can't we just play polo...

I have noticed in my occasional forays into fitness that there's a whole other language of the purposefully active that I just don't speak. 

This evening, Tim the Trainer and I met for a session at the Golden Gate Park Polo Fields. One of the many barriers I have about exercising is doing it in public. I'm not really wild about strolling couples gawking at me as I crank out sit-ups or being passed by a 83 year old as I jog around the track. Tim, on the other hand, doesn't really give a shit and has no problem offering pleasantries to strangers, a practice I find abhorrent whilst publicly sweating. 

Anyway, we were "jogging" around the track when a group of cyclists in their full, Euro-regalia came whizzing by. "On your right!"

Yeah, Livestrong. I got it.

They'd passed us 6 or 7 times. 

And in addition to the highly annoying, "On your right!" they'd scream code at each other. I can't even tell you what it was and certainly not what it meant. It was cyclist slang, the code of the spandex, the language of the mini-visor. 

On lap 2 or 3 (I've blocked out the pain), the leader of the pack as it were screamed, "Hey guys! It'd be better if you better if you were on the right! We can't see you coming around that turn!"

"Okay, thanks!" Tim hollered back. 

Whoosh. They all whizzed past us in a blur. 

"Fuck you, Lance Armstrong." I sighed, pushing sweaty hair out of my face as we moved to the right side of the track.

Tim walked ahead. "Well, it's kinda good to know. He could've been a lot ruder about that."

Um, whose side are you on? 

Tim's right, of course. I think I have a natural hatred for those that break a sweat with a smile on their face, tweeting about their marathon time and dropping what an awesome workout they enjoyed at 5am, like they're talking about a latte or really great morning sex. 

I am wildly jealous of those people. And since I will never be one of them, I must hate them with every fiber of my being. 

Do I feel better post 75 sit-ups? Begrudgingly, yes. Am I looking forward to Tim kicking my ass again on Thursday? Fuck no. And if anyone screams "On your right!" at me then, well, I seem to recall some mad boxing skills...

could this be any more like the hills. honestly...

Have you seen this? I'm the only one that cares, aren't I?

No wonder Gavin's all over the state, hanging out down south where people actually appreciate him. Do we blow this kind of sunshine up his ass? Do any of our journalists ask him about Dancing with the Stars? Does anyone here over the age of 9 ask for his autograph?

No! 

And it's a goddamn crime.

Do you think Gavin just swung by Mr. Chow to get a shot at what my father calls, the papitazi? Is this like that scene in Soapdish where daytime star Sally Field feels unappreciated so she goes to the mall to get recognized? Because I'm right there with you, Gavin! Why, I was just saying to Melissa as I wore my new sunglasses on the escalator inside Bloomingdale's, "I'm in the mood to sign autographs!"

So, enough with all the complaining about Gavin on the Go. Obviously, we need to be proactive about this problem and give the guy what he wants. I don't know where we should set up shop, but I'm thinking Balboa or Tosca, because I heard he no longer used the bar of La Barca as an office. We get cameras, ones with lots of flashes, and insincere interviewers to ask patronizing, bombarding questions, pseudo-blocking him as he ties to get to his ride. He'll love it! Hell, who wouldn't?

My only issue with the above is, enough already with the policy! Save it for the print media. We want to know what you think about Heidi and Spencer! Are you currently involved in a Bromance with anyone? And why have you not issued a public statement about the tragic passing of pop icon and American treasure, Michael Jackson?

Let's not force our Mayor out of town because we're too polite in leaving him alone. Let's be all up in his shit like they rock it at Mr. Chow. I know I'm in. And before you judge our future Governor for getting his eggrolls someplace Lohan-esque, check out this video I found of Jerry Brown. Um, other than the obvious height issue, am I wrong is finding him slightly attractive, in a Ricky Nelson/Sonny Bono/quaaludes and disco kind of way...

it's probably from 1997 anyway...

I'm at a loss. A frustrating, unfixable loss. 

Yesterday, the Missus and I enjoyed lunching and shopping at the mall. As we poked around Banana Republic, we enjoyed a heated discussion on why one would buy white pants when I suddenly said, "This song is amazing." 

I'll readily admit to my apparently shitty taste in music. I have no problem confessing that yes, I like Rob Thomas. That douche John Mayer is right up my alley. And sure, I sobbed hysterically at James Blunt's heartbreaking performance on a 1am episode of Oprah. Who didn't? I'm VH1's target spinster, and I make no apologies. 

But this song playing in a lesser Banana Republic...well, it was cool. Cool even to other people! And I really, really liked it. I couldn't make out the words, it was too weird, gay and cocktail party background-esque. Normally, I'll google a sentence, find whatever song struck my fancy and buy it on iTunes. But I couldn't make out a word of this masterpiece. 

"Excuse me." I said to  woman with one of those secret service things in her ear, in case of a "Martin fit eco-chic trouser" emergency. "Do you know what song this is?"

She looked at me in bored horror. "No."

"Oh, okay. It's just this song is so..."

But she was off to fold some cropped cardigans and I was left worrying about the customer service policies of one of my standard clothiers. I'm not saying she had to run down to the CD player somewhere and burn me a copy. But a little, "I know! We've been wondering too" or "Let me ask my hella gay manager, Reymundo" would have made me feel less like an asshole. 

We didn't buy a thing at the Westfield Banana and if I may, I suggest you shop at the Union Square flagship Banana anyway. It's 12 times the size and selection. But that song stayed stuck in my head throughout J. Crew, Zara and the frozen yogurt joint. I continues to drive me nuts, in fact. There's a song out there, an awesome song to add to my repertoire and I'll never know what it is. 

And neither will you. Thanks to some skank at Banana...

just what i need. another chris...

I was so nervous this morning, I had to wear my new and ridiculously formal earrings just to get me out the door. Today, after all, was my first dentist appointment in a decade. If you'll recall, prompted by extreme tooth pain in what I (along with the internet) determined was my upper left molar and a promise of parental subsidization, I finally conceded my dental ban and booked an appointment with my mother's dentist, the apparently wildly attractive Dr. Catalano.
I don't know where my extreme fear of the medical profession comes from, but I assure you, it's not limited to dentistry. I'm terrified of any doctor, mainly because I'm convinced I'm dying of every disease imaginable. I'm going to the "lady doctor" on Friday and I can't begin to tell you how terrified I am of that. I'll probably show up in a beaded evening gown.
I should also point out that part of recovery is going to get every single part of yourself checked out. I had to sign some kind of rehab contract promising I'd get the standard once over in every department and while I can't imagine some AA mafia is actively enforcing said contract, I'm following the recovery rules as close as I can.
Dr. Catalano and team send me a "Welcome Binder" weeks in advance of my appointment with strict instructions to fill out the paperwork before my appointment. If you don't fill out the paperwork, they send you away. It's all very formal and I don't imagine Dr. Jang's this uptight. But Dr. Jang charges 50 cents and he probably just sticks a key chain flashlight in your mouth instead of an x-ray machine. Anyway, I had my paperwork raring to go when I walked into the office, lest I be thought of as ill-prepared. I haven't been to the dentist since the Clinton Administration and suddenly, I was worried about what these people thought.
The waiting room was very plush and low lit, much like that carpeted section of the Nordstrom ladies room just for hanging out.
"Hello Beth." A blond woman said in soothing tones. "Do you have your paperwork?"
"Yes! Yes, I sure do! All filled out!"
"Okay, have a seat. It'll be just a few moments."
It was kind of like checking into a spa with no hint of the torture devices around the corner. I picked up a People and worried. Suddenly, my phone rang and much like an 11 year old flying unaccompanied for the first time, my mother had called to check on me.
"Are you there?!?!"
"Yes." I hissed though gritted teeth.
"Well, he's very nice. It'll be just fine."
A woman appeared with a clipboard. "Beth?"
"Mom, I've got to go!" I stood from the couch as Nikki introduced herself.
"Don't worry. I totally get it. It'll be fine." She assured me.
Oh, okay Nikki. Sure. It'll be terrific. Everyone just raves about the dentist.
She led me down a hallway to the last examination room, past patient after patient in their dental chair, no doubt stifling screams and praying for death. After a quick chat, where I had to do the dreaded, "I was in treatment for addiction and I'm supposed to inform my doctor as some kind of public humiliation step" Nikki took my X-Rays.
"X-rays last about 5 or 10 years anyway, so we'll just do new ones."
Much has changed since last I sat in the dentists chair. Instantly, my teeth appeared on a screen before me looking exactly like they do in all of my google searches. I don't know why I imagined my teeth to be mutant from everyone else's, but I was highly relieved to find them tooth shaped. "So these are like, my dental records. In case I'm ever found in a dumpster, you can identify me."
Nikki laughed and asked if I had any questions while we waited for "Dr. Chris."
I always hate being asked if I have any questions and responding that no, I don't have any questions. Smart people should have questions, right? What am I supposed to ask? Do you pay your bills on time? What's the grossest mouth you've ever seen? If I promise to be a "before" picture, can this all be free? I asked the only question I could think of.
"Do any celebrities come here?"
Nikki smiled. "A couple."
"Say no more!" I said, perhaps too loudly. "That's all the recommendation I need!"
Looking at my x-rays on the screen in front of me, Nikki offered, "I think I know what's wrong."
She'd spotted a hole in my tooth.
"You've got a cavity. I'm not the doctor, but that's my guess."
And with that, in walked Dr. Catalano. My mother, bless her, thinks every man under 50 is the bees knees. Dr. Catalano's celebrity equivalent is a slightly older, well dressed Mike Myers. And everyone calls him "Dr. Chris."
I think Dr. Phil ruined this for doctors everywhere because while it's very cool and helpful that Dr. Chris is so laid back and warm, I suddenly thought of Dr. Ruth and Dr. Laura and realized I'd prefer to call him Dr. Catalano.
"Okay." Said Nikki. "Stage three."
We'd agreed that stage two was the x-rays and stage one was me even walking in the door. Stage three involved the doctor examining the x-rays and examining my mouth.
"Wow, that's a pretty big cavity, Beth. And really close to the root there." He wasn't chastising or mean about it, which I had expected. I honestly thought these people were going to yell at me.
I mean, really. A decade.
The x-ray of tooth #13 was obvious, even to my untrained eye. And then we looked at the other teeth. "So you still have your wisdom teeth."
"I do, yeah. I just ignored them when they came in and voila!"
He then told me that I'm obviously a meticulous brusher. This is something I remember hearing from dentists when I was a kid and the same thought flashed through my mind as it did then. "You're nuts."
I congratulate myself when I eat an apple, I consider the process a virtual dental overhaul. And the only time I floss is after eating ribs. Dr. Chris then went on to examine my mouth and shout things to Nikki, at one point announcing, "There's no oral cancer."
He removed his hands from my mouth as I screamed, "Wait! What? Oral Cancer?!?!"
"Well, yeah. We're checking for everything."
"Oh, of course. It's just, had I known that was a possibility, I would have run for the hills."
Turns out, I need a two-part deep cleaning and let's just say, more than one cavity filled. But it looks like I'm root canal free for now, or as Dr. Chris said, "until we get in there and see how bad it is."
Then we kind of hung out and chatted for awhile, which was lovely because I was told I was already very close to "movie star teeth" which is what I requested on my form. I booked my next appointments to get my cavities filled and my first (of two) teeth cleanings and then was handed prescription mouthwash and a printout of the entire cost of making my teeth reasonably healthy.
You could have healthy teeth, folks. Or you could have a slightly used Camry.
Anyway, as we were finishing up, I mentioned to Dr. Catalano that I'd heard, thanks to a blog reader, that brushing my teeth would salt would make my toothache go away.
"It worked. It was gross, sure, but it totally worked."
He was flabbergasted but kinda went with it. "That's so interesting! Wow, well I guess the Ph levels..."
Dr. Chris'd lost me, but thanks to Mousqueton, a dentist in Marin is now onto this salt thing. Anyway, my cavity appointment is booked and my mouth is on the road to incredibly health and movie star status.
I think that perhaps, the biggest and most important lesson we learned today is that you might have oral cancer, whatever that means.
I certainly don't have it. But you might...

i'd still vote for him...

Oh golly, I almost feel bad about this one. Almost. Today's See Spot Write is up!

the real terrorists...

I realize that perhaps not everyone is as familiar with my version of "travel etiquette" as I would like, but there are certain rules of the road, if you will, that even the most inexperienced air traveller must surely accept. 

I think we'll all acknowledge that getting off the airplane is a drag. The plane is stopped. The door is open. But 234 people in front of you need to delicately remove their carry-on from the overhead compartment, place it in the aisle, release the handle thing, 

realize it's facing the wrong way, turn it around, double check their seat and essentially, take fucking forever lest a Redbook from November get left behind. I've come to terms with this travel fact. And while obviously, I am not one of these horrible people. I've prepared my belongings at 35,000 feet and can be off a plane in seconds, I accept this part of the journey and wait my turn while thinking horrible things about Pager Man in front of me. 

What I cannot accept is the mass convergence at baggage claim upon the luggage turnstile. Ev

eryone, my wonderful family included, absolutely must be front and center hours before the thing starts moving. Hundreds of people line the side of the turnstile in breathless anticipation of their bag being 1st or 8th or 564th to tumble down. As if luggage not instantly claimed by it's owner was given to the poor, the biggest and boldest crowd right where the machine spouts out bags. Moments wasted as the baggage spins are moments never to return. And while I'm not one to sit front and center on the luggage turnstile waiting to win this imaginary race, I still understand their theory. We all want to get where we're going. 

Hey, me too! And when I see my bag fall from the top of that machine, I move myself forward and down the line a little, waiting for that big, shiny blue duffel to make it's way to me. Logical, right? 

Here's where my real problem lies. 

No one responds to any form of, "Excuse me, pardon me. That's mine. My bag's right there, if I could just, um, excuse me." 

Not a glace, nary a twitch. Most refuse to move a muscle, because letting you get your bag might mean they miss their bag's decent from the rotating machine mouth, thus causing their duct-taped monstrosity to go one complete, time-consuming and thief-filled ride around the turnstile. And we can't have that. A whole rotation? Never!

I'm hardly a samaritan, but watching an old man struggle to get his 1972 Hawaiian Islands Coach Tour suitcase off that thing as hundreds around him refused to move out of the way much less help, set me off. I pulled his bag off, hopefully bruising Queen Fannypack to our left and offered what I hoped would be a behavior-changing admonition. 

"My God, this is ridiculous!"

No one cared. Not a soul noticed. They were far too focused on where the Southwest Airlines baggage crew had placed their hastily folded elastic waist jeans, et al. 

My family's bags arrived eventually, as bags tend to do. And as we walked away, I looked back at Queen Fannypack. She was still standing against the turnstile, her knees knocking every bag as it went by and her eyes furiously focused on the cascading slide of luggage. 

Oh no, still no bag? Good. I hope they lost her bag and whatever shitty, highly flamable clothing she packed in it. Actually, I hope she's still standing there now, watching an unclaimed bag or two go around and around and around, wondering how her awesome plan of baggage claim attack went so wrong...

oak baggage claim is like hand to hand combat...

The eagle has landed! And here's your very late official Culture Blog link...

fin...

We're heading back out to the Albuquerque Airport pretty soon, leaving this marvelous home and returning to our own crappy ones. Yesterday's big activity was getting our Southwest boarding passes online, something that MUST be done 24 hours in advance. 

Southwest, you're probably aware, doesn't assign you 35F. They just let you board in groups A, B and C and it's like Lord of the Flies in there, trying to get any seat but a middle. We were in Group B on our way down here, and it really wasn't that bad. But obviously, Group A is ideal. 

You know, if this plane spirals towards the Earth and we're all lost, identification in going to be tough, what with everyone sitting wherever they can elbow themselves into a seat. Thus, please alert the authorities that I am wearing kelly green chinos (I know) and black layered tops, I have a tattoo of "1660" on my right ankle and I'll be the corpse clutching every mini vodka bottle on board. 

Today's Culture Blog will be up at noon RIGHT HERE-ish. Needless to say, it's about cover boy. And I did not buy anyone a bolo tie whilst in Santa Fe, mainly because I was too embarrassed to do so. 

Prepare the grenadine. I'm coming home...

as if we needed another reason...

Judge Judy on Crack is once again pissing me off while I'm on vacation. Check out today's See Spot Write in the SF Appeal... 

piano? bar? i'm in...

My cousin Jenny and I just got back to the house after getting manicures and pedicures at a Santa Fe strip mall. Talk about depressing! This mall, called the DeVargas Shopping Center or similar, is basically where people go to die. We had 15 minutes to kill before our nail appointment so Jen and I ventured into Ross. The joint was jam packed with desperate people all of whom needed a polyester maxi-dress for $11.99 and all of whom can only shop provided every member of their entire extended family comes along to stand in the aisles and talk on their cell phones. 

Actually, that's pretty much every Ross. 

Anyway, we're not doing any real sightseeing mainly because we've rented such a magnificent home. It's so huge, we barely see each other and occasionally, someone'll walk past the pool and I'll go, "Oh yeah. My mother's here."

However last night, the 6 "kids" went to Vanessie, a piano bar my folks had visited on a trip here a few years ago. They'd raved and raved about the spot and about Doug, the pianist who charms all the bluehairs who come to hear him. Imagine, if you will, Dorothy, Blanche and Rose out for a night in Santa Fe. That's Vanessie. 70-something's all dressed in their business-casual finest sipping Chardonnay to Doug's version of "Somewhere Out There."

Kate asked me if I thought we'd meet the loves of out lives at Vanessie. 

"I don't know." I responded. "I've never been into guys in printed polo shirts." 

We couldn't get it table, it was so packed with the nearly dead, but my brother managed to capture the following video, and we're on our way back there tonight...

I don't know where my love of the amateur performer comes from, but I think it stems from the joy I find in the guy with the regular, boring, clip-on-tie job waiting all week to spend his Tuesday nights belting the soundtrack of a dentist office. I find it very sweet and funny and interesting that this passion to perform, something I think I understand pretty goddamn deeply, is actually lived out in public at a microphone while an assembled crowd of the moderately sophisticated watch on/eat onion loaf. 

And as for Leonard, the straw-hatted gentleman above, well once I saw his walker put into place at the mic stand and his sassy, self-deprecating delivery of "Leonard" I simply fell in love. With him. With his hobby. With Vanessie...

indians came in the night and stole 5 sets of clothing, 2 axles and 23 bullets...

There's dramatic thunder and lightning over the desert right now, which is a good thing. Don't let me in the sun, folks. I'm just begging for cancer out by the pool and paying the painful price later. 

I haven't played in a pool in a long time. I've occasionally cranked out a few laps here and there, but I haven't straight up played in the water in some time. 

It, uh, rocks. 

Thus, we've developed the 2009 Spotswood/Ryken Family Aqua Olympiad (ages 26-63.) Events include walking the entire length of the pool on your hands, being able to stand the longest on the floating chaises, and using said floating chaises as bizarre tools in which to perform "The Burro", "The Cactus Flower" and "Wagon Train."

I'm going to try and get you a video of someone doing Wagon Train. It can't be described, but it is quite possibly the most awesome pool race ever invented. I'd like to see Michael Phelps rock Wagon Train, which interestingly, involves shouting phrases from Oregon Trails. 

But now, with this thunder and lightening, I've been asked to stop playing in the pool. My mom is concerned I'll be electrocuted and well, I'm 31. After spending 3 hours (no joke) perfecting my synchronized swimming routine, I should probably take a break and like, read a book. That's what everyone else is doing. 

This storm better pass, folks. Because if you haven't taken some time, thrown inhibition to the wind and just played in the water lately, do yourself the favor... 

dreams come true, yes they do, in santa fe...

Our flight from Oakland to Albuquerque was delayed a bit, so I took my time getting to our gate, choosing instead to peruse a bookstore and pay a visit to Starbucks. 

My family is having a little reunion, if you wanna call it that. All told, 11 of us (one's a baby whom I feel forced to count but personally, don't consider) are convening in this sprawling Santa Fe adobe palace. We're arriving from different places on different days, but basically, I'm in this remarkable home for the next week.

Thus far, my folks, Dori and I have arrived, having flown together on a rather rickety Southwest Airlines 373. Which brings me back to the Oakland Airport. I selected a book for myself, something called "Devil Bones" which looks like a Danielle Steele novel for serial killer fans. And for Kate, I picked up "Rappers 'R In Danger" by someone who calls himself "Relentless Aaron. Don't believe me?

I purchased the book after flipping it open to, "Ringo ain't done nothin' but love your yellow ass on the regular. You straight trippin'."

Other than "Rappers R In Danger" I was unimpressed with the whole section of the Airport I found myself in and went to meet my family at the gate, hoping our random, every man for himself boarding would take place as soon as possible. Little did I know, our gate was in a much, much better section of the Airport, where books without spelling errors were sold and Peet's coffee was available without a line. Someone at the Oakland Airport should put a sign up right after the metal detectors. "Welcome to Oakland International Airport: Walk Past the Shitty Stores. Better Ones Exist."

I found a seat at the gate next to my mother, working on her KenKen and sipping from a Starbucks cup. "Mom, they have Peet's down here."

"I know! They have better everything down here!"

Which is when I noticed that my mother's Starbucks cup had the standard Sharpee'd name written on the side. 

"Juan."

My mother's name is Joanne. We found this hilarious. Mom began speaking in the third person as Juan. "Juan needs you to shut up so Juan can concentrate on KenKen." And later, "Juan's gonna go see what's taking so goddamn long. Juan is ready to get this show on the road."

Gracias Juan!

Finally on board, I spent the entirety of the 2 hour encouraging my family to purchase anything in the Home Garden Decor section of Sky Mall. Please, go on your own mini vacation and visit these extraordinary offerings. 

Actually, I'm incredibly tempted to order my dad his own steak brander. Yeah, a steak brander. So you can brand your meat (steak, chicken and hamburgers) with your initials. Juan's biggest concern was the chicken. "It says you can brand chicken. Like a chicken breast?"

"Who cares! It comes with a custom cedar gift box."

Dori, while a seasoned world traveler, is afraid of flying. Interestingly, landing in the desert involves A LOT of turbulence. The whole experience was pretty nerve wracking and as we giggled through fear and inappropriate jokes, I thought of THIS scene in Alive when the passengers go from "Hey, it's like a roller coaster!" to sheer terror. 

We were walking that line. 

Having secured a rental car and made it the the house, we've fully explored and claimed boudoirs before 2 more arrive tonight. Kate and I are in a bedroom with twin beds and a bathroom with a Navajo couch. This is very Sundance Catalog, with lots of indoor/outdoor areas and big wooden Mexican mission doors opening to meditation gardens with water elements. There's lots of dramatic giant paintings on Native Americans on horses and one in the dining room of some dude sticking his hand in Jesus' wound. 

After spending the afternoon reading down by the pool, I have no intention of spending much time admiring the sights of Santa Fe. But I'm open to suggestions. 

I can't wait for Kate to get here so I can present her with "Rappers R In Danger" by Relentless Aaron. Here's hoping she'll read aloud by the adobe fireplace as we 're drenched in turquoise baubles and leathery skin, gazing out across the cactus' silhouetted in the sunset...

who wants a bolo tie...

Mere hours from now, I will touch down in Albuquerque, New Mexico and then drive to a rental house in Santa Fe. Why? Because Santa Fe doesn't have an airport. Why New Mexico out of all of the fine states in this Union? Beats me.

I've never said no to a free trip.

When I started this blog (happy 5 year anniversary, everyone!), I soon found myself spending a few weeks in China with my family. As an adult, travelling with one's parents actually requires some form of creative outlet, and for me that creative outlet is bitching about things on the internet. That first post-blog trip, my only break from my mother screaming English at confused taxi drivers or my father calling my hotel room next door to his with a question about the light switch was my daily hour alone in the hotel's business center. Ever since, my favorite blogs, the ones that are often the most fun to write, are about our travels.

I love my parents. They are incredibly generous, smart and funny people. But they are still my parents. And they will still drive me nuts. I promise you, we won't make it on the Park N' Fly bus without a few terse words and an expletive. You should see these two try and put up a Christmas tree.
This is my way of informing you that another Spotswood Family Adventure begins tomorow morning.
Please stay tuned.
We're flying Southwest out of Oakland, so you know, right there...

*PS! My lengthy Culture Blog about Pride will be up at the usual time and place tomorrow. Please for to enjoy.

stop, drop and roll...

After walking home from Pride because I had better odds of catching a unicorn than catching a cab, I collapsed on my bed and decided to take a nap. But since it was so gorgeous outside, I opened all of the windows and then, just to be extra homey, lit a subtle “Beach House” scented candle.
I looked like an advertisement for Ambien as I drifted off to sleep.
All of a sudden, my alarm began to go off, and as I raced to the alarm panel, I realized, “What the fuck? My alarm isn’t even on!”
BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!
I wandered back in my room when…OH MY GOD. It's the fire detector.
The curtain above that Beach House candle was in flames as apparently, the open window blew curtain right into the path of the candle.
When I say flames, I mean that literally. FLAMES.
I know what you’re thinking. And yes, I attended 3rd Grade. I was not sick on Fire Safety Day. I had my photo taken with Smokey the Bear. And still, 22 years later I lit a candle near a cheaply made curtain and left it unattended.
I grabbed a skirt from the floor (a green, floral Liz Claiborne number picked up at Ross) and started smacking the flames. It actually worked! But embers of melting, sheer white curtain were flying everywhere, dotting holes on my duvet cover and flying over to my dress form, covered in a vintage kimono, a Mr. T-esque collection of necklaces and a gigantic straw hat. Within seconds, the kimono, the form and the hat were all on fire.
When they say that fire travels fast, they’re not fucking around. I quickly realized that at some point, I was going to have to decide when to give up and let my house burn down.
My father, whom I regard as slightly paranoid, had purchased me a fire extinguisher years ago, but it rested a few rooms away in the kitchen, a logical location for a fire extinguisher if you ask me. I can’t believe I was actually considering using one. That skirt kept flying through the air, batting down flames as the fire alarm continued its screams for help.
No one came, by the way. I once burned a quesadilla to the tune of seven firefighters in my home. Yesterday, I was inhaling serious smoke and hollering bloody murder as I fought actual flames. Not a siren in sight.
The very moment I was ready to dive for my phone in the living room and record what I hope would be a very famous 911 call, I pretty much got everything under control. Shaking, I dragged a dining room chair into my boudoir, climbed on top of it and dismantled my fire alarm. Then I took stock of the damage, which includes the death of the kimono, straw sun hat, duvet cover, sleeve of my new silk top and of course, the curtain, which will be saved for haunted house props. I went over that whole side of the room with a wet towel, hoping to catch any last embers before they erupted into my funeral pyre. I then put my fire alarm back together, because I might be incredibly stupid but I’m not so stupid as to ignore the loss of a kimono. I had big plans for that kimono.
I went to the bathroom to run cold water over my hands, which had sustained minor burns and looked at myself in the mirror.
Disheveled hair, black soot smudges from where I’d rubbed my eyes, shaking and in shock.
“Jesus Christ.” I panted. “What the fuck is going on?!?!”
My teeth have decided to escape their bindings, I’m absent-mindedly setting my house on fire and my boss just realized that payroll has forgotten to withhold Federal Income Tax. What is God trying to tell me? Because I’m boarding a plane on Wednesday and if there’s something I should know, I can gladly reschedule…

my jacked grill...

I am horrified to report this, but I get the feeling I’ll be writing this tale of woe in segments, so let’s begin.
I have not been to the dentist since college, which in doing the math I realize is like, 10 years.
A decade of self-performed dental care. Jesus!
I realize this is fucking disgusting, but I can assure you I use very fancy toothpaste that comes in a really high-end tube. I also gargle with something the sign at Target says is used in hospitals. So as far as I’m concerned, I’m the picture of oral health.
But my tooth is starting to hurt so much, it feels like the whole side of my head is decidedly “not cool.”
I’ve hemmed, I’ve hawed, I’ve tweeted, I even called my mom.
And as I am one of the millions of Americans without dental insurance, my mom offered, “Call my dentist. Dad and I will pay for it.”
I’m down for free anything, but the dentist? With trembling hands, I googled her dentist and called the office, revealing my aversion to check-ups much less emergency care, and detailed my symptoms.
“Is it sensitive to heat?”
“Oh yes.”
“Is it sensitive to cold?”
“For sure.”
“Sounds to me like you need a root canal.”
I dropped the phone.
They can’t see me until I get back from vacation on July 10th. Oh, and here’s a little treat for you. I can’t take prescription pain killers. Yep, that’s right. As if I haven’t been punished by life, society, bartenders, etc., those of us in recovery aren’t supposed to take full-on vicodin, et al. Having spent 28 days with my fellow “peers” addicted to pain killers, I see the logic. I just dread the pain.
As I made my appointment with the dentist lady, I asked, “So it’s cool that I wait 2 weeks to come in? I mean, my tooth’s not going to fall out, right?”
“No, no. Probably not…”

*UPDATE* I was whining my tale of woe to Brock last night, expecting his reaction to be much like everyone else’s: horror. Actually, my mother responded with, "So you were diagnosed over the phone by a secretary? What the hell does she know?" Brock's response to my potential, pending root canal. “Oh, I’ve had 2. It’s no big deal.”
Hazaa!

somebody, ruin my sleep...

Hey, I've finally got another See Spot Write up at the SF Appeal!
Check out my night last night and note the photo, where I'm staring at Judson True wondering that's his real name or he stole it from a character in a Judy Blume book...

really, really bad...

This morning, after the tragic loss of Farrah Fawcet following Ed McMahon's passing, Dallas and I speculated as to which celebrity would be the third to dine at the big Spago in the Sky. We went with the obvious Patrick Swayze until deciding that perhaps, it would be someone random and totally unexpected.
Perhaps we were right...Okay, Michael Jackson is definitely dead. I'm saying this after my mom called with, "Dori says he's still alive." He's dead! This is a really big deal, right? I mean, it's Michael Fuckin' Jackson.

see. i care about politics...

You’ve got to stand in bewildered awe of the balls on the conservative Republican Governor of South Carolina who said he was hiking through the wilderness in Deliverance country when he was really “crying” on the reassuring bosom of his ho in Argentina.
He might as well have said he was in space. “Oh, I’m on Jupiter right now. I’ll be returning calls when I’m back in the office.”
I also think it’s great that when forced to reveal the truth, he pretty much breaks down in tears and sobs, “I was breaking up with my girlfriend, okay?!?!”
Oh, pardon us. This must be so difficult for you. Every report of Governor Mark Sanford’s press conference has him crying like a 12 year old girl. Wasn’t this the guy that said, “Screw you, Barack and your crazy cash hand outs so children can learn to subtract!”
I’m all for men crying. I think it’s a perfectly healthy, non-gender specific emotional expression. Hell, I cried when Sirius Black sent Hogwarts the permission letter so Harry Potter could go to Hogsmeade with the rest of the Wizards, Muggles and Halfbloods. We're all human, for christsakes.
But I’m of the inclination that such a hard-ass, conservative who voted against preserving sites of the Underground Railroad (um, yeah. This dude is so over making a big deal about slavery) might be able to make it through a press conference without using an embroidered handkerchief to dab his tearful eyes...

hungover...

Today's Culture Blog is up!
Enjoy...

i feel like joel's going to take this the hardest...

Tonight, Jon and Kate are making an announcement.
This is separation, right? Divorce? Do we get to watch them tell the kids? No one seems too broken up about this news, most likely because the country has pretty much decided Kate is the devil. This is sad for the kids and all, but at least they can go to Dad’s house when Mom’s on one of her rampages.
My distaste for Kate Gosselin grew tenfold on Friday night, or I guess technically Saturday morning, when Mel and I were watching Oprah at 3am. The episode was all about “Hero Dads” and this one dad was the father of 9 children, 7 of whom were adopted from Guatemala and several of whom were special needs kids, including one baby with an incorrectly set broken arm. He wakes up at 3:30 every morning, works full time as an attorney, lost his wife to cancer when their oldest was 2 and decided to build and raise a huge family by himself.
Kate Gosselin can suck it.
But then, Jon Gosselin went and got a diamond earring stud, so I pretty much hate them both. You’d think one of them might be able to handle tabloid, reality show fame with the tiniest smidge of grace under pressure.
Nope. They’re all gaudy sunglasses and screaming at the nanny while the rest of us are watching the widower on Oprah with his sweet, humble, grateful, affectionate kids. And Mel and I kept screaming at the TV, “Give him something, Oprah! Where’s the house? The free car? Send ‘em on a cruise!”
But I think Oprah’s stopped handing out flatscreens to kindergarten teachers because assholes like Kate Gosselin have ruined materialism for everyone…

making your way in the world today takes everything you got...

Last night, Melissa and I averted insanity by hitting Gina's fabulous birthday party. Gina's the co-owner of Le Club and the Bambuddha Lounge (both of which you should patronize constantly) and was celebrating her birthday at Le Club with a "Great Gatsby/Great Depression Party." We were instructed to "dress to impress" and I believe there was some fine print about costumes, fine print Mel and I chose to ignore. 

I think costumes parties are one of those things where you're damned if you do and damned if you don't. We could have gone all out, but had we done so, I promise you we would have been the only ones swathed in feather boas. And we would have looked awfully strange having dinner beforehand at the Big Four in flapper dresses. 

Instead, we stood out like Republicans in black cocktail dresses and got an earful about it from Gina. The place was packed with a breathtaking collection of gorgeous people, all of whom have invested significantly in Gatsby-appropriate designer apparel. I was hoping to dig a Culture Blog out of Gina's birthday, maybe perhaps Peter Getty would emerge from his hairdo and want to discuss blogging or Stephan Jenkins might serenade the party with hits of the early 90's. 

Nope. 

Melissa and I found two seats at the bar, knocked back Cassidy's "virgin suicides" and laughed. Having spent so many hours and guffaws and tears on those very seats, Mel and I wondered how we'd changed in the past year. Turns out, not very much at all!

Within an hour and without a drop, we were back to texting people at 1am, screaming across the bar at friends we'd made minutes before and calling strangers douchebags. 

I can't tell if it's good or bad that we don't need to be trashed to be obnoxious. Maybe we just need to be together. In which case, get used to obnoxious. My friend Melissa is having a rather rough weekend, the details of which are none of your goddamn business. It's chick shit and unimportant. But what is important is that no matter what anyone else says or thinks, I know a few things to be very true. My friend is selfless and kind, generous and affectionate. She's loud and proud about everything I accomplish, she reminds me constantly how inspired she is by my sobriety and ends every email, every voicemail, every text, every car ride, every dinner and every night out with love. 

I spent many Le Club nights falling into best-friendship with Melissa. And I couldn't be more sure that wasn't the booze talking. It's because she's awesome and wonderful and I suddenly feel very Springer towards anyone who says otherwise. 

We took the Le Club Town Car home...yeah, there's a Town Car. It's quite the nice touch! And we crashed at my house, watching Cheers until 3 o'clock in the morning. I hope we're not the only two people in the world who fight about who gets to be Carla. I've always felt Carla wasn't appreciated enough, perhaps due to my sinking suspicion I'm my office's Carla. Oh, I'm no Diane. I'm definitely Carla, just taller and with conditioner. 

Diane's too slow on the uptake. 

Anyway, I wish I could tell you the swanky society shindig was overflowing with scandal. It wasn't. It was actually really fun, if for no other reason than the fact that I was back at Le Club with Le Friend till Le Dawn. 

Sadly, however, I fear the next themed party invitation I receive will result in my attending a rather subdued barnyard BBQ as the ass-end of a cow costume. 

At least I know I won't be alone in there...

"if you look to the left side of the cabin, you can see the beautiful...THUD."

There is an airplane in the air, RIGHT NOW, with a dead pilot. Interestingly, my first thought was, "Continental still flies?"

i still don't know how it ends...

You never know when your eyes flutter open in the morning and you fling your feet onto the floor the weirdness the day has in store. Like I said, it’s the last two weeks on insanity in my day job right now and as we’ve all got to work weekends, the staff (all four of us) get to pick a weekday to take off. My day was yesterday and I looked forward to catching up on both my mental and physical health, agreeing to meet Tim the Trainer for a session in Golden Gate Park’s Polo Fields.
You’d think Tim would go easy on me, what with it being my first official post-drunk session with him. As far as I’m concerned, if I can’t have any martinis, I don’t need to do any lunges. But nope, Tim had me running around the track like I was running for my life. He discovered that the best way to get me to run is to promise that if I caught up, I could hit him.
Anyway, as I was forced to run (again, something I would not do were I being chased by a psycho with an axe), this huge bodybuilder with weights on his wrists and ankles emerges from his pushups on a bicycle rack and says, “Lisa!”
Um, no. I’m Beth.”
“Oh yeah, Beth! Of course. I knew that! What’s up, girl!?!? I’m Joe’s friend!”
Random, muscley gay in a public park who knows Joe?
Sounds about right.
Tim and I jogged on. “Do you know that guy?”
“No. At least not sober.”
“That’s weird.”
Tim then forced me to sprint to some destination miles ahead and I reached it, throwing my elbows down on my knees and sticking my head between my legs. Birds squawked away in fear from my labored breathing and disheveled fly-aways. You know who wasn’t afraid on me? This weird Thai dude with those little running shorts with the side slits showing off his muscular, tan, old man thighs.
“Running good for you!” He screamed at us.
Tim, not winded in the least responded, “Yeah!”
”Great day for run!”
“Sure is!”
I may have glanced at him with disdain. After all, I am exercising. No one is allowed to look/address/mock me. Does shaman hair not know the rules?
“We run today! We eat good food!”
What the fuck is this guy talking about? Tim screamed back at him, “We sure do! That’s what it’s all about!”

Is this a trick, a ploy? Because I’ve never wanted to run so bad in my life, just to get myself away from this stupid conversation. Finally done with training, I hopped in my car and decided to take myself to the movies. The Century 20 Theater in Daly City is fairly anonymous. Parking is abundant and free and it’s so massive, you can really sneak from movie to movie and no one cares. Since I was already in the Sunset, I drove down there and settled in for a 12:45 viewing of The Hangover. There was quite a cast of characters heading to the movies in the middle of a Tuesday. My theater was filled with a loud-whispering elderly couple, a few random singles and ‘The Bros.’ There were at least three of these straight man “couples” and HAND TO GOD, they all sat with one chair between them, providing what my grandmother would call ‘room for the Holy Spirit.’ I’d heard tell of this straight man habit, refusing to sit next to one another at the movies lest legs touch. I’d just never seen it with my own eyes before.
The Bros were hella into The Hangover, as was I, although perhaps for different reasons. While yes, there is a touch of the douche, Bradley Cooper in that black suit with the tan and the unbutton and…my stars.
Anyway, the movie was just about over when all of a sudden, this light flashes in the distance. I thought someone had taken a picture of the audience, that’s what it looked like. The light flashed again, coming from a corner above the movie screen. And then, flash again. Others began to notice.
Flash!
And then faster. Flash, flash, flash!
The flash began to flicker as the movie on the screen faded to black and the lights came on. Over the groans and “What the fucks!” from the masses, a loudspeaker announced, “Ladies and Gentlemen, may we have your attention. The fire alarm has been activated and we ask that you calmly leave the theater and find the nearest exit.”
Cue mayhem. Everyone leapt to their feet and, I kid you not, panicked, pushing and shoving their way to the door. Not that I wish to die in a towering inferno in Daly City, but I’d already run that morning.
Film aficionados were flooding out of all 20 theaters and I was having none of it. I figured there was 10 minutes of this movie left and I certainly wasn’t going to stand around with 200 people waiting for a refund on my $8.75.
The movie theater was on fire. I was going home.
Brock and I decided to spend the evening enjoying another “salon des bon mots” at Spruce, so I went home, wrote my Culture Blog and took a shower. With my pink silk kimono over my ripped jeans (seriously, I had to mention this, I’m so pleased with this look), I picked Brock up, parking along a little alley near his apartment.
“Oh, I can’t believe where you’ve parked!” Brock said, sliding into the passenger seat. “A pizza boy was pistol whipped here last week. Like, right here.”
Terrific. I sped the hell out of there and across town, into Spruce. We found two marvelous seats at the bar and debated what to order.
“You know,” confessed Brock. “I’ve never been to Le Club.”
“You want to go to Le Club?”
“Well, yeah. Unless you think it would be a trigger. I’d hate for me to push you off the wagon.”
“We can go, sure.”
“Can we get in?”
Yeah, Brock. We can get in.
After a flawless dinner and what Brock would describe as “breezy” conversation, we headed over to Nob Hill and into Le Club. I haven’t been back there since knocking back a good 11 martinis on a Monday night. And a bottle of champagne. And shots during poker in the game room with people who claim to be models in Milan and then demanding they be kicked out. I really didn’t know if I could return to my favorite party spot without my old school, scene causing, making out with the bus boy alcoholic antics.
Turns out I can! Oh, how I can!
Cassidy fixed me up with a “virgin sacrifice” and Brock with a martini, told us about his tourism ideas for the swingers set and introduced us to Rupert, the Windsor knot at the end of the bar who reads my Culture Blog.
Yes, Le Club. I still love you.
Around 11, Brock and I threw on our pashminas and headed home, locking arms and walking to the car.
“That was just marvelous!”
“I know! What fun!”
“Rupert’s our new friend!”
“You had cider in a champagne glass!”
“Bon mots!”
I dropped off my beloved Brock, felt a twinge guilty for Le Club cheating on Melissa and headed home. What a day, I thought as I dropped my bag on the dining room table. Public park strangers, running and push-ups, flaming and evacuated movie theaters, breezy burgers at the bar of Spruce and my Le Club Come Back…I was ready to collapse. This day of leisure really took it outta me.
But…oh my god! OH MY GOD! TherealhousewivesofnewjerseyisonanditsFIGHTNIGHT!!!!!

Money really means nothing to me. Do you think I'd treat my parents' house this way if it did...

Today's Culture Blog is up! Please enjoy my thoughts on fellow SFGate bloggers, Billy and Peter Getty. I hope I don't get fired...

we'll actually do a lot of things so you don't have to...

Last Saturday, Beth H. and I hit the town again, capturing the nightlife to bring it to you fine people. You can check it out on the SF Appeal RIGHT HERE.  I don't know what event is next on our dance card, although I'm hoping it'll be the Frameline Film Festival, as we've has such success with the gays. We actually wanted to film a tour of Alcatraz. Do you know how much it costs to film on Alcatraz? Like, $600. You have to actually rent a ranger. And since Phil Hartman is tragically dead, well, forget it.

Anyway, if you've got any brilliant ideas of where The Beths should go next, email me at beth (at) sfappeal (dot) com! I, personally, would like to cover your wedding. 

And shout outs to the Appeal and VidSF for letting us do this. Because really, it's ridiculous...

oh dear god, this is excruciating...

Pardon my lack of posts. I feel as if I've abandoned you.
This is one of the blessedly few times a year the day job must rule my life. I love my day job, I really do. I get to work with lovely people for a non-profit I adore.
But I think I broke my foot at work today.
After 2 back-to-back 11 hour days running around the top of the mountain, it was finally time for us to leave. So about an hour ago, Amanda, John and I headed for the parking lot a quarter of a mile down the hill. Carrying a huge box of filthy crap, Amanda asked if I could grab the massive 1970's thermos precariously balanced on top.
I grabbed the thermos and began a little routine about how much I hate the word thermos, how "thermos" makes me wildly uncomfortable. We got to the parking lot and I handed the thermos to Amanda who placed it on the roof of her car as she loaded everything else. As we stood and chatted, the thermos (half filled with ancient and probably spiked coffee) slid from her roof and crashed on top of my right foot.
After previously and privately agreeing that a woman who'd "totally ate it" earlier reacted too dramatically to her own fall, I briefly screamed in pain but shook it off within seconds.
"Oh, that's okay." I said though clenched teeth. "I'm fine."
"Jesus!" Amanda winced. "That looks like it really hurt."
"No, no." I thought I was going to die. "It's no big deal."
It's an hour later, I am now home and I can't move my toes. My foot's not so much swollen as it is dull with pain, a navy half-moon the shape of a thermos base throbbing atop my dirt-covered appendage.
Since there's got to be some gay former boy scout reading this somewhere, what the hell do I do? My first instinct is to get a pedicure and call 911. That can't be right...

ah gerald, how lovely to see you again...

Tell me you heard about the woman who missed Air France flight 447 and then died in a car crash. You've been discussing it all day, haven't you? Me too!

Did the Grim Reaper just have it out for her? What if she's the reason the plane crashed in the first place, some hellish, gloved finger pointing at her to die. Then she misses the flight, killing all of the innocents on board for no good reason. So Beelzebub or God or whomever is like, Damn it! She's keeps getting away! Not today! 

Swerve, scream, crash. 

I don't mean to make light of this tragedy, I really don't. I'm just wondering what freakish coincidence is next? They do find one body floating around the Atlantic alive, but it's Natalee Holloway? 

Also on our docket for today is the Don of Chinatown. I don't want to be sleeping with the sweet and sour shrimp, but check out this dude's outfit. Apparently, Raymond "Shrimp Boy" Chow, after spending 25 years in what Mel calls "the pokey" is now in charge of the Chinatown Night Market. 

We're all thinking the same thing, aren't we?

Chinatown has a night market?!?!?!?! 

I love Asian night markets!!!

Anyway, I guess Shrimp Boy's been strong-arming the competition. While this issue is certainly pressing, I have some questions about this night market: Are there knock-offs? Like mainland knock-offs? What kind of North Fake are we talking? Tiffany? Bvlgari? Seriously, I need a new ostentatious Gucci belt buckle. Because if Shrimp Boy can get me faux Marc Jacobs luggage for under $40 (apres haggling), I really don't care if he's the slightest bit shady or wears dramatic yellow gold man-jewelry. 

Finally, I can't remember if I'd mentioned this or not: I'm obsessed with Reggie Love. For those of you living in the normal, non-political people world, he's the real life Charlie. (Right now, a bunch of me's are going, "Ohhhhhh.") I think it's fantastic that the Obama Administration has basically re-cast The West Wing for...The West Wing. I watched that NBC special about the White House and other than spending the whole time swooning over Reggie, I realized that I love Rahm Emmanuel. Rumor has it, Rahm was the inspiration for Josh Lyman, and we all know Josh Lyman is the greatest West Wing "character" ever. Okay, well Josh and C.J.. Oh, and Lord John Marbury! 

Anyway, where's Rahm been all my life? Am I that out of it? This guy was in Congress? Apparently, he's a foul-mouthed hardass, which only makes me love him more. And what a great name, Rahm. Don't you just want to sigh, "Rahm."

As in, "Rahm, oh Rahm. Take me to the Chinatown night market."

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Seriously, just watch for the Hilary handshake at 1:25...

casa del newsom...

Lordy, one more click. You people are troopers!

Here are my "See Spot Write" thoughts on Gavin's new love nest.

I have to confess, I now feel guilty for mocking his real estate investments. He just sent me a direct message on Twitter that was neither dismissive nor cold. It was normal, friendly...

OH MY GOD, I STILL LOVE HIM!

crystal ball on room 200...

My predictions for the Mayor's race...in like 11 years. Check out Today's Culture Blog!

Well we'll dream for you: Billy, and Bobby, and Murph, Bugsy, Sully, and Alfred Pierre... Sleep well... Good Night...

Please enjoy my thoughts on the Air France tragedy in today's See Spot Crash. I wrote this (and this) whilst sitting in the SF Appeal offices! It's all very exciting...

i *heart* eugene mirman...

Not since David screamed "You're killin' me, Kira!" on the Real World Seattle have I fallen so instantly in love...

...with Scientology.

whether or not i want to know is moot now, wouldn't you say...

It’s definitely got its perks, my parents’ home being so close to my job. I generally crash there at least one night a week when I’ve got to work late, and with my mom off to New York for the Spring, my dad tends to leave me alone when he’s not bringing me breakfast in bed. Like I said, there are perks.
My father’s never really stuck his nose in my business. I’m a girl so as far as he’s concerned, I could be on the brink of an emotional explosion over some guy or some lipgloss at all times. Anything remotely girly, he washes his hands of, not because he’s some big, butch man. But because it makes him wildly uncomfortable. Like the time my mother went away on a business trip when I was three. I was certainly fed and tucked in and loved. But I was left to my own devices in terms of bathing, clothing and accessorizing myself. Which is how I ended up at preschool in a taffeta party dress and baseball hat with no underwear on. My mother, returning from the airport, picked me up at school where she was gently pulled aside by a teacher and informed I had been sent to preschool commando. It’s not that my dad thinks three year olds should wander the world naked. He just regarded my ensemble as none of his business.
Anyway, I love my mom and I’m thrilled she’s back from the Big Apple. I got to their house from work yesterday evening and she covered me in kisses and then said, “You’re exhausted. Here’s a Diet Coke. I’ll leave you alone.”
This morning, I woke up, showered and dressed for work, pulling this skirt from the pile of clothes I keep in my brother’s room.
I kissed my dad goodbye.
“You look cute!” my dad hollered.
I went to kiss my mom goodbye. I walked in and found her working at the computer. She looked up at me and smiled. “Do you want to know that I can see your black underpants through your white skirt.”
Sigh.
Hey lady, at least I’m wearing some…

this is all very fox mulder...

Apparently Kung Fu star David Carradine did not kill himself. He died of autoerotic asphyxiation, which I guess is better than suicide. Which makes you more of a legend? Tragically and dramatically taking your own life or dying in a closet in Bangkok while trying to masturbate? Well, at least David gets listed with Wikipedia's other famous cases of kooky suffocation sex.

Anyway, lately I've been learning a lot about David Carrdine, or as I now know him, Martha Plimpton's uncle. He's been married 5 times, not including his relationship with the horrendous Barbara Hershey, with whom he has a child. His most recent marriage was held at the home of my personal hero, Michael Madsen or as he is known in the depths of my heart, Jimmy from Thelma & Louise. 

And then I thought this quote was kinda interesting: 

"All we can say is, we know David would never have committed suicide," said Tiffany Smith of Binder & Associates, his management company.

Binder & Associates? Wait a second. Where do I know Binder from?

current events and what not...

There are so many things I want to discuss with you today!
Okay, let's talk Air France first, since it's so tragic, worrisome, etc. The airline is now telling relatives of the passengers to give up hope of someone found floating in the middle of the Atlantic, a la Cast Away. You know, if my brother was on that plane, I don't think I could ever fully accept that he was down at the bottom of that "mountainous" ocean. Not my brother. He'd be on an island somewhere, with amnesia, waiting for his big sister to come find him...Oh God. Moving on, I spent much of this Spring obsessed with plane crashes, particularly black box recordings and final moments of cockpit to tower conversations. So if this plane broke apart in mid-air, did people die instantly? Were some sucked out of the plane while others plummeted towards the ocean? What would we have done were on that plane? I'll tell you one thing. The second I knew death was knocking at my door, I would've grabbed a handful of Smirnoff bottles and gotten busy.
In other news, Jon and Kate Plus 8 has jumped the shark. It is now thirtysomething with kids. Kate has turned this into some sweeping, shitty, suburban, unsophisticated English Patient and I can't even watch anymore. She's so morose, such a martyr, staring off into the distance as one of her 47 children desperately yet kindly tries to win her attention. I did enjoy that Jon missed Kate's obnoxious "Woe is Me" birthday to go help disabled people and foxy ladies go skiing.
Finally, Real Housewives of New Jersey is a goddamn treasure. Danielle, the nut of New Jersey has finally been outted for getting "busted by the feds" 24 years ago and all hell is breaking loose. I love how Teresa is discussing the "quote" rumors about Danielle then then announces, "First there were the rumors, now there's the book" as she dramatically holds up THIS out-of-print masterpiece, which includes Danielle/Beverly's mugshot.
Oh, and then David Caradine killed himself today. So, there's that...

this is why we drink diet coke, folks. this...

There are a million reasons why I should not be allowed to interact with the public, but the most recent happened mere moments ago. I was on the phone with an older, thickly-accented woman who had many, many questions about many, many things, all of which I'm delighted to answer. In the middle of this conversation, leaning back in my swivel chair with my feet crossed atop my desk, I decided to be all healthy (mistake #1) and drink my Kombucha instead of snacking on the fucking smorgasbord in my office. Kombucha, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure, "is the Western name for sweetened tea or tisane that has been fermented using a macroscopic solid mass of microorganisms called a "kombucha colony." It's basically supposed to "support" digestion, metabolism, the immune system, appetite control, weight control, liver function, body alkalinity, anti-aging, cell integrity and healthy skin and hair.
I know, I know. I'm practically Jesus for drinking this shit.
Anyway, what with that colony collecting at the bottom of my bottle, I followed the big "Do Not Shake" warning by gently tilting my "Organic Raw Kombucha Botanic No. 7" so that all of the crap at the bottom of the bottle distributed. I guess that would be mistake #2. Finally, still answering the bevy of questions this woman must have written down before calling our offices, I twisted the cap of my Kombucha.
It started to explode right away, but seemed like something I could keep under control. A little Kombucha on my desk is no big deal amid the coffee stains and Post-Its from November. But with the cap half open, some kind of physics experiment occurred and this goddamn Kombucha started going everywhere. The computer, the keyboard, the phone, the walls, the personal photos tacked to the walls, the handbag 10 feet away on the conference table, the window beside me, the window that's far away...everywhere. It was certainly all over me. And I'm still on the phone.
"Oh God." I started to whisper. "Oh my God."
The Kombucha hissed, a screeching warning to my co-workers to come running and watch in horror.
"Oh no!" I gasped. "Oh, can you, just, one second..."
The woman on the other end of the phone began to scream, "What is happening?!?! What is going on!?!?!?!"
"I just spilled...I'm spilling... Jesus Christ..." I had to get the cap all the way off, it's being half on seeming to make the explosion worse. But to get the cap all the way off, I'd have to get much closer.
"Can you hold on? Can I please put you on...oh GOD!...hold?"
"What is going on!?!?!?!"
"Kombucha! It's exploding! I'm putting you on hold!"
"Fine!" She hollered, as if she herself were suffering this fermented shower.
My co-workers stood watching me in disgust, asking stupid questions like, "What happened?" and saying stupid things like, "That smells."
They did help me clean up, however. On their hands and knees, with bleach and towels, screams of "We'll have to move buildings!" echoed from below my desk. They're right, of course. The sweet vinegar continues to waft all around me as I type this. You can almost see it, like in cartoons. I'm surrounded by hazy, burgundy fog.
Finally, with my window opened and a stack of Clorox Wipes in my garbage can, my co-worker screamed across the office, "Who's on hold?"

hip. hip hop. hip hop anonymous...

Today's Culture Blog is up. Hop on over...

and i hate cartoons...

I had dinner with my fabulous friend John last week, finally losing my Delfina virginity. I'm sure it's been shoved down our throats for years, Delfina is the new Italian restaurant. It's right in my hood, I've passed it a million times, I pride myself on hitting anywhere with buzz before the regular folks go... I just never made it to Delfina. (I bet you real money I would've been had they valet.)

I've always been a late bloomer. Ugh, it's so embarrassing. I wait and wait and wait and then, suddenly, the clouds part, the sun shines and I get what the hell the big deal is. 

When I finally gave it up and had, you know, the sex, I called my BFF the next morning and whispered, "Oooohhhhh. I see."

The same thing happened with booze, and look how that turned out. 

I refused to watch "Mad Men" for ages and, um August!

And I took one bite of that chicken liver crostini at Delfina and had to interrupt John mid-sentence, "Oh my GOD!"

"What?"

"This food, it's..."

"I know."

"It's amazing!"

He looked at me like I was nuts. I guess everyone else is there constantly. "I'm so glad you like it." 

I liked it so much, I dragged Mel to their Pac Heights Pizzeria yesterday. 

We love it!

So, I'm finally learning this lesson. I didn't learn it carnally. I didn't really learn it drunk. I guess I didn't learn it with the symbiosis of the two, Mad Men. But I finally get the point. Sometimes, when people go on and on and on about how goddamn fabulous something is, they might have a point. 

The tragic result of my learning this lesson, alas, is that now I have to see Up...

etymology of origin...

My brother, his girlfriend and John came over to my folks' house for dinner on Thursday night. The four of us barbecued and watched the Scripts National Spelling Bee, as prompted to by an early text from Big Chris.
"Oh, oh you guys!" I gasped. "The Spelling Bee is on!"
Much to my delight, all four of us became immediately engrossed in the entire thing, kept entertained by occasional texts from Chris who watching the Bee at his Grandpa's house. Like everyone else, I contracted Bee fever after watching the documentary, Spellbound which follows several teenagers as they train and compete in the National Spelling Bee, in those days broadcast on ESPN. I guess the movie kicked the Bee up a notch, as this year, it was on ABC and hosted by Tom Bergeron, ruiner of America's Funniest Home Videos. The families of the finalists were allowed on stage, which is also new and we got little "up close and personal" glimpses of the spellers in pre-taped snippets. It was totally the Brain Olympics and I'm amazed my mother never forced me into this.
All of spellers are sponsored by a local paper, and I have no idea which papers around here sponsor spellers, but they need to start. I love, love, love the Spelling Bee and it's now my new greatest regret. I should've won that thing.
Many of the finalists were first generation Americans, prompting the following texts from Big Chris:
"If they really want to challenge these spellers, they should have to spell each others' last names" and the appalling and brilliant, "Didn't I see all these kids dancing at the end of Slumdog Millionaire?"
It was clear that the organizers had attempted to bring a lighthearted tone to the proceedings, as every time a word was asked to be used in a sentence, the sentence would be a little tongue in cheek.
Oh, Scripts. You're too much.
But after having to essentially devoted their lives to the bee, the contestants weren't kidding around. Big on personality, except for the Asian kid who was, to say the least, over it, a few kids completely lost it when they misspelled a word. Like a huge gay kid with a moustache: total water works, head in his hands, sobbing. Emilie announced, "The hairy one's crying!" and my phone vibrated with another Chris text, "I wish I could grow that."
After the Bee, Alex showed us his favorite clip of Bees past. Always one for "great moments in sports," my brother could not have greater respect for this amazing kid:
I, on the other hand, feel for this courageous speller. Because we all know what it's like to try and "bee" funny...

Congratulations to all of the spellers!

let me tell you a'something about my family...

Let me just preface this post by saying that I find the mafia fascinating, wonderful and an important historical slice of American capitalism. I am all for the media glorifying organized crime as it related t0 Italian Americans in the 20th century. I don't want to sleep with the fishes, folks. I'd be a fantastic mafia wife. And I don't know nothin' about nothin'.
That being said, let's please discuss the totally fabulous mafia connection found in The Real Housewives of New Jersey.
(If you're not watching this show, stop reading now, go grab a Wall Street Journal, you fuckin' bookworm and go fuck yourself.)
Okay, now that they're gone, you know Caroline? Sisters Caroline and Dina are married to brothers Albert and Tommy Manzo and they all own The Brownstone, New Jersey's premiere wedding destination. It is important to note that Caroline and Al have three kids, including a very hot son on his way to law school named Albie and we love him. Oh, how we love Albie.
Turns out, Grandpa Manzo, whose nickname, I shit you not, was Tiny, was found "naked, bound in plastic, and stuffed in the trunk of a Lincoln Continental with four slugs in his chest. It has been reported that Tiny was whacked after he was caught skimming the take from an illegal casino owned by the Gambino crime family in Staten Island."
Favoloso!
Caroline told some blog called the Beast, “In August of 1984 my husband and his family were victims of a horrific crime [Tiny’s murder]. To this day, 26 years later, the family does not know the whys or the hows of that event…the real crime here is the assumptions that are made against this family.”
You would think this would be the most interesting thing about Albert "Tiny" Manzo, what with the wacking and the Lincoln Continental. Nope. The most interesting thing about Albert "Tiny" Manzo is that he ran for Mayor of Patterson, New Jersey in the 70's on a platform advocating public hangings.
And lost!
You'd think all of Patterson, New Jersey circa 1974 would think public hangings were a terrific idea. I'm shocked Tiny didn't win in a landslide...a landslide of dirt from a shady construction site that just happened to bury alive some no-good, fanook babbos and buttons.
Alright, alright, Caroline. I believe and adore you and your family, nor do I particularly want to fuck with any of you, except maybe Albie. So I'm totally on board that Tiny was the victim of a tragic, unsolved crime. Nor do I believe all of the crappy reviews of the Brownstone. The place looks like a real classy joint. I think it's a nice touch that the website links to other local and recommended businesses one might want to hire when holding an event at The Brownstone. Like John Agnello Photography.
Agnello, Agnello...where do I know that name from?
Oh yeah...