

"Will you help me find the schlong in the schlong book?" he asks.

 At this point, I lose it.
"Do you notice the difference between the gay boys here and you?!?" I demand, pointing around to all the guys in the bar. "You're in my face; they aren't. That's why I come here."

There would've been trouble next—perhaps even bloodshed—if this tall and gorgeous man hadn't come over and started dancing with me. This brought Melinda back from wherever she had disappeared to. (Where the hell was she when the Yucky Guy was all up in my grill?) After a few songs, I collapse.

Tall Guy sits next to me and says, "I loved watching you dance."

I smile. "So what team do you bat for?"

This innocent question sends him to the Dark Side. He shuts down.

"You don't like me anymore, do you?" I ask.

"I can't stand it when girls ask that," he says, with a tone in his voice that practically insinuates I'm an ignorant gay-basher.

"You should take it as a compliment," I tell him. "This is a very integrated gay bar. It's at least half gay and half straight, especially on karaoke nights."

As if on cue, I get called up to sing the gayest possible song I could have picked out, George Michael's "Freedom! '90." After it ends, I lock eyes with Tall (Possibly-in-the-Closet) Guy and rage into the microphone: "Prop 8 is an abomination of our Constitution! I will continue to fight for equality until the day I die! Do not give up!"

Putting the mic aside, I saunter up to Tall Guy and tell him, "I know what your problem is. You look for reasons to not like people." He looks surprised. Melinda comes over and says, "I'm ready to go." As I'm looking at Tall Guy, I say, "SO AM I!"

I give all my gays hugs and walk out the door, never to see Tall Guy again.

About this column: Come along with your new bestie, Gabrielle Sunheart, as she enjoys flirting, gossiping, sipping, snacking and prowling her way through the nightlife scene in Laguna Beach.


My best friend, Maya, accompanied me to last week's tree-lighting ceremony at the Montage. We checked her Lexus with the adorable valet, then were guided down a candlelit path by the ultra-cheery staff to the Loft, the resort's main restaurant.
We expected fancy-schmancy hors d'oeurves—come on, it's the Montage!—but instead got cheese and crackers?! OK, cheese and crackers topped with raspberries and roasted almonds, and served with red sparkling cider, which prompted Maya to ask the server, "Wait ... is there going to be alcohol?" Typical of her. The poor server politely explained that Maya could purchase alcohol at the bar—as if that was going to happen.

Another server soon appeared, clutching the same cracker plate. "Do you have anything else? That was what the last guy had!" groaned Maya. He ran back to the kitchen and emerged with tiny caramel-covered apples. I grabbed one and bit ... really good. Maya? Not interested.

At that point, Montage Vice President Jeff Johnson greeted us, taking the time to learn about Patch and my new night-life column. Of course, Maya shamelessly cut in, breaking out her cell phone to show Jeff pics of the painting she did of Khloe Kardashian and Lamar Odom that, she made sure to mention, "was seen on E! News Daily four times!" I watched Jeff's body language as he slowly tried to get away, but not before he handed us his oddly thick business card—you could probably kill somebody with it, if you had to.

Then he walked Maya and me over to the dining area, where we held an impromptu photo shoot. Only then was Jeff able to escape.

In the Montage cheese gallery, we met the yummy Jason, who was put in charge of cheeses from all over the world. I flirted with him, he gave me several samples, and then we moved on to the hot and handsome sous chef Erik Mendoza, who treated us to a yellowtail roll with a spicy dip. It pays to flirt; I should friend those boys on Facebook.

We made our way into the hallway, with a pit stop so Maya could sing in front of the carolers. I'm not sure what people thought of her performance, or her PETA-unapproved white fur coat.
Off to the risotto station. As I was about to cut to the front of the long line, I saw a homeless person receiving a bowl of the piping-hot dish. Embarrassed that I already had tons of stuff to eat, I gave the guy a thumbs-up.

We made some new friends, too, including the so-hot-it-hurts Nick Gannon, associate publisher of Bask magazine; talented and charming photographer Tony Florez; and Mark Heflin, who helps put on the annual Taste of Aliso Niguel fundraiser.

We were later joined by the stunningly beautiful and talented Newport Beach interior designer Danna Mao (or Asian Barbie, as we call her), then we snapped pictures in front of the elegant Christmas tree adorned with what seemed like a billion tiny lights. Back to the Loft, where we were treated to yet another delicious sushi creation. Then we sat, relaxed, enjoyed ourselves, caught up on gossip and then walked outside, where we made ourselves useful while waiting for the valet to retrieve our ride, trying on $30,000 worth of diamonds—gaudy and gorgeous, even if they were probably only worth $2,000.

Then, hopping back into Maya's Lexus, we were greeted by a glamorous gifty bag filled with goodies ... none of which I wanted or needed. Nothing says you love your guests more than a bag filled with advertiser postcards giving you a not-very-impressive 10 percent off.

About this column: Come along with your new bestie, Gabrielle Sunheart, as she enjoys flirting, gossiping, sipping, snacking and prowling her way through the nightlife scene in Laguna Beach.