okay, threes-ish...

Once again, I am calling on my IMMENSE 5 DAYS OF TRAINING to bring you the rule of threes:

1. Yesterday's Tourist Trapped is up. It's my 5 favorite spots in Chinatown and all of them involve food or Diet Coke (that means 'bar' to most people.) Please head to SFGate and read it!

2. Necessary Conversation has lost our studio space (hence the hiatus) and we're trying to figure out what we want to do with the show next. Mel and I had brunch on Sunday to discuss this, but we ended up talking about dudes instead. Anyway I feel like we owe the wonderful folks at the Huffington Post some content, and they're launching a new project. They're asking folks to submit videos of special moments in their lives. HuffPostSF wants to know when you knew you loved San Francisco. Or something like that. Here's my version of that, shot from my new laptop like it's a snuff film. If you submit a video, lemme know and I'll post it!

3. Ages ago, I begged you all to attend a fundraiser for victims of the Castro arson fires. My oldest and dearest friend/cousin Kate Ryken had a friend who lost his home because of this horrible arsonist, so we spent a week hustling and threw a party at a gay bar. We raised $6,000, which basically meant that 10 arson victims got $600. I told them all they should use it for a gluttonous weekend getaway, which they deserve since their houses burned down. Lo these months later, Supervisor Scott Wiener has chosen Kate and me as two of his (several) women to honor for Women's History Month. So we're going down to City Hall this afternoon and I think corsages are involved. I also think every single Supervisor has to pick a bunch of broads to give shout-outs to, so this could take all day. I feel a little guilty because there are a lot of ladies who do nice things in town all the time. As opposed to, you know, once. Also, loads of people helped with this event, especially Brock Keeling, Brian Leubitz, Scott Wiener, Rebecca Prozan, Bill Hemenger and Kate's sister Jenny Ryken. But I like taking credit for shit, so I'll be there! It might be on SFGovTV, so tune in to laugh at us. It's today around 3 or 3:30.

PS: Since I'm plugging my dumb stuff, I'm hosting a 5-part series for my former employer, Beach Blanket Babylon. In a couple of weeks, a web series about 5 Amazing moments in Beach Blanket History will appear on the world wide web. I'm co-hosting with my wonderful former boss, BBB stage-manager (33 years and counting), John Camajani. It's produced by my former co-worker and current good friend Tom Schween, who's been doing a wonderful series of Beach Blanket called 'Beach Nuts.' I hope the big wigs (heh) approve what we've come up with, and I'm so excited to be working with my friends at The Blanket again. Of all of the first jobs to have, I lucked out. I'm really excited to see what Tom has put together, especially because his 'Beach Nuts' series is WONDERFUL. Stay tuned...

like, fer sure...

"So Sugerman was like, 'I need to interview someone who talks like a dumb chick. Oh, Beth! Awesome.' and that's why you're going to be on TV tonight." - my coworker Bill.
"I am completely fine with that." - me



And yes. That is an autographed Justin Bieber poster, Gavin Newsom artwork, AND a flier for a lost chicken in my cubicle...

my name is andrew shepard, and i am the president of the united states...

Part 2 of my adventures at the California Republican Convention are up, and this time, Kate tags along to scream, "Out of context!" every time Newt Gingrich quotes Barack Obama. Also, I feel a little bad for trashing Calista Gingrich, but she probably doesn't know about the internet and will thus never read this.
It's all up now, on SFGate...


PS: I'll be on the 6 o'clock news tonight! (Unless something important happens) Tune into KPIX, Channel 5 at 6 for Mike Sugerman's report on the way chicks like, talk.

treat yourself to true crime...

When I was on that juice cleanse, I had no way of treating myself. Part of being a bad person is constantly finding excuses to treat oneself, thus making nothing a treat but just regular life. Anyway, I ordered 12 used books on Amazon during my juice cleanse and let me tell you, what a treat!
I am currently reading Stalking Mary.
Get this: In 1965, a woman named Mary Stauffer taught a high school algebra class. One of her students was a kid named Ming Sen Shiue who, being a lonely and creepy teenage boy, developed an obsession with his math teacher. Also, she have him a B which really pissed him off. So Ming stalked Mary for 15 years (literally, followed her, watched her, trailed her in grocery stores and wrote sex fantasy stories about the two of them together) until one day he kidnapped her and her 8-year old daughter, who just happened to be with her. Ming also murdered a little boy who got in the way. Mary and her daughter NAMED BETH spent 7 weeks in Ming's closet.
I was telling my friend Garvin about this and his response was, "Whoa. Super crush."
Mary and Beth escaped, but I'm just over halfway through with "Stalking Mary" and several parts are driving me nuts.
First of all, Mary and her husband "Irv" were Christian missionaries who were about to leave to the Philippines for four years, along with their kids. Mary was a very devout Christian and used her faith to help her survive this horrible ordeal. A part of that ordeal was her constant rape by Ming. Obviously, Mary had no choice in this. Obviously. She suffered through the unimaginable with grace and composure. Ming, who had spent 15 years dreaming up these elaborate fantasies, wanted Mary to hug him and kiss him, like they were really in love. Mary would not do this because she would only hug and kiss her husband to whom she was bonded through matrimony, and said as much all the time to Ming. Angry, he responded by sticking a plastic bag over Beth's head. I get this may have been one of the few ways Mary could maintain some kind of physical boundary with this monster, but I also get the impression it was just as much about sinning as it was about her emotional survival.
Hug Ming, Mary!
Ming once came home to find that Mary and Beth, who were chained together when Ming was away, had managed to get out of the closet and into the hallway, where they could finally use a regular bathroom instead of THE BUCKET. Ming said, "I don't think you should leave the closet. What would you do if someone came to the door and heard you?" And Mary goes, "I would scream for help and say we've been kidnapped."
Lie to Ming, Mary!
Again, it's always easy to say, "If I were there..." but everyone knows that you always tell your kidnapper, "Nope, I'd never go to the police. I don't even really know what you look like or what your name is. I'd just go back home and say I was on vacation. Don't even worry about it." Then you run to the feds. Not Mary. Mary felt that lying was a sin.
I am not a terribly religious person, but the God I was taught about would be fine with lying under these circumstances.
I haven't even gotten to the part of the book yet where Ming attacks Mary with knife while she testifies in court.
Needless to say, this story is terrifying, and an amazing tale of intense courage and unimaginable faith. And it is a crazy read, mainly because Ming videotaped most of his interrogations of Mary and the transcripts are included. The part when Mary is like, "Wait, you were in my algebra class 15 years ago?" is pretty surreal. Also, lots of Ming's SUPER WEIRD x-rated fan fiction is included. He had a thing for white underwear and TV moms.
I recommend you read Stalking Mary because everyday you will wake up and think, "Gee, I really hope no one I kind of ignored 15 years ago is secretly stalking me..."

does anyone know what the quote is from?

"Brevity is the order of the day:"

1. I have three songs that were kinda my rehab theme songs. Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson, Step by Step by Whitney Houston and At This Point in my Life by Tracy Chapman. Two of those artists are DEAD due to their addictions. I'm kinda worried about Tracy.

2. Along those lines, I tried out a new AA meeting last night. I'm trying to be better about attending regular meetings, but it's really hard to find a group to join. It's like picking the right table in the cafeteria, and every meeting feels like the first day of school. Anyway, I went to this meeting last night, which was packed with an eclectic array of people. And the speaker was a transgendered woman in a beret who's been sober for 29 years and announced, "I wouldn't have been able to do it if it wasn't for you sick motherfuckers." I think I may have found my cafeteria table.

3. Finally, I am back on the Amazing Race. We're two episodes in and I think we can all agree that the twins are incredibly hot, and the supermodel FBI agents who are lying about their jobs (and saying that they're teachers) are confusing. How has the FBI allowed two of their agents to go on The Amazing Race? (Aside: Much to my immense delight, I actually know an FBI agent now. Everytime I see him, I corner him with all kinds of questions and he's very nice about it. But obviously I can't put all the cool shit he tells me on the internet and it breaks my heart. Also, there is no way this guy would ever go on a reality show. Ever. Under any circumstances.) Back to the Amazing Race, my co-workers hate the bumbkins from Kentucky but I like them. I also like the border patrol agents. I think I am so deserpate to get into this season, I'm lowering my rooting standards...

i'll have what she's having...

OSCAR BULLET POINT RECAP:

• I hope Angelina's leg falls off.
• Meryl Streep's dress was too big, but I liked it anyway.
• I hate Natalie Portman because all men love her. I wish I didn't, but I do. Also, Max wisely pointed out that she looked like a strawberry.
• That was the most boring 'In Memoriam' ever. Didn't more people die? They showed like, four people.
• The daughter from The Descendants needs to get over herself. First of all, her name is Shailene. Second of all, when asked if she was excited at all of the buzz around the movie, she was kind of over it and said she has a lot of other things going on, so not really. Shailene pulled A Dreyfuss.
  
• Ryan Seacrest is a very hard worker. I thought he handled Borat dumping dust all over him very well. I would've freaked out.
• The jazz music in the balcony was dumb. I like that they tried something new, but that was DUMB.
• The quip of the night goes to Max (he was on a roll!) When George Clooney's former-wrestler girlfriend tweeted from her front row seat, Max said, "It's called ringside, Stacy."
• I love Octavia Spencer, but she needed to pull it together with that speech.
  
• Bridesmaids should have won for Best Screenplay. I based my whole night around that happening AND IT DIDN'T.
  
• Why does Bradley Cooper have a moustache? Is it because of The Artist?
  
• I thought Billy Crystal did a fine job, but I think that's because I'm getting really old.
  
• The Tom Hanks-Colonel Sanders comparisons on Twitter hit the nail on the head. No facial hair, unless it's adorable (see: Jason Sudeikis.)
• The Dumb and Dumber 2.0 thing from Will Ferrell and Zach Galifianakis was awesome, and a big hit with our crowd.
  
• I started to make fun of the Cirque de Soleil thing, but then everyone started yelling at me because they are very sophisticated and artsy and liked it.
  

Also, thanks so much to Brittney for co-hosting Oscar viewing with me, and to Kate, Alex, Emilie, Max, Christina, Matt and Prakash for coming over and bringing really amazing snacks. Is dip not the best? I love dips.

watching republicans eat...

It was such a bizarre experience, it'll take two posts to cover all the crazy. On today's Culture Blog, Matt and I crash the opening night banquet of the California Republican Convention, held this past weekend at the airport Hyatt. Tim Tebow art, Playmates and Jesus, all up now on SFGate...

i'm having bikram quinoa with gwyneth later...

11:02am: I did today's Culture Blog a little Bridget Jones style. Which reminds me, it's time to rewatch Bridget Jones, right? I saw that movie 4 times IN THE THEATER. Anyway, my 3 day juice cleanse! Up now, on SFGate...

as long as he/she went to heaven...

I'm up in Bodega Bay spending some quality time with my very good friends, Brian and Brian.

On the way back from lunch yesterday, the Brians spotted some signs.

"Estate Sale."

When the Brians argued over when to stop, before or after lunch, I thought they were kidding. Nope. They stop at estate sales.

The toilet seat thing had some masking tape on it that said, "FREE." I wasn't able to capture that AND the tennis balls. I made a call.

Once we got home and looked through the photos, the Brians and I were laughing. $1350 for a stuffed animal. Haha. This was obviously mis-tagged. But then, Brian pointed out, "Even $13.50 is ridiculous for this!"

Everything else in the house, literally, was like, a dollar. Why, you guys, is the monkey $13?

For example, all the stuff on this bed was $0.50. At this point, in this bedroom, Brian D. walked outside and waited for us to finish. He was DONE.

These two (on the left) were taking photos of themselves outside. It was so interesting to me that such a dark, drab 'estate sale' home could sit in such a beautiful area. There are lots of homes in Bodega Bay that kinda suck; they're dusty and sad and have saloon doors in the kitchen, like the house today.

The Brians' home here isn't like that at all. It's big and weird, but open. It has appliances that have 14 different pasta settings. (We had bucatini tonight.) The Brians managed to find a funky house that they could fix up and slowly evolve into a warm, snuggly, sprawling beach house. As opposed to today's 'estate sale' house, which proclaimed on masking tape, "Pillow cases: 50 cents."

Brian D. stood outside muttering, "Let's go. This is gross."

"Oh!" I said. "I need pillow cases."

Brian L. looked at me and deadpanned, "This is dead people's stuff."

I stared back at him. So?

He screamed it, "I will call your mother and say, 'Joanne, Beth is about to spend two quarters on the pillow cases of a dead person.'"

Brian looked at me as if my mother would run to Restoration Hardware, throw her credit card at the staff and scream "Pillow cases! My daughter needs pillow cases!"

But Brian doesn't know.

I am my mother's daughter. My mother is my grandmother's daughter. And a 50 cent pillow case is a 50 cent pillow case. Even if someone died on it...

or maybe not checking it at all...

I am spending this weekend in Bodega Bay at the Brians' beach house, watching Brian D. test his new dim sum recipes and watching Popeye the elderly pug go even more blind.

It's pretty fun.

In the midst of our lunch at some very fancy Bodega Bay Golf and Country Club, I excused myself to the ladies room.

Politely, I inquired as to the facilities. "There's a unisex bathroom on the middle floor," The polo-shirted waitress advised. "And then down two floors, there are men's and women's rooms."

This was a Sea Ranch-esque clubhouse, a lodge amidst a golf course sitting in the bluffs of the Pacific Ocean. Each floor was really half a floor, and each landing had huge, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the ocean. Waves crashed in the background.

It was all very picturesque.

I spotted the unisex bathroom and, futzing with my purse, opened the door.

The unisex bathroom was one of those big, handicapped-accessible rooms. There, sitting on the toilet was (celebrity equivalent) Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. He was in a red polo shirt, khakis and, no joke, sitting on the toilet.

"Oh my God, I am so sorry. My fault!" I screamed, looking right at him.

"No, no." He said. "That's okay."

He sat there. We both looked at each other. For like, 5 seconds. He was just sitting, his khakis halfway down his thighs.

Smiling.

"I'm really sorry." I said, door still open, still looking at him.

Like he was sitting by the fire, reading a book, Carlton replied, "That's okay. No problem."

I closed the door and ran downstairs.

As soon as I was done, I raced up the stairwell t0 tell the Brians. Suddenly walking up the stairs with me was Carlton.

"Hi." I said. "I'm so so sorry! (uncomfortable laugh)."

"That is okay!" He smiled, wanting to talk. "It's a good thing you didn't use that restroom. The lock doesn't work."

No kidding.

He kept looking at me, he kept starting sentences, he wanted to chat.

The whole thing freaked me out. I had just walked in on this guy taking a shit.

Cutting him off, I smiled. "Have a great day!"

I got back to the table. "We have to go, we have to go, we have to go."

The Brians looked up at me from their fish tacos. "What? Okay. Why?"

"I walked... I walked in on someone going number two."

"WHO?!?!" They screamed this.

Carlton stood there, in the doorway of the Bodega Bay Golf and Country Club.

I hissed it under my breath. "That guy. There."

The Brians saw him watching us, nodded, and ushered me out. Carlton left at the same time we did, getting into a BMW and pulling up towards us.

Brian L. grabbed my arm.

"Goodbye." Carlton said right to me, eye to eye.

In unison, Brian and I said, "Goodbye."

And with that he drove off, probably to go home and lock his bathroom door.

Checking to twice...

i'm cast myself as the wacky neighbor...

As per yesterday's post, this morning I made my first iMovie. I am INDESCRIBABLY amazed at my own genius. Or the genius of this incredibly easy computer program. Either really...

also, stand by for my endless series of trailers...

Eve and I met at the Apple Store at 8am this morning to take an Introduction to iMovie class. We share both an interest in making movies with all of the free software that comes with our Macs, and an interest in the weird experience a class at the Apple store was sure to be.

The service at Apple Stores is ridiculously wonderful. You might pay double for a laptop, but they make you feel so good about yourself! And also, you can take all kinds of free classes. Apple probably offers free cooking classes and Italian lessons ...just because.

I got there early because my juice cleanse officially ended last night and I woke up to eat a gluten-free vegan muffin at 6am. While waiting, I grabbed a cup of coffee and returned to the Apple Store to find Eve being turned away from the front door.

Oddly, we had to enter from some weird side door, where security had us waiting in a backroom hallway. All of the 500 people who cheerfully work there arrived for the day, excusing themselves past us. Finally, the woman who was in front of me at Starbucks walked in and was like, "You're customers?!? Why are you waiting? Come with me! I'm so sorry! Oh my God! You both are so attractive and funny! How mature of you to take an 8am class on bettering your understanding of your investment in technology!"

Or something like that.

We walked through the Apple Store where staff was cleaning up with big smiles on their faces, wearing snappy t-shirts that proclaimed, "Cleaning Crew" on the back. Upstairs, we sat in the lovely red velvet theater chairs, joining the class which had just begun. The only other classmate was an elderly man who was apparently a teacher, and wanted to learn iMovie so he could teach it to kids. Maybe even inner city kids who will go on to become great American filmmakers.

The Apple Store is like utopia. Steve Jobs' version of heaven is probably an Apple Store, just with him just hanging out, nodding approvingly. Mini-Jake Gyllenhaal taught us all about how to get started on iMovie while downstairs, it sounded like the staff was getting their pep talk for the day. Every 10 minutes or so, they'd break into applause.

I noticed that Mini-Jake was wearing a royal blue fleece with a little Mac logo embroidered on it. I want one of those. I want a pep talk. I want to be in a fantastic mood all fucking day long. I want to know all the fun little tools that come with my MacBook Pro. This morning, I learned how to make movie trailers OF MY OWN MOVIES! With credits and music and voiceovers.

You don't even need a Mac to take these classes. Anyone can take them. You just register online and they never checked us in anyway. You should take a class just to bask in the ridiculous glory of the Apple Store, which feels like getting a massage ON YOUR FEELINGS...

crashing the miss chinatown coronation ball...

Today's Culture Blog attends the Miss Chinatown USA Coronation Ball. Yep, you heard right. The Miss Chinatown Coronation Ball. Needless to say, my escort for this occasion was Brock.
Ball it up, over at SFGate:

i could go for some burger juice right about now...

And so begins my 3-day juice cleanse. This was delivered to my door at 7:30 this morning, and this is all I get until tomorrow. 15 minutes ago, I decided this wasn't so bad. Currently, I'm starting to reconsider. I keep instinctively looking around for a bagel.


I'm going to post this experience on the Culture Blog, because torturing oneself with a juice fast is now part of the cultural lexicon. Thank you Gwyneth Paltrow...

it's not right, but it's okay...

Brock was over yesterday helping me get ready for Melissa's birthday party, which as per her request, was a little dinner soiree. As Brock was lighting every single votive and candle this side of Pier 1, he suddenly screamed. Running towards me, he shoved his phone in my face and announced breathlessly, "Whitney! Dead!"

All breaking news is on Twitter first, and AP announced it right away. I think Whitney was pronounced dead at 3:55 and we knew by 5. Having Brock in my house and lighting candles because because he deemed it "appropriate under the circumstances" was sadly amusing. Brock's reaction to a diva's passing is wonderfully diva-esque. "I need you to download her entire oeuvre."

Brock texted Melissa, "Whitney Houston just died. But tonight is all about you."

We put on every Whitney song ever, made a sign for the guests arriving at the front door and went about our party.

During dinner, Brock jokingly took a moment and asked everyone to share a personal memory of how Whitney Houston impacted their life. "Max, let's start with you."

Max looked at Brock like he was nuts, so Melissa began. When she was in 4th Grade, she auditioned for her school's talent show (Georgia's Got Talent, apparently) with a Whitney song. And then in high school, she really wanted to get into this traveling singing group, so she auditioned again with Whitney. Both times she got in. Naturally.

In the background of all of this, of course, is Whitney. All of a sudden, the dance remix of "Your Love Is My Love" came on and I realized it.

"Oh, you guys." I said. "I actually have a way Whitney impacted my life."

I was going to college in Philadelphia and spending the weekend at my friend Amy's parents' house on the outskirts of Allentown, PA. I had just turned 21 and Amy was my badass friend, who have pink streaks in her hair and tattoos. I, on the other hand, wore lots of Old Navy. Her friends in Allentown were older and homosexual and they invited us to join them at a gay bar.

I had never been to a gay bar before, and thus, while hailing from San Francisco, my first gay bar experience was in Allentown. It was a slightly dumpier yet bigger version of Badlands, if you will, with lots of flashing lights and a huge, packed dance floor in the middle.

Amy had long since disappeared somewhere, so I stood on the fringes for a while, talking to the other loser in our group, an gay man in his 40's who just didn't want to be there. I had no idea if I wanted to be there or not. I just didn't really know what to do.

After a couple of drinks, someone sassy in a tank top came over and screamed, "Girl, let's get you out there!"

I think I was wearing a brown barn coat and tapered jeans. I just didn't know what I was doing at all. But all of that was about to change.

At gay bars, as I'm sure you know, everyone just dances. You don't really dance with anyone in particular, you dance with everyone. And at this gay bar, they had placed mirrors along the wall at the ceiling, which were tilted towards the dance floor. So there I stood in the middle of the dance floor at a gay bar in Allentown, Pennsylvania. And I started to dance, surrounded by enthusiastic dancers who would occasionally grind up against me. It began to get fun, and I started dancing. Like, really dancing. I was in Allentown, for chrissakes. Fuck it.

As White Houston's dance version of "Your Love Is My Love" was blaring, lights were flashing everywhere, beams of color shot out over the crowd and I looked up.

I could see myself in the mirrors at the top of the wall. It looked like a fucking video. I was beaming at myself in a sea of hundreds of gay men, my arms were in the air, my hair was flying and I could see the whole scene from above.

That was my introduction of a homosexual watering hole. And I pretty much never looked back.

Up next at our birthday party/wake, Wilson started playing us scenes from Whitney's reality show, and the time she told Diane Sawyer that she's too rich to do crack because "Crack is whack."

Which obviously, under the circumstances, it is.

Tonight's Grammy Awards just got way more interesting. Every single red carpet interview must mention her, and every acceptance speech obviously will. Will people still wear gowns, or will it be like the post-9/11 Emmys when everyone wore business suits? I have no idea, but I'll be tuning into CBS at 8pm.

RIP Whitney...

the tv-movie of a lifetime...

I like things designed a very specific target of people. The Lifetime Channel for Women does this best. Or maybe that's just what I watch the most because I'm their target demographic. Lifetime, after all, does partner their advertisements (sometimes) with Fancy Feast CAT food.

Anyway, after I finished my viewing of BBC's Sherlock Season Two (I know, are you DYING?), I watched "Chance of a Lifetime." Basically this movie is like "Last Holiday" only from the 1991 and for elderly people. Betty White starts as Evelyn, a workaholic widow in Cleveland (take a second right there) who is the fast paced CEO of a (wait for it) drapery company. Her disapproving best friend is Elaine Stritch and her son Daryl, who is the cool guy at the drapery company, is played by Ed Begley Jr. Evelyn finds out she has six months to live from her doctor, Amos, who is the guy that plays the doctor on Murder She Wrote.

That is not all! Finally, ask yourself who is officially regarded as the sexiest and most suave old man of 1991?

Yes. Leslie Nielsen plays the Mexican-vacation love interest, Lloyd.

Do you not love this highly specific casting? This is like Oceans 11 for people who are so old, they think I am talking about the original.

Needless to say, Evelyn (in an 80's business suit) casually talks to her husband's grave while trimming the flowers she's planted there. And because she thinks she's going to die, Evelyn tells her dead husband's grave, "Ready or not, here I come."

(This is when I decided to commit to watching the whole thing.)

Highlights include Fred, the sleazy guy from church calling up Evelyn and asking "for a date." She declines and when he says, "Oh, off the market, eh? I sure do hate to miss a good thing! Well, if anything changes DEAR, you give ole' Fred a call."

Cue big eye roll from Evelyn. She's off to spend her last days cutting loose south of the border.

How does she book her trip to Mexico? Through the very shady sounding, "A-1 Travel."

As this is a made-for-TV movie streamed on Netflix, there are built-in commercial-break blackouts, which make me feel like I'm skipping commercials.

In Mexico, Evelyn talks to a framed photo of her (hot) dead husband. I decided is intended to imply that while Evelyn might get a little hand-holdy with Lloyd, she's not a slut.

Evelyn does solo senior calisthenics in the hotel pool (wearing clip on earrings and a kerchief in her hair) and goes to the hotel restaurant to blow her diet on a cheeseburger. In Mexico. But this works (amazingly enough) because Lloyd blows off some Dutch tramp in a bikini and stroll over to Evelyn where he proceeds to ask her on a date. He is attracted to her joie de vivre, you see.

I missed most of the romantic date at the Mexican (thank you, Lloyd) restaurant because I was hiding underneath a blanket.Evelyn's got a real bee in her bonnet because she thinks Lloyd is a player, but since she's going to die anyway, she says "what the hell?" when Lloyd asks her to go sailing the next day.

Then they go for a sexual tension-packed bike-ride on Day 3, culminating in a dinner where Lloyd tells the restaurant it's Evelyn's birthday. It's not Evelyn's birthday. (This once happened to me on a date!) He gives her a lace scarf and they dance, eventually incorporating the scarf into a very awkward, old folks sex dance. Evelyn and Lloyd start making out on the dancefloor.

The next scene is Evelyn waking up in Lloyd'd bed, a bed which has parrots painted on it.

I noted here that Lloyd was topless but Evelyn was wearing a men's pajama top. She got dressed right after sex! Evelyn, I love that about you!

Lo and behold, the doctor (again, Amos from Murder She Wrote) gets a "fax from Europe" and it turns out, Evelyn's not dying after all. She immediately packs her bags and without saying goodbye to Lloyd, who in the interim has procured a bouquet of red roses, and hops a plane back to the drapery company in Cleveland.

Lloyd will not be deterred, doing my favorite thing that only occurs in movies, showing up unannounced to declare his undying love. As long as any movie has someone showing up outside an office building or waiting on a stoop unexpectedly to say, "I am in love with you, and I won't take no for an answer even though I am hot and rich!", I am on board. My secret expectation that this will one day happen to me is the main reason I put mascara on everyday.

But Evelyn, busy with a drapery meeting with four Japanese businessmen, is none too pleased to find Lloyd. She pushes him into a janitor's closet and tells him to get lost. Making this movie 100% perfect is the includion of Evelyn's gay assistant opening the door and saying, "I thought I was the only one in the closet. (whispering to Evelyn) He's gorgeous!"

Evelyn, convinced that Lloyd only likes the 'probably-dying Evelyn', lies to Lloyd and says she's dating creepy Fred, thus forcing herself to sit through dinner with Fred (the boss from Being John Malkovitch), who gets cheese on his chin. What a dolt! That would never happen to Lloyd. Lloyd is spying on them from the bar, sees Evelyn dab off the cheese, and decides to go see Evelyn's son Daryl and talk it all out.

I felt like this was another nod to the old lady viewers who might be worried that Evelyn is kinda whorey. Don't worry, ladies. Daryl loves Lloyd!

So naturally, Daryl talks his mom into flying to Chicago (!!! I want to fly to Chicago!!!) to surprise Lloyd, and when he's driving her to the airport, they swing by the cemetary to check in with the dead husband.

Lloyd, meanwhile, is on a date with a short chick whom he does not like. Personally, I very much appreciated that the diminutive height of Lloyd's blind date being a deal-breaker. Evelyn then appears in Lloyd's bangin' downtown office, she lists all of the shit that is wrong with her, and Lloyd is naturally fine with all of this. He's laid back! He doesn't own a watch!

The grand finale is a final geniatric make-out scene. Then credits in an italicized font.

In closing, I was having lunch with my friend Tom yesterday who said, "Your life is so fabulous right now." Then I went home and watched "Chance of a Lifetime" until midnight, and it's pretty much been the highlight of my week...

and also, what is IN those pants...

There is a brief part I omitted from today's Tourist Trapped at the ballet. Alice and I needed to wait in line to pick up our tickets at Will Call. The Will Call line is also the Purchase Tickets line and the broad behind us was having none of it. So she starts berating the elderly Usher who was just trying to be helpful. Also, he looked exactly like Carson on Downton Abbey.
"Why do we have to wait in the ticket line if we're just going to Will Call? I mean, really. This is ridiculous. There should be two lines. Don't you think it's unfair that I'm just picking up tickets and some of these people are going to buy tickets?"
She went on and on and the line moved swiftly forward. So much to Alice's horror, I turned around and said, "I bet if you give him a hard enough time, they will change the entire ticket protocol at the Opera House right now."
I was hoping she'd have some moment of reflection and noticeably feel bad, but that didn't really happen. Instead I just made everyone even more uncomfortable. But then I fell in love with a firefighter tending to an old dude. That and more, including thoughts on the actual performance are up now, on SFGate...

not at flour + water, of all sacred places...

Big Chris took me (and Brittney) to flour + water for my birthday, where we sat at the communal table next to two broads having dinner. Suddenly, they were being very flirty with my burrito buddy, Big C.
Before I could yell, "Have at him, ladies. He pees with the door open" one of them pulled out her cell phone and started showing him (and begrudgingly Brittney and me) wacky Facebook photos of internet memes. We're talking surprised kitten stuff. It was all very 2004.
Again, fine. Whatever. I was being nice. Chris loves to regale people with the ONE time I got jealous, like 7,000 years ago. But this was not one of those times.
It wasn't until they displayed one Facebook wall photo in particular that I became a total, blatant, leave-us-alone bitch.
The photo was of a little Asian boy. And across his forehead were the letters, "HERRO."
Big Chris, who is half-Asian, politely laughed. He doesn't give a shit. And Brittney, who was the farthest away, couldn't really even see. But I did not politely laugh. I said, "I never thought I'd see someone show a stranger a racist photo at flour + water!"
One of the women said, "It's okay, I'm half Korean!"
Be that as it may, it's not okay. In private, I say dumb stuff to Chris all the time. When Chris calls my phone, a photo of the Far East Restaurant pops up. And he refers to all of my problems as "white lady shit." Between friends, we all probably say politically incorrect nonsense all the time, and quite frankly, I LOVE it.
But I'm not nudging strangers next to me, flashing some STUPID and offensive photo of a KID and being all, "Hey, check this out. Real funny stuff."
Since I'm such a big buzzhill, those broads paid their bill and left, managing to flash Chris a look that basically said, "That chick you're with is super uptight."
Big Chris was thrilled. "Oh my God, you are so jealous right now."
Please.
Anyway, I'll probably be a lot less 'jealous' when those 'ladies' are charged with a hate crime...

i asked my mom to send me photos of me in sf...

People often ask me if I am ever offended by comments on my blog posts and usually my answer is no. There is something far worse than a nasty comment, and that is NO comment.

But there is one comment that always gets under my skin.

"Beth is probably a 23-year old transplant from Michigan." -510native4life

While yes, I am 23 years old, I was born in San Francisco. It doesn't bother me when I'm called dumb, or a shitty writer, or even the painful "pretenshus." But saying that I am obviously not from San Francisco and therefore not allowed to express an opinion about something in San Francisco is basically a challenge to a duel in my book.

Why is that? How San Franciscan does one need to be before they can fucking relax in this town and enjoy it? What makes a real native?

So instead of challenging an anonymous commenter to a duel, I called up some San Franciscans and asked them. You know, like the Mayor.

Also chiming in are talented sons of famous San Franciscans, Jon Moscone and Christopher Caen, my cousins Kate and Ryan, Supervisor David Campos, Commissioner Anna Conda, the hilarious Eve Batey, die-hard San Franciscan Kate Horton (who was born in Hawaii?!?) and of course Brock ...who managed to use the word "suck."

Will they kill me in the comments today? God, I hope so. As long as they call me a fucking native.

UP NOW SF! On SFGate...

tourist trapped: mayhem at the farmers' market...

When I was writing today's Tourist Trapped, comparing the Ferry Building Farmer's Market to the Costa Concordia cruise ship disaster, only not as relaxing, I thought, "Hey, I wonder if the commenters are going to lose their shit over this one!"
Take a guess.
Up now, on SFGate:

how was this event free from occupy protesters...

I am heartbroken that I did not sneak into the Junior League of San Francisco Fashion Show Model Auditions yesterday. Based on the Facebook photos I'm seeing, it appeared to be held in a fancy hotel ballroom, and involved a women strutting across the carpet surrounded by fellow Junior Leaguers.
I knew, as everyone does, that getting to model in the Junior League Fashion Show is the PINNACLE of life. (I am not kidding.) But when hearing about this, I stupidly assumed that like most charity fashion shows, the models were simply invited to participate. Oh no! These broads make each other do Next Top Model-style runway walks.
Several women I know and one of my very good friends are in Junior League. I am afraid to reveal which good friend this is as I don't want her to get in trouble. I don't know what getting in trouble with Junior League entails, but I am sure it involves being made to bus tables at a homeless outreach luncheon for NO POINTS.
Yep, they have a points system.
I was with her at a cocktail party once and we ran into several of her Junior League 'friends' one of whom was wearing an actual sweater set, unironically. I didn't want to be rude by pointing out to my beloved and awesome friend that some of her JL friends were LESS THAN COOL, but as soon as we left the party, she grabbed my arm and said, "I don't really like those girls."
That's another JL thing. They call each other girls, like we're all backstage at Fashion Week. Needless to say, the Junior League's existence scares the shit out of me mainly because they aren't like the girls that were mean to me in high school. They actually are the girls. Like, literally. Oddly, each of the women I know who are active in Junior League are kind of badass, beautiful, funny broads. So maybe I should change my perception. I think they do raise a ton of money for worthy causes, like recycling late-90's "Return To Tiffany" necklaces.
But fashion show model auditions? Can you imagine anything more terrifying than women in their 20s and 30s in actual sweater sets watching you try to be a runway model?
"Oh, Susan's trying out? That's funny."
That said, I want the Junior League of San Francisco Limited Edition Centennial Scarf in 'Fall'...

and also my great-grandfather died on my birthday...

I once forgot a friend's birthday and he got all mad and me, pointing out that he never forgot my birthday. Well, unlike SOME people, I do not humbly and quietly test friendships by making people remember an arbitrary date no one cares about but me. I fucking announce my birthday in advance. (It's tomorrow!)
I share my birthday with a certain local blogger, who's taken to the internet to announce the occasion, updating the Wikipedia Page of the national disaster that falls on our birthday.


Anyway, I'm still way, way younger than Brock!
When Eve introduced me to Brock, he mentioned that he was an Aquarius, and I said, "Oh, I'm an Aquarius." And he said, "When's your birthday?"
"January 28th."
"MINE TOO!" He screamed across the bar of the Hotel Nikko. And then, in unison, forever binding our friendship, we both yelled, "The day the Challenger blew up!"

they forgot, 'i left a really kickass comment...'

Naturally, and I think rather cleverly, some funny folks made a 'Shit San Franciscans Say' video and it's going around, like videos do. Up on SFist, it's getting the fairly standard comment treatment. Because someone made a 3-minute video about San Francisco and now everyone's all like, "Dolores Park!" or whatever.
If someone could just grab a video camera and run over to my house later, I would like to make a "Shit Internet Commenters Say" video. Don't worry. The first one can be, "This was funny in like, 2011."
Other ideas, not that this nonsense drives me fucking insane or anything:

• Fail.
• Yawn.
• Zzzzzzzz.
• Pawned (or whatever that word is.)
  
• Is this what passes for journalism these days?
• I normally think you're amazing and talented, but you really missed the mark on this one you stupid whore.
• Christ, it's like ANYONE can get a blog these days.
  
• You're ugly.
• Go back to Kansas, you 23-year old Marina bitch.
  
• Ever herd of spellcheck?
• I am writer/blogger/journalist/comedian. You are the reason people hate writers/bloggers/journalists/comedians and here is a link to my MySpace.
  
• Native San Franciscan (New York, etc.), blah, blah, blah.
  
• This was already on SNL and it was better.
  

Anyway, I found their video funny. You GO, Shit San Franciscans Say!

the military supermodel could not care less...

This is me in twenty years, only it won't be the State of the Union. It'll be at a nerdy, regional convention awards ceremony and I'll be pissed about my table assignment.
None the less, I just LOVE this broad...

i'm not wild about his first and last tho...

Today, the Culture Blog reviews a Sketchfest Event. And by reviews, I mean I spent 2 hours screaming at Melissa, Matt and Alex, "Holy Shit, Paul Rudd! Oh my heavens, Paul Rudd! What are those, dimples? Paul Rudd!"
I know. Only ladies care. But for the angry gents? David Cross was there.
Up now on SFGate...

trust the gorton's fisherman? think again...

Today's Tourist Trapped heads to Candlestick for last night's tragic football game. I have to admit, I thought I knew of every conceivable way to sneak booze into an event, but Ahab over here is pretty impressive.
Up now on SFGate...

why don't you take off your windbreaker and stay awhile...

As evidenced by my proudly wearing oversize, colorful blazers, comedy is my life. Which is why last night, Melissa, Matt and I went to a late show at Cobb's Comedy Club for SF Sketchfest. (Sketchfest is going on right now and you should go. I want to go to like, 5692 events.)

We had an extra ticket, so I asked my brother if he wanted to join us. Indeed he did, so we all agreed to meet at LaRocca's Corner at 9, for drinks before the 10:30 show.

I think I'm going to write about the show for Wednesday's Culture Blog because, and I'll try to type this as calmly as I can, PaUl RuDD performed his adorableness in person.

Anyway, we were sitting in the bar talking about movies, at which point someone mentions Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and my brother says, "Oh yeah, I saw that. It has that guy you like in it...(mumbling, looking down)..um, Bumberland Coomberbum."

"You mean Benedict Cumberbatch."

"Yeah, yeah." Alex rolled his eyes. "Benedict. Like eggs."

Bumberland Coomberbum was, in that moment, the funniest thing I had ever heard. In a huge english accent, I kept announcing, "Bumberland Coomberbum! SIR Bumberland Coomberbum!"

"His name is ridiculous, Beth."

"Indeed it is, my good man. Bumbletops Capricorn!"

We had to wait in line on the sidewalk for half an hour, and every few minutes or so, it would just escape me. "Bumberland Coomberbum!" I couldn't help myself. "Barbbleby Cobblestone!"

Pretty soon, everyone was doing it. And I woke up this morning to a text from Matt.

"Bumberland Fancyfielde."

It just went on from there:

"Breeledee Garismuche."

"Dumbledore Tipseyhatt." (That is one of mine. I'm... pretty proud of it.)

"Cecilmean Fancypants."

"Nevillylln Googletyme."

"Langythme Oystersauce."

"Beauregard Basiltwitch."

You should try it. It's got to work in a posh British accent and it's got to sound more ridiculous than Benedict Cumberbatch. (Good luck.)

While my brother is right, and his name is a doozy, you've got to admit, there is something about that Bumberland Coomberbum:

no captain, no problem...

My brother, as a means of making me feel better because I have THE FLU AND AM DYING, started IMing me.
"I am all over this Italian cruise ship disaster!"
Oh yes, the tragic and bizarre Italian cruise ship disaster.
He sent me the link to the audio file of the Italian Coast Guard screaming angrily at the captain, who had jumped ship. The recording will also make you fall in love with Italian Coast Guard Capt. Gregorio De Falco. It's pretty amazing, and like me, my brother always imagines how he would handle himself in this situation. As he and I have been stuck on several cruises together, we are both confident that we'd be fine.
This was a very survivable accident, if seems. You just needed to be smart and fast. In these types of situations, you can't be all touristy and stand around wondering what to do. I just finished reading In The Heart of the Sea. Shipwrecks are no joke. I'd get myself off that ship, INCLUDING MY LUGGAGE.
Alex went so far as to say, "I'd be running around 'I cant believe this is actually happening!' We'd be leading people to shore. No captain? No problem!"
This horrible accident has me wondering several things:
1. In this day and age, how are 29 people still missing. This happened three days ago.
2. Do the survivors get their money back?
3. Normally ships take a long time to sink. How did so many people get trapped, unable to escape when basically this ship ran aground? From the looks of things, one could swim to shore. (But also I know that during crises, shit happens fast and the geography in the photos could be deceiving.)
I now join my brother in being "all over this" Italian cruise ship disaster.

In other international news, I was on TV in Japan!
Well, LitCrawl was on the news in Japan, but you can see and hear me reading onstage at 1:15. And then the last half of it is all the awesome organizer Amanda (and Julie!) and the other readers being amazing in the wind. With me, it's like a big zoom in from far away, kind of like what I can only assume is my impending popularity in Asia...

UPDATE: Oh Anderson. You're too much:

more like bronze globes...

What did you think of the Golden Globes? It was kind of 'eh', right? Let's not forget this is the very awards show that once featured Jack Nicholson talking out of his butt. I had high hopes. I even got a new shag rug for the occasion. It cost $71 at Target. Please admire.

Anyway, I was underwhelmed by last night's telecast.

Joining me in first-world disappointment was Sally, Mel, Christopher and of course, Big Chris. Big Chris knows more about show business than most CAA agents. His knowledge of what is going on in the industry is bizarre.

One of the Globe highlights for me was dwarf activism. As a huge fan of The Station Agent, I want to love Peter Dinklage. And I do. It's just hard for me to love him as much as I want because he seems like the most humorless person in the world. He is a famous dwarf whose last name is Dinklage and ... in no way is anything funny to him ever. (I just spent an hour watching Peter Dinklage clips on YouTube. I kind of take this back. Kind of.)

That said, it is very nice that Peter Dinklage used his "Oh, I won another fucking award? Whatever" speech to raise awareness about dwarf tossing. It is a very real issue.

Another highlight, and I know I will be talking about this a lot because IT IS A BIG DEAL TO ME, was all of the Second City people there. How amazing is Tina Fey in general? So amazing. When she snuck into Amy Poehler's shot as they announced the nominees, Melissa said, "I'm going to do that to you one day?"

And is Steve Carrell Jesus? His child-like, t-shirt-clad Second City headshot was on the wall outside my classroom and everyone would just smile back at him and high-five Steve Carrell's photo. Anyway, my friends got very sick of my screaming, "Oh! Second City!" during the Golden Globes.

Finally, Downton Abbey won. Since Bridesmaids was totally snubbed, I'm thrilled that at least Downton won in their antiquated, weird, miniseries category. Melissa and Christopher JUST started watching Downton, thank God, because it is the most important show in the history of the world. And BBC/PBS Masterpiece is amazing. Did you read that Vanity Fair article about the American woman who basically rules the BBC's Masterpiece productions, including Sherlock? (Of course you did, you're very sophisticated.) I will now devour anything labeled Masterpiece, including all of their BBQ sauces, as I am so convinced of the genius behind it all.

In closing, you should all come over to my house for awards shows, for numerous reasons including that since Melissa never shops for food, if I tell her to bring snack, it's like she's a celebrity bringing food to poor people. 100 mini-salamis and Ritz crackers? Don't mind if I do!

In other news, today's Tourist Trapped is up! It features my favorite SkyMall catalog items, photographed on my flight from Chicago much to the dismay of my seatmate. It's up now on SFGate...

there must be a self-help book for this...

Eve loves sending me the weirdest stories she sees on the wire first thing in the morning. Generally, I wake up to a sick mix of weird deaths and curious crimes. The one that's sticking with me this morning is THE BITER:
A 46-year old woman in a Mountain View bookstore bit two children, actually drawing blood, and then ran out of the store only to be captured at Starbucks (naturally.)
All I can think of (other than the poor children) is this woman who felt so compelled to bite kids (on their cheeks!) that she hovered around some suburban bookstore, probably trying to talk herself out of it. But she just can't help herself. She's a 46-year old biter. What can her life be like? Does she have friends? Is this the huge secret of an otherwise successful person?
Sadly, this is one of those things where I'm telling myself, I might not be perfect, but at least I'm not biting kids on the face in a bookstore...

"susan" is still going to kill me...

My editor referred to this post (lovingly) as "depressing". For some reason, I kinda love my "single spinster NYE sucked" post. Maybe I'm still so glowing from my week at Second City that the fact that we were the most hated women in Absinthe on New Year's Eve seems like a distant memory. But it's true. The HATED us.
Up now on SFGate...

the totally upsetting history of the tea garden...

Tourist Trapped is back, kicking off 2012 with a reflective trip to the Japanese Tea Garden. There, I discovered scandal, sadness, loud people ruining my meditations on life-stuff and tea sandwiches. Drink it in over at SFGate...

and then we all met oprah...

I’m trying to figure out how (and where) to best write about my experience at the Second City Training Center. It was very literally a life-changing experience. I’m struggling to find the words to express just how terrifying/wonderful this past week has been.

So stay tuned for that emotional bullshit.

In the meantime, I need to tell you about my last night in Chicago.

I’d made plans the night before to meet back up with Jordan, the comedic genius 21-year old from my afternoon comedy writing class. He wears a baseball hat 100% of the time and parts of it are held together with a safety pin. I kinda love him.

And I also wanted to meet up with Lynn, the friend from class who took me to a taping of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me, which is a story for another post. Trust me.

I then decided to text Justin, a comedian from Pittsburg who was also at the Training Center. And Jordan had texted Geoff, a Gosling-esque hipster from Scottsdale in our writing class. Geoff was staying in his girlfriend’s mom’s apartment two blocks from my hotel. So Jordan and I met them there. And we figured people would just show up as the night progressed.

Which is how I found myself hanging out with three 21-year olds whispering because someone’s mom was sleeping, while we tried to figure out where to go. I felt really old.

We decided on a weird Mexican place next door, where Justin finally arrived, bringing along Shelley. Shelley is also in the other class, and I have no idea where she is from but she is very funny. And with them, they had Ben.

Ben was in my improv class. He’s from Wisconsin and exceptionally weird. Like Andy Kauffman weird. I loved to watch him, but I was terrified of doing improv with Ben, because he calmly deadpans every line and says shit TO ME like, “Steve, why is there an magical alligator coming out of your penis?”

I cannot 'yes, and' that.

(Yes, and is the number one rule of improv. If someone throws something out there, you have to go with it, say yes to it, and then add to their idea. Yes, and is very big at Second City. It’s on the t-shirts.)

Anyway, the 7 of us are hanging out and someone made a joke about Tracy Chapman. Shelley pulled out a notebook and wrote it down. Then Ben slowly took the notebook and wrote a Tracy Chapman joke. I was next. We all just instantly started passing around a notebook and when it came to you, you just knew to write down a Tracy Chapman joke.

By the time the notebook made it to Jordan, Justin cocked his head, listened to the music and screamed, “Holy shit you guys, they’re playing a Tracy Chapman song!”

Cue hysteria.

“This is a sign!” Justin screamed. “There is a midnight open mic at Second City tonight. It’s 11:55. Let’s go!”

There is no way that in my San Francisco world that I would ever be hanging out in what I regard as the middle of the night with people who know when the open mics are, much less want to arrive to one LATE and then actually perform.

“Oh, you guys.” I said, being old again. “I have a flight tomorrow.”

“Beth!” Jordan screamed across the table. “I thought we agreed you are my date tonight! You’re going. We’re all going.”

In that case then yes. Obviously. I am going.

Six of us went racing through the halls, up the escalators of Second City. People, amazing people, spend decades studying at Second City, and we’d spent one measly week there. But we ran though that place like we owned it.

“Where’s the open mic? Which theater?” Justin was screaming at random people standing around.

We pushed open the doors to the little black box theater on the 4th Floor to find 15 people watching a guy do his set on stage.

All 6 of us awkwardly “excuse me’d” our way to the front. Ben marched right over to the sign up sheet. It was 12:15.

After a a couple of men did short sets, Ben, our comedic representative, was announced as the final act of the night. As he walked on stage with a notebook full of our Tracy Chapman jokes, the rest of us went nuts.

Our jokes were stupid. Our jokes were offensive. But Ben deadpanned them all, and just kind of stared at the audience. “Tracy Chapman is so tough, she can rip apart a phone book with her bare testicles. (pause.) You don’t like that one? Okay.”

I was laughing so hard, I still ache.

With that, the show was over. Once again, Justin rallied us. “A triumph! We’re going across the street to celebrate!”

Directly across the street from Second City is Corcoran’s, or as Geoff started calling it, Johnny Cochran’s. We piled into the perfect wooden booth in the window. And then we played, “Make Me Smile.” Someone had written “Make Me Smile” on a cocktail napkin and passed it down to Geoff and me, sitting across from each other in the window. We’d slam it up against the window and the COOL people on the sidewalk did funny stuff for us.

We were there for AWHILE, and we had an exciting array of responses to ‘make me smile" mainly due to all the comedy shows getting out and drunk people getting taken away in ambulances. It was all very thrilling to me. There was a smattering of moonings, kissing through the glass, one guy did an entire improv scene. Delighted, we gave him a standing ovation, and he came and joined us. He studies at iO, another improv mecca in Chicago.

At this point, it was really the middle of the night, I was in a bar across the street from Second Fucking City with my classmates who felt like my dear, close friends. Everyone was doing voices, and routines and jokes. Geoff performed an entire scene from Good Will Hunting. Jordan can do every movie, ever. In character. Ben sat hunched over at the end, silently drinking a pina colada covered in whipped cream. I have a lot of versions of heaven, but this was up there.

Was this an incredibly challenging experience? Am I glad I came? Did it change everything?

Yes. Yes, and…

why don't they just make the whole plane out of the black box...

Following the comedic rule of threes:

1. I pulled into that weird gas station/Starbucks/Burger King across from Asia SF last night. You know the one. Immediately, I was approached by a panhandler who had two (2) guns tucked into the waist of his pants. He was wearing a t-shirt, huge, baggy khakis and had a sweatshirt tied around his waist. It was from that sweatshirt-belt I could clearly see two gun handles emerging, one on each side. He was stumbling, kinda out of it. This guy was your basic sidewalk hobo, not what I imagine a gun-wielding criminal to act like. (I have never experienced a gun-wielding criminal myself, thank God, but I imagine them not to be swaying from side to side.) I told myself the guns were fake, but I would be lying if I said I did not feel a tear creep into my left eye. I thought, "Here we go" and waited to wet my pants, because that's what happened in Red Dragon. I also couldn't imagine this guy would shoot me in a well-lit gas station at 8pm on a Tuesday, but we live in a crazy world. He asked for money and I said no, because FUCK HIM. Okay, I actually said no because I was afraid he would come closer, and he didn't seem lucid enough to get mad. If a real person with a gun demanded money, I would give them everything on Earth ever. But I just said, "No, sorry" and he said okay and walked away. In closing, they were fake right? I mean, I considered calling the cops and reporting this terrifying moment, but I was ready to get the hell home.

2. I wrote this whole dumb complaint for my #2 and then said. "I know, I know. No one else in the world cares." That could be said for most of my posts really, but anyway, #2 was dumb. So I deleted it. Moving on!

3. Finally, on New Year's Day I am flying to Chicago to take a comedy writing class at Second City. It's only for a week and it's a present from my parents, because they don't think I'm funny. (I'm kidding. That was just one of my many zingers.) Anyway, because I'll be in the building and my writing class is in the afternoon, I decided to take an improv class in the morning. I am perfectly comfortable sitting in a writing class and knocking out jokes. But the thought of showing up at Second City in 5 days, walking into a classroom and doing "warm-up exercises" so I can perform impromptu skits with strangers terrifies me. I'm worried the other students will all be 19 year-old comedy geniuses making jokes I'm too old to get, or 57 year-old insurance salesmen who are the wackiest guys in their office. But it's only for 5 days, and I'll be there a whole week, staying in a fancy hotel because the weather is so bad, it costs a dollar to go to Chicago in January. I have seven different versions of my Tina Fey costume, one for each day. I will wear scarves and knit hats and make friends with the hotel doorman, and when I return to the fancy lobby after a day of smart, timely humor creation, he'll say, "Well, look who's back. Tell me a joke, beautiful!" AND I WILL.

Anyway, that's what up with me. What's up with you...