Wednesday, June 30, 2004


Every morning, I drive 40 minutes to work. This would normally be much more tolerable than it actually is, had my coffee not attacked my CD player early one day, and left me with mere radio as my sole companion. Rhonda the Honda, being the base model that she is, gets about 5 stations, and my commute is filled with a medley of soft rock, hardcore rap, and gospel.
On most mornings, I devise little games to entertain myself. My favorite game is when I pretend I'm in a music video, to whatever song happens to be on KOIT. This morning, that song was "Ain't Nobody", by Chaka Khan. This, being one of my favorite songs EVER, meant my twisted, psychotic pretend video had to rock. Don't worry. It did.
When I'm pretending I'm in a video, I'm not driving my car in the video. I'm in leather pants, I have a posse of scantily clad vixens, I kick men out of my way with my stiletto sling backs.
Oh, and I actually sing out loud. And by sing, I mean I belt it.
So, here I am, driving down Lombard Street, singing at the top of my lungs, hair flips abound, lost in my own vocal stylings and improvised riffs, and pretending I'm driving a Vanquish through the foggy streets of Manhattan.
Approaching a red light poses an interesting dilemma. I can’t just stop. I’m too invested. I’m lost in the music, the strobe lights, the dry ice machine. Red lights can't stop my video. I fall further into the fantasy.
“Now, we’re flying through the stars, I hope this night will last forever. Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh…”
And with this last key change, I turn towards the camera (driver’s side window) and open my eyes. Stopped next to me is a Land Rover filled with hot Marina yuppie scum, all staring at me. They’re not laughing. This is beyond merely singing along with the radio. This is beyond charmingly quirky. I can see it in their eyes. This is sad.
Suddenly, I was back in San Francisco, is my ghetto little car, feeling like a jackass.
I wish I had thrown a lit cigarette in their precious Rover. I wish I had laughed in their suburban Caucasian faces. I wish I had cranked up the Chaka, crawled on top of the car, and continued my video, before God and everyone.
But I didn’t. I sank in my seat, changed the station to some dreadful Usher song about impregnating people, and prayed for a green light.
The worst thing about this is, my retarded pretend Chaka Khan video is a million times cooler than the 1997 episode of Suddenly Susan they were obviously pretending to be in. And I’m the one that felt like an idiot.
I’m being judged by a 35 year old man with highlights, and I’m the loser.

Tuesday, June 29, 2004


It's my second to last day of work, and Margot and I are alone in the office. Now that Carol, the prop lady, has returned all of the faux folliage and "stylishly" arranged it about the room, KFOG won't come on the radio anymore, due to the large basket of plastic squash placed atop the stereo. Thanks a million, Carol.
Normally, when it's just the kids in the office, Ben plays us a medely of hits on Rhapsody, his online music site. But Ben is gone, and Margot has us listening to some kind of acid jazz involving scat. Thanks a million, Margot.
Thus, we're forced to try and hack into Rhapsody, guessing at what Ben's password might be. Ben, complex fellow that he is, isn't making this very easy for us. Damn you, Ben Coe Freak Show. Damn you.
We've tried, "IwantMargot" and "IwantBeth". To our shock, it's neither. Nor is it "clay", "hippies", or "weed." We're at a loss. So Ben, if you're reading this...
What the fuck is your password?

And, oh yeah, we miss you.

Unexpected Fun...

The other day, my beloved living companion, Bonnie, called me at work and invited me to the Giants game. Apparently, her company, Gymboree, got a bunch of tickets somehow, and Bonnie grabbed us two. Having no idea who else from Gymbo was going, and quite frankly, not really caring, we threw on jeans and sweatshirts and cabbed it to Pac Bell. Upon arrival, we scoped the scene of thousands of baseball lovers entering the stadium and gave each other a knowing look. There were a lot of cute boys here, and not many cute girls. The odds were looking good.
Now, I’m not a sports lover. I’ll scream and yell and do the wave, but I’m not invested in who wins. I don’t know the player’s names or their stats. And, I really only applaud the good looking ones. But any event which combines libations and a ballpark filled with men is an event I’m likely to attend.
Our seats were practically in the blimp circling the stadium, we were so high up. We hiked to our section, and made our way to the seats. Um, wait a second. There are two really cute guys in the seats right next to us, and they’re already well on their way to drunk. We sit down, and share a second knowing look.
They are Butch and Rocco*, and they are hilarious. Butch is new to Gymbo, and as his lady-friend was unavailable, he brought along Rocco. Rocco is (…wait for it…) a porn distributor. I take a sip from my water bottle filled with Merlot. This is going to be interesting.
By the 5th inning, I’m freezing and tired of pretending to care about the game. Conveniently enough, Butch and Rocco are ready to leave as well, and kindly invite us to join them at a bar. With stifled giggles and many elbow nudges, Bonnie and I agree, and the 4 of us depart the stadium. Rocco has some dive bar in mind, and we follow him blindly for blocks until we reach The Eagle’s Lounge. The Eagles’ Lounge is much like it sounds, a relic of a bygone era. It’s the kind of place 1970’s Michigan union workers hang out in, complete with a juke box, pool table, and lone patron passed out at the bar. Bonnie discovered a cozy nook with a dart board and a few booths, and we set up camp.
Butch and Rocco went off to get drinks, and as the only wine available was airline mini-bottle screw top, I opted for a Vodka and Cranberry.
We then proceeded to play a very intense and competitive game of darts. (“You suck, Marin. You suck!”) Apparently, everyone else had been dart champions in previous lives, because comparatively, I did indeed suck. Who cares? We’re getting drunk with random cute strangers.
Suddenly, a tray of Jaggermeister shots was placed before me. Guns and Roses blared from the juke box. Butch began to dance. I am a bar snob, much preferring the sophisticated ambiance of Le Colonial to the duct taped booths of the Eagle’s Lounge. But I have to admit, this place rocked. Soon after, the popular catchphrase was coined, “What happens in the Lounge, stays in the Lounge.”
Hours later, we stumbled onto the sidewalk, clutching our companions yet knowing that we must leave them wanting more. After many hugs, phone number exchanges, and promises to do this again as soon as is humanly possible, they put us in a cab and waved goodbye. As we erupt into giggles, Bonnie looks over and says, “I love unexpected fun.” Well said, my morally ambiguous roommate. Well said.

* names have been changed to protect Bonnie’s co-workers.

Monday, June 28, 2004


I spent Saturday morning in a hung-over haze, drinking coffee and hoping for a good movie on TBS or similar. I ended up watching The American Film Institute’s Lifetime Achievement Award Tribute to Meryl Streep and it's opened a whole new world for me. Really, is there anything better than a 2 hour televised celebrity studded extravaganza whose sole purpose is public worship and adoration?

No, there isn't.

Thus, I've decided this is how I'd like my next birthday celebrated. I want an AFI Lifetime Achievement Tribute, staring me and my glorious celebrity friends and colleagues, full of video montages and tearful videotaped messages of love from the likes of Oprah Winfrey, Tom Hanks, and (gasp) Bill Murray. Oh, no. I want Bill to host, actually. And, each fabulous year of my life will be detailed and applauded, the audience enthralled by my dance recitals, touched by my personal tragedies, and inspired by my joie de vivre. All the while, I sit, swaddled in plaid taffeta (don't ask) behind a floral encrusted dais chugging Stag's Leap and pretending to be modest.
Oh look. Here comes George Clooney. He winks at me from the stage, shares some personal tidbits about our close and often written about friendship, and then chokes up as he recounts the first time he saw me across a crowded room at The Sundance Film Festival.
Wait. It's the cast of Friends doing a choreographed dance routine to a medley of my favorite songs. And, here we have Bill Clinton, so moved he can barely speak, save for referring to me as a "confidant and close personal advisor." He bows his head and touches his heart. There are no words.
Finally, once the endless parade of Beth worship comes to an end, I must make my way past the thousands of admirers (Kevin Spacey, I can't believe you made it!) and onto the stage for my speech. Looking out into the crowd, a sea of adoring faces all turned to me, I begin. I thank my family, my dear friends, all the talented people I've ever worked with. I joke, I reminisce, I wink back at George Clooney. And when it's all finally over, my limo whisks me away to my top secret VIP after party at SkyBar, exclusively photographed by Vanity Fair. I make my entrance just as J-Lo is turned away at the door and I strut directly onto the dance floor, where I immediately begin to bust a move with Justin Timberlake and his back up dancers. I party till the wee hours, pass out amid a mountain of delivered bouquets, and awake poor and alone at 916A, the only clues as to the previous night's events being an empty bottle of Cristal and a mysterious hickey, rumored to be the mark of Clooney.
Bonnie, make it happen.

Friday, June 25, 2004

I lied...

Fuck it. I'm going to The Midnight Sun and Badlands tonight. I'm actually going with my high school friend, Rob, who is now apparently gay. I found out about Rob's new homo tendencies on Friendster, to which I am addicted. Everyone is on there, including old high school flame's who are now advertising for man-sex. Thus far, in addition to Rob, I've discovered my 3rd garde boyfriend AND the one night stand I had in Ireland. Neither of them are out yet, but I won't be surprised when they do.