Saturday, July 31, 2004

flashbacks...

When you're housesitting, there's a whole library of music and books that you want to try out. This evening, while going through their CD collection, I came across Carly Simon's Anticipation album. I haven't heard this album since I was a little kid running around Sea Ranch, and all of a sudden, my childhood is flooding back. This is surprisingly intense. I'm trying to get ready to go out, but quite frankly, I don't want my ride to show up because I need to re-experience this album. Seriously. I'm about to cry.
It's a sad day in the life of Beth when I'd rather spend a Saturday night making a fire and listening to Carly Simon instead of hitting the town with my friends. They'd never let me get away with it, but secretly, it's what I really want to do.
I know you all think I have shitty taste in music, and fuck you very much by the way. But do yourself a favor and get this album.
Fuck. I need a hankie.

hot tuna...

As most of you know, I have a few good straight guy friends who occasionally request that I accompany them on apparel shopping sprees. Today, Darren and I went downtown to purchase him an entirely new wardrobe. The boy needs it. I told him today, he looked like the Unabomber. Darren's a little touchy about his pristine new Acura, and as we're stuck at a light around Union Square, a 3-toothed hobo sticks half his body inside the car and asks for tuna.
Tuna? Yep. Tuna.
Darren would have shit his pants, were it not for his precious leather seats. We sped off and spent money, but the tuna hobo stays in my mind. Sure, he's nuts. And probably hungry. But what are the odds that we'd have some tuna? Does he ever have success with this? Does he ask for other foods? And what kind of tuna did he want? Are we talking seared Ahi or Star of the Sea?
PS. If you see a straight guy walking around like he was just made over by the Fab Five, that'd be Darren. I don't know how many high school math teachers walk around in Emmanuel Ungarro, but my boy looks fierce.

always the gentleman...

...an e-mail received this moring...

Hey Girl,
I think I came across a photo of David (naked, w/a big hard on) on line. I want to know if you think it's him, too. But I wouldn't send you a photo of a man w/ a big hard on unless you said it was OK. So,write me back and let me know if you want to see it.
later,
Doug

Friday, July 30, 2004

margot, don't read this...

Not 10 minutes ago, I was walking downstairs to go crawl into the huge purple velvet chaise in the den and read my trashy novel, when I spotted a small object in the doorway of the guest bathroom. It was a fucking dead bird. Keep in mind, this isn't the first dead bird I've encountered while housesitting. Years ago, while at Judy and Jerry's old house in Sea Cliff, I was standing at the sink washing dishes when all of a sudden, a bird flew right into the window directly in front of me and then dropped 2 stories to the garden below. I ran onto the kitchen deck and looked down. The poor creature was twitching and erratically moving. Emma, a rotweiler who understands me like no one else, was going nuts, sniffing and barking at the dying bird. I decided to call my mother, a notorious animal hater, for advice.
"Ignore it till it dies, then toss it in the bushes."
This from the woman who sent me to 4th grade with chicken pox, telling everyone I had fleas. Carol Brady, she ain't. I couldn't stand to watch this bird in obvious hell, and I certainly couldn't forget about it, especially considering it had committed suicide right before my eyes. Should I call the SPCA? Should I put it out of it's misery? I had no idea.
I looked back out into the garden and Emma was now playing with the bird. I couldn't tell if it was still alive.
"Emma, drop the bird. Drop it, honey."
Emma drops her plaything and runs upstairs and inside. I tip toe down to the garden to inspect the morbid scene. The bird, finally dead, was a mess of blood and feathers. In an act of what some might call bravery, and others, cruelty, I took a paper towel, and tossed the corpse into the neighbor's yard.
Today, I found myself in a sadly similar situation.
Hey, it worked the first time around. The dead bird, that'd be dead bird #2, is now resting in peace next door, in a bed of hydrangeas. You'd think I'd feel some sadness for the dead creature or some guilt for throwing dead animals into stranger's perfectly manicured gardens.
Nope.
All I feel is a sense of deja vu and an aversion towards poultry.

robbing the cradle...

Nicolas Cage just married a 20 year old sushi waitress. Ewwww.

Why is everyone on Michael Jackson's case? At least he's talented. I know some of my friends adore Nicolas Cage, so I'll only say this: whining and acting are two different things. Cage is a fucking whiner. Oscar or not, the man's only good movie is Guarding Tess. Fuck, that's some good shit.

don't forget the cannoli...

Could I be more excited about "Growing Up Gotti"?

Nope. I couldn't be. God fucking bless A&E and Bravo. Where would I be without you? (Probably successful, sober, and significantly sexier.)

http://www.aetv.com/growingupgotti/

Thursday, July 29, 2004

good times...

Tonight, I had the loveliest little dinner party. Bonnie, Zoe, Kate, Kelsey, and Alex came over to my big housesitting house, and we cooked a huge amazing meal, and drank bottles of wine. We talked about the elections and our careers and who we like and who we hate. We laughed and joked and debated. And then, we drunkenly made a million cookies and all crammed in the hot tub. Exhausted, everyone all piled out and went home together, at a reasonable hour, and I'm about to crawl into a huge cozy bed and watch my crime crap on TV and call Andy. I couldn't be happier. I really couldn't. I know I complain, but sometimes, I love my life.

sorry, boys...

Yesterday, I was on the phone for awhile with my good friend, Kelsey. We came to the conclusion that really, all of our lives would be a lot easier without any men around. Thus, we propose this:
Move all men to Australia. Based on birthday, each woman gets a yearly trip Down Under. (For example, I’d be on the January 28th flight.) Muriel’s Wedding is always the in-flight movie. All the men line up, and you get to pick one to bring back. Whenever you’re done with him, send him back at any time, or simply keep him until your next birthday. Then, trade up. What? It sounds a lot like slavery? Well, what do you think they’ve been doing to us for the last 2000 years?
This way, they’re almost like pets. And hopefully, they’ll all develop those charming accents. It’s win-win. Men should be delighted to be used only for sex and eye candy. We don’t want your money. We’re not even particularly interested in your thoughts. And we certainly don’t need your mind-game bullshit. It all comes down to the nookie.
Now, if you find a good one, ladies, you may approach the Estrogen Alliance (made up of 12 brilliant women) and apply for a man permit. A man permit allows you a 5 year window to see if he’s worth the trouble. Because, as we all know, they can rock for a few months, but when the honeymoon is over, suddenly you’re opening your own goddamn door. If, at any time during the 5 years, you realize that this man is just like every other asshole, you may return him. You will also have the option of tattooing a note on his body somewhere, so that other women on other flights will know he’s a jerk.
If, by some freak chance, you and he spend 5 years in bliss, then you may apply for Permanent Man Status (PMS), which would be quite rare. This gets a little more complicated, as now females have to collectively agree that this man is worthy of living permanently amongst women. There is a world-wide vote (obviously, Australia is excluded) and the results are televised. Keep in mind, with PMS, you give up your seat on all flights Down Under.
Obviously, some details need to be worked out. With no women in Australia, who dresses them? I mean, they need to look cute when we come for selection. Also, what about the gays? I propose they should be allowed to live amongst the women. They’ve been nothing but good to us throughout history, and have been screwed by the straights as well.
Now, I know some good men, and I'm sure you do too. Prior to shipping them all off, you may make a case for your guy friends or current boyfriend. However, keep in mind that their history as it pertains to women will be debated hotly.
Regardless, Kelsey and I are ready to put this plan into action immediately. We’re currently in talks with prominent Australian women. We seek your support and look forward to a land in which women can live truly free.

drove downtown in the rain...

I fucking love The Barenaked Ladies. They rule. They rock. Ed is a god. But, I also know it’s kinda nerdy to live BNL, and the biggest clue to that is the fact that there were six (6) black people at the concert last night. We counted. That can’t be a good sign. So, I’m on a mission to bring BNL (and other Canadian 90’s alt-rock) into the “community.”
I’ll gather up all kinds of Sarah McLachlan and Alanis Morissette and pass it out at DL Hugley concerts or similar. Then, we’ll all wear plaid and sing about high school. It’ll be awesome. Join me.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

photogenic...

There’s a book by Erma Bombeck entitled, “When you look like your Passport Photo, it’s time to go home.” As most of you know, I’m going to China in two weeks, and thus, need to get a Visa. An international travel Visa requires an additional passport-esque photo. Thus, I drove myself down to the photo place and plopped my ten bucks on the counter. Now, I’m in sweats and a denim jacket, but truth be told, I caught a glimpse of myself on the way out, and I look pretty cute today.  So, how can it be that I’ve just taken the worst picture I’ve ever seen in my life? I actually look like I have Downs Syndrome. Literally. It’s ridiculous. Even the guy that took it was like, “Whoa.”
Quelle horreur.

you've got to have friends...

Sometimes, you need to get burned to know who really loves you. Man, you guys. This week, I found out. Bon and I are ready to hire a hitman. Regardless, I just want to say, I cannot believe how awesome my friends are. I don’t deserve you guys. I moan and bitch and call you at all hours to talk about my stupid problems, and you are always there for me. All of you. So, in no particular order: Bonnie, Dani, Zoe, Andy, Mercedes, Darren, Jason, Jesse, Christine, Kate, Katherine, Tammy, Pip, Carrie, Cindy, Molly, Paul, Kelsey, Margot, Ben, Judy, Irene, Jenny, Matt, Bosco, Ryan, John Boy, and Alex. I fucking love you guys. I can’t believe you put up with me. I promise, I’ll make it worth your while one day. Seriously. Who has 28 best friends? God, I love you people so much, I can barely stand it. I may never win that Oscar, so here’s your public thank you.

Plus, you guys are the only ones that actually read this. That’s why I really love you.

doe a deer...

Last night, I was walking Marilyn, the gorgeous golden retriever that I’m dogsitting. As you know, we’re up in the hills of Mill Valley, and I like to walk her along the windy roads and trails in the neighborhood. Along we walk, minding our own business, when suddenly, Marilyn reacts to a rustling in the bushes. Now, Marilyn reacting to anything is pretty exciting, so I immediately look over, and there, standing 10 feet away and staring directly at us, is a huge deer with monstrous antlers. This thing was a beast. I was probably eye to eye with it, and it’s antlers added another 2 or 3 feet.
Marilyn didn’t move. I didn’t move. The deer didn’t move. We all stood, staring at one another. I tried to remember what you’re supposed to do in these situations. With a bear, you’re supposed to make yourself bigger. Or, are you supposed to stay still? I can’t remember. But, this was a deer anyway. The only deer rule I know is that if you’re driving and you’re about to hit a deer, don’t swerve. Hit it. But, what do you do if you’re walking? I stood there, silently reviewing all information I had regarding wild beast emergencies. Turns out, very little.
The deer took a step closer.
“Get lost!” I scream. “Scram!”
Yeah. I said scram. The only other time I’ve ever even heard someone say “Scram” was Carla on Cheers, telling her hockey playing boyfriend to skedaddle. Who knew I had a scram in me?
Regardless, my screaming did nothing. We’re now 9 feet away from each other, still staring. I decide that we can’t just stand here all day. I mean, I want to go see The Notebook. I’ve got my tissues all ready. I’ve got to shake a leg. So, I decide that we’ll casually continue our walk. Fuck it. If the deer, reacts, so be it.
Marilyn and I take not 2 steps, when the deer runs out of the bushes and onto the road, now about 4 feet from us. I could practically touch him, he was so close. (I might be an idiot, but I do know that only boy deer have antlers. Pretty good, huh.)
My stunned silence turned uncontrollably into a scream.
“Oh my god, get the fuck out of here! Go!”
And, with that last scream, I king of threw the leash (still attached to Marilyn, mind you) at the deer. That was all he needed. He turned off running down the hill, knocking down trees and causing general mayhem.
“Wow. Marilyn. That was exciting, huh?”
She looks at me with disgust. I could see it in her eyes.
“I was still attached to the leash, bitch. What the fuck? Were you sacrificing me?”
“Marilyn, no, no, no. I would never. It was the only thing I could throw. Don’t worry. I’ll totally protect you.”

But we all know that’s bullshit. Take the dog. Have your way with her. Just let me go.

Monday, July 26, 2004

the stupidest e-mail ever...

Ever know a drunk? I do. Or at least, I used to. And now, a little stroll down memory lane… Picture it. October, 2003.

 beth thank you so much for coming over last night.....I'M SO SORRY.....i'm really upset that i can't remember.......and seriously, anytime you need anything done, ANYTHING, you need to call me.......call me to chop up your unlucky victim, not andy.
Also, i want to spend the next couple of weeks in solitude, but not without you.......i won't be able to drive to 916A......but  i still really want to see you especially since i saw you and couldn't remember......so please call, leave messages, and maybe if i'm lucky we can hang out face to face 
love you babe

ps: I'M SO FUCKING SORRY!

I can sure pick the winners, can't I? Really, I have a whole collection of these. Although, this is my favorite. I mean, he can't remember seeing me. As he would say, Classic. I'd expect nothing less.

 

Friday, July 23, 2004

music

I have notoriously bad taste in music. I mean, I loved New Kids on the Block until well into 1993. But, I have to say, I think I’m on to something big. They’re called Scissor Sisters, and they rock. Go to MTV.com, and check out their video for “Take Your Mama.” This is the greatest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

I wanna get jacked up on some cheap champagne….

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

siblings...

My brother Alex, whom I love and adore, is a little piece of shit. As we all know, if anything ever happened to my baby brother, I’d kill myself on the spot. I worry about that boy like nothing else. I cannot imagine what would happen, were I without my Lexi.
20 minutes ago, my father calls me in hysterics.
“Alex’s boss called. Alex has apparently been in a car accident and is on his way to the hospital. I’m driving to Marin General now!”
“What!” I’m screaming.  I’m running all over the house, grabbing phones and throwing shoes on. “I’m calling Alex’s work.”
I call Paradise Café, where Frank answers.
“Well, golly, Beth. I got a message from someone claiming to be Alex’s father, saying Alex was on his way to the hospital. So I call up Dick, and he has no idea what I’m talking about. I guess it was a crank call.”
“Okay, Frank.” I say. “I’ll keep you posted.”
I call Alex. He doesn’t answer, so I leave him a hysterical message.
Then, I think maybe Alex and some of his jackass friends are trying to get out of work so they can go to strip clubs, speakeasys, or similar. But I call said friends, and they haven’t heard from him.
I’m still hysterical, and on my way out the door, on the phone with my dad when I see “Alex’s cell” calling on the other line.
“Hello? Lex? Hello?”
“Uh. I’m fucking fine. Jesus. Frank totally got the wrong message. I needed to get out of work, so I said I got in a fucking fender bender.”
“You fucking piece of shitty shit. Oh my god, you need to call everyone you know because you’re about to be on the evening news.”
 
Oh what a tangled web we weave, when once my brother was a fucking idiot…

paranoia...

 
Currently, I’m house-sitting in Mill Valley. As most of you know, normally, I live deep within the ghetto, in a relatively small flat with a security system to rival a vault. Sirens wiz by every three seconds, and there’s always about 20 drunk and high men sitting out front at all hours of the day. This is where I feel perfectly safe.
Now, I’m in a huge, old house, with funky passages and noises and many, many possible points of entry for rapists, murderers, and deranged maniacs. I’m high up in the mountains, and while my screams would echo beautifully into the valley, no one would come running.
Last night, I lay in bed watching Cold Case Files well into the night. The episode was about this serial killer, who would mutilate his victims before raping and then killing them. Suddenly, the floorboards creaked upstairs.
Now, the dog I’m dog-sitting, Marilyn, wouldn’t bark if 80 masked gunmen stormed in and started shooting up the place. She stayed silently by my side, as I reminded myself that the last murder in Mill Valley was in, like, 1957. The floorboards creaked again. This is a big, wooden house. Of course it’ll make noises. Right? I decided to call Andy for comfort and reassurance.
“Come over and protect me.”
“Hell no.” he replied. “I’m watching Cold Case Files. I love this shit.”
Clearly, we’re twisted soul mates, but I was really starting to get freaked out.
“Just stay on the phone with me while I check upstairs.”
“Oh great. That’s what I need. To hear my best friend get murdered.”
“Yeah, but he’ll mutilate and rape me before he murders me. You might have time to call the cops.”
With the phone in my hand, Marilyn at my side, and a wire clothes hanger, I tip toe upstairs. I double lock and deadbolt the door, check all the decks, and rustle all the clothes in the closets to make sure no one’s hiding behind them.
“Are you dead yet?”
“Fuck you.”
Clearly, no one is here. And it’s 2am.
Andy starts to whine. “I’ve got class tomorrow, you paranoid freak. Shut up about your killer and call me in the morning.”
“Okay. But if I die, I just want you to know that I love you and adore you and think you’re one of the best men I know, Andy.”
“Whatever, bitch. Take a Zanex and watch another show. I gotts ta sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
And then, the line went dead.

Sunday, July 18, 2004

mad hatter...

Because we have nothing better to do, Katherine and I drove to Santa Cruz on Friday to shop for vintage clothes. Lore has it, there's a magical place there called The Bargain Barn, where clothing is a mere $1 a pound. We planned to hit The BB, and then peruse the other shops in town. After an intensely boring drive, our only form of entertainment being a book entitled, "What's Your Favorite..." and then pages and pages of categories you could have a favorite in. I think we hit rock bottom with "What's your favorite witnessed act of Christian love. (I shit you not. Ask Katherine.)
We finally arrive, and as the BB doesn't open until 1, we go have lunch at a little bistro called 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, in which, if you drink all 99 beers available there over any amount of time, you get your name and a quote on a little plaque. Our favorite: William Kendall, August 16th, 1996, “I just came in to use the bathroom.”
Finally, we drive to the Bargain Barn, and after much query and walking, discover the mighty structure. Made of plastic siding and held together with luggies, the BB is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Skis, beds, stuffed animals, all strewn everywhere. It looked like the front lawn of a huge Appalachian family’s encampment. We paid a mighty $2.50 for the privilege of entering this sanctuary, obtained the coveted sticker of entry, and soon joined a group of about 20 others proudly wearing their stickers as well. The big room of crap smelled, as homeless punks, thrift store owners, and illegal immigrants rummaged through barrels of filth. Needless to say, I was not getting into this at all. Then, some “employee”, wearing a t-shirt with the hand-scrawled “favorite pet”, decided to blast The B52’s. It was deafening, but awesome. I started to sing along, and here I could sing at the top of my lungs. I began to rummage with fervor while harmonizing to “Deadbeat Club.”
Suddenly, I was finding great shit. And by great, I mean, worth well over a buck a pound. I started pulling sweaters and handbags and hats. People toss with abandon, clothes are everywhere, and it’s a madhouse with a soundtrack. You have to dig at the BB. Many items are appalling. Katherine found a cardigan with a used band-aid attached. But when you find a treasure, it’s a high like no other. My treasure was a huge straw hat, the brim at least 3 feet wide. It is fabulous and movie star-like and I immediately began to imagine myself wearing it in the South of France.
The next thing I know, there a woman with horrible gray roots screaming at Katherine and I. We’re apparently stolen from her “pile.” From our arms, she proceeds to grab “her” stuff, including my prized straw hat.
“I do this for a living. I wouldn’t be such a bitch, but this is my job. You can’t take from people’s piles. It’s just the way it works.”
I was livid. “Well, then. Anything else I can offer you? Do you like my handbag? Maybe this jacket? My grandmother’s earrings? Seriously, take all you want. Claim the earth as your pile…” I was really yelling, attempting to make a point over the B52’s. She tried to ignore me and walked away. All I could think of was my hat. My beautiful straw hat. Katherine tried to perk me up with used sequin jumpsuits, but I was still devastated over the theft of my accessory.
Then, the thief has the audacity to approach us again, and inquire as to her missing beads.
“I can’t hear you.” I say. “I’m too depressed about my hat.”
She looks up. “Oh, that big straw hat? Fine. You can have it.”
I violently shove her out of the way as I dive into her pile and retrieve the hat that was destined to be mine.
“Nope. We have no idea where your shitty beads are. Later, skank.”
And with that, we grabbed our wad of recovered garbage, me proudly wearing my hat all the way to the weigh station, and departed the Bargain Barn. My two armfuls of crap cost a mere 4 bucks. That hat is worth at least a million. Mission accomplished.

andre the giant...

Alex and I were just in downtown Mill Valley shopping and mingling with our neighbors. We popped into Summer House, a home furnishing store for billionaires, and poked around. Suddenly, this bald guy with a stroller walks in and blocks me into the candle section. I try to get around him, he tries to get around me, we laugh, and I say, "Shall we dance?" He chuckles heartilly, and it's at this point, I realize, I'm speaking to Andre Agassi. Stefi Graff is also wandering around Summer House, and Alex and I give each other knowing looks across the store. We leave, and continue wandering around Mill Valley. We spotted the Agassi's again, this time dining on croissants and lattes at Champagne French Bakery. Alex and I take note, but are over our celeb sightings and move on. Finally, Alex dropped off back at home, and me on my way back to my housesitting gig down the block, I call Bonnie to fill her in on my superstar sighting. She's appropriately impressed, and just as I hang up with her, whom should cross the street in front of me, but Andre and entourage.
He looks up and says, "We meet again."
I smile and wave, like I bump into international celebrities in my hometown all the time, and drive on.
Andre, quit following me. If you want to go grab a drink, just ask.



Friday, July 16, 2004

uncle ted's thoughts...

My uncle is occasionally gloriously astute. He's been reading my blogs, and apparently the posted comments, and he had this to say today...
 
"...And no (I know you're thinking it) I'm not the respondee trashing your grammar on your blog.  Besides, whoever's wearing the too tight undies apparently doesn't know their grammar from their spelling..."
 
That's beautiful.
Now, he also called me a self-absorbed drunk, but I knew that years ago.
 

Thursday, July 15, 2004

kids...

I just finished babysitting for my hairstylist, Misty. In return, she's hooking me up with highlights. Misty and her husband Jeff have 2 boys. Luke is 4 and Jake is 1. Jake, being 1 and all, isn't really a talker, so I converse mostly with Luke. I call him Lukey Loo and he calls me Bethy Beth. We watch dinosaur movies and play Chutes and Ladders. Occasionally, we go outside and play on the jungle gym or chat with the scary looking construction workers next door.
I've decided Luke is a genius, and here's why.
1. He screams, "I love you Bethy Beth!" every 10 minutes.
2. He told me I was the prettiest princess he'd ever seen.
3. He found subtext in Shrek I never noticed.
4. He proclaimed, "Peanut Butter goes on everything, even me!"
5. He kicked my ass at Connect Four, and I wasn't trying to loose.
 
I love you, Lukey Loo!

the second coming of christ...

This is horribly pathetic, but it's all I can think about, so clearly, it's all I'll write about...

So many years ago, when I was the costume bitch at Beach Blanket Babylon, I worked with a god. His name is David, he's wonderfully British, and he's married. Or at least he was. At work, I was barely able to function, I was so madly in love with him. Seriously, I cannot express to you how much I adored David. We'd hang out at Capp's for hours, him with his Newcastle, me with my vodka tonic and lots of lime, talking about England and fashion and how much work sucked. He could read me the dictionary, with that accent. Just keep talking... I could go on for days, but I digress. Anyway, things sucked so much at Beach Blanket that David quit (in a dramatic and bold storming out that is still spoken of in hushed tones), left his wife, and joined the military. I mean really, could he get any hotter? He'd return periodically, in magical and fabulous ways, but I haven't seen him in, like, 2 years.
The last time I ran into him, Zoe and I were watching a friend's band perform at the Lost and Found Saloon in North Beach. All of a sudden, I see the BBB sound guy, Rick, walk in with this beyond foxy creature in a white dress shirt and perfect khakis. Rick comes over and starts talking to us, while his mysterious, hot friend is at the bar. All of a sudden, a vodka tonic with lots of lime slides right up in front of me. I looked up and it was David. Zoe magically disappears from the seat next to me, goes outside to call her husband and explain why we'll now be home incredibly late, and leaves me to drool over David. He was marvelous, hilarious, and as always, fabulously flirty. I kissed him goodbye for about an hour, and that's the last I ever saw of him.
Through the never-ending BBB grapevine, I've heard David is on his way home. Today.
Holy Shit.
He's been in Bagdhad (turns out, war is better than working backstage) for over a year, where he's been jumping out of Blackhawks (I know. How hot is that...), and is finally coming back. Again, today. And, with his predilection for showing up magically and rocking my world, I will leave the house dressed to the nines until I see him. Andy pointed out that he may arrive with his new wife, some Persian Princess or Afghani refugee. But I don't care. The man is a god, people. A god.
Holy shit, you guys. David's coming back. To-fucking-day.

And now, an example of David's genius.

Beth: So, David. What are you doing for Thanksgiving?
David: Well, I'm an Englishman in America, so I think I'll do what my forefathers did.
Beth: What's that?
David: Find a Native American, rape his wife, give him smallpox, and turn him into an alcoholic.

...and that's the moment I fell in love...

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

jury duty...

I just returned from the San Francisco Hall of Justice, where I seem to be spending a lot of time lately. This visit was spent getting an extension for Jury Duty, which I’ve been putting off since 1997. Upon arrival at the Hall of Justice, one must pass through a metal detector and submit all handbags for inspection. I’ve done this many times before, and needless to say, there’s never been a problem. Standing in line surrounded by criminals, I am suddenly singled out and the contents of my bag were emptied on a desk for all to examine. The security guard then pulls out my birth control pills and actually asks me, “What this?” A female criminal began to snicker.
“Um, those are my birth control pills. Thanks for holding them up in the air.”
“And what this?” he asked, holding my back-up pair of earrings.
“It’s my backup pair of earrings.” say I.
Another criminal pipes up. “Back up earrings? What for?”
The snickering female criminal, in a rare moment of sisterhood, replies, “In case she forget to accessorize, motherfucker.”
The entire line erupts into laughter, and I’m waved on through. I grab my bag, pills, and earrings, shoot a dirty look to the security guard, and make my way to Jury Room 307.
Because I’m asking for an extension, there are no lines, and I walk directly up to the desk. I’m given some shitty form to fill out, and am told to take a seat and pick an upcoming Monday to complete my service. The Jury Room is empty, so I pick a middle table and proceed to fill out said form. Suddenly, a huge Samoan pulls out a chair and sits right next to me. In a room filled with at least 30 tables and hundreds of chairs, we sit alone and pretend to ignore each other. Our proximity to each other began to make me uncomfortable, so I decided to speak.
“Jury Duty is complete bullshit.” (It’s all I could come up with.)
Tiny continues writing and ignoring me. I try again.
“I mean, I wouldn’t want me on my jury. I’m clearly an idiot. And I have the attention span of a toddler.”
Still, nothing.
I shut up, finish my form, and turn it in. Tiny is still furiously scrawling away at his form. I turn to leave the Jury Room and he yells after me, “I’ll see you later.”
What? I don’t recall making plans. Now, I’m home, with the door dead bolted and the alarm on. I was at the Hall of Justice for about 20 minutes, and I’ve returned feeling violated and stalked. I believe this is why people live in the suburbs…

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

blow out...

Blow Out is my new favorite show. It's a reality show on Bravo about this salon and all of the drama and hijinks that go on there. It's run by this huge queen named Jonathan. If you haven't seen it, watch it. It's fabulous. However, I appear to be the only one around that is positive he's entirely gay. I assumed he was out and proud until I watched that episode which has him waking up in bed with some supermodel passed out in bed next to him. Hi, overcompensation. I was shocked to see this, and expressed this shock to Bonnie.
"What are you talking about?" she replied. "He's so straight."
Are you fucking blind and deaf?
Days later, I'm chatting on the phone with Jason.
"You know what my new show is?" he asks. "Blow Out."
"I know, I know." I say. "Isn't Jonathan totally gay."
"What are you talking about?" he says. "He's not gay."
Hello, people. He's a stylist in Seven jeans, with a faux tan, and constant drama. He throws temper tantrums and once screamed at someone on the phone and then tossed his designer cell into a dumpster for dramatic effect. He's a total nelly queen. Gay, gay, gay. I'm an expert on very few things, but this is one of them. My God, he makes Carson Kressley look like John Wayne.

waking up...

Last night, I had a very intense and realistic dream involving myself and San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom, who, as we all know, is a stone cold fox. In said dream, we were highly romantically involved AND he wrote me a letter of recommendation for some job I wanted. It was fabulous. I just woke up and couldn't figure out why I'm in such a good mood, especially considering I'm on my way to Jury Duty. But here I am, skipping around, making coffee, and I suddenly realized, I'm not actually having an affair with Gavin. My sub-conscious is fucking with me and toying with my emotions. But, damn, that was one hell of a dream. It was so realistic, I recall walking around HIS apartment in HIS bathrobe. Hello? How marvelous is that...
I'm going to go try and go back to sleep. Here I come, Gavy!

Monday, July 12, 2004

who's the weird girl...

When I was younger, I always knew I was the weird girl. I would make every effort to reign in my bizarreness, but without fail, I'd always end up lying in bed thinking, "Golly. I really am pretty weird, and I'm confident I'm not the only one that thinks so." I'd go to Christmas parties or Basketball Banquets, and ahead of time, prep myself.

Okay, Beth. Stay in the background, blend in, don't try and talk.

But lo and behold, I'd return from said party having done it again. My need to orchestrate large scale theatrical numbers and stage contests always took over. At the time, I'd be positive that explaining my need to wrap tablecloths around my party dress made me fashion forward and cosmopolitan. Somehow, creating complex trivia games or reenacting New Kids on the Block videos entirely solo never got the reactions I expected. I noticed that other kids were loud and opinionated as well, but never quite as strange as myself. I mean, I'm pretty sure I was the only one that tried to start a club called the Ovary Brigade in the bathroom of the Olympic Club during the Father Daughter Dance, crowning myself Queen of the Fallopian Tubes. But, I felt certain that as time passed, my sensibilities would morph into normalcy and I'd grow into a socially acceptable personality.
Not so much.
A few months ago, I broke the dryer. 26 years old and home alone at 10am, with the dryer door open and clothes lying all over the place, I dressed up as Beyonce, fully accessorized and made up, and performed an intense, pre-choreographed routine to "Crazy in Love" that resulted in my falling off a chair and landing on the open dryer door, essentially breaking it off the dryer. What's worse, I completed the song, before calling Bonnie and explained why we couldn't use the dryer.
At work, whenever I'd request Ben play me some Beyonce, he'd reply, "Nope. You might break the copy machine."

It's now July, and I'm sitting here listening to Christmas music, working on a painting inspired by an episode of ALF I watched last night, and about to crank call Andy and leave him bizarre messages.
I think I get it, now. I'm weird. Strange. Curious, even. I prefer the term eccentric. I'm stuck this way, with nothing to do but embrace it. But, really, I still do lie in bed at night and think to myself, "Yep. I'm still the weird girl. I've got to work on that."
But I won't. Because, in reality, being the weird girl means that the pussies are easily scared off and those that stay around tend to be far more interesting and willing to play Celebrity Password at a moment's notice. And really, those are the kind of people a weird girl needs in her life.
So, thanks gang, thanks.

major talent...

In watching the West Wing, which, if you’ve been reading, you’ll know I do with up to thrice daily frequency, I’ve begun to take notice of the eclectic range of guest stars they have. Recently, I’ve become obsessed with the fact that Gerald McRaney, TV’s “Major Dad”, plays a general. This guy is always military. He’s completely typecast, save when he appeared on Designing Women as Delta Burke’s ex-husband. And isn’t it interesting, that of the two of them, he’s still working. And she’s hocking washable silk to fat poor women.
None the less, Gerald McRaney has made a career of playing the “by the books” major, lieutenant, colonel, whatever. He’s the go-to guy for your “uptight, but is really a nice guy” military type.

We need a blue collar 4 star general with a heart of gold…is Major Dad available? Yep, he is. And, he’s probably pretty cheap, too.

Saturday, July 10, 2004

retail heaven...

Today, my friend Jason and I went shopping in Union Square. Jason, being the straight that he is, can’t pick out his own clothes, and as I am happy to shop 24/7, we often peruse the current designer lines together. Our favorite place to check out menswear is The Saks Fifth Avenue Men’s Store, Fifth Floor Designer Sportswear. The fifth floor is where all the Prada, Gucci, Yamamoto, etc. is. It’s also where Ryan is.
Ryan looks like a 12 year old Cambodian boy dressed by Donnatella Versace. He’s kind of whiny and impish, and he takes couture very seriously. Jason and I find him a great source of interest and ridicule and often make a point of interacting with him. In fact, we refer to shopping as “visiting Ryan.“ Today, Ryan and I had a pow-wow regarding my sequined flip flops. Ryan loves them. He’s going to buy several pairs of them for his “guests” to use at his apartment. Can you imagine going to visit your little friend Ryan, the designer retail diva, and discover upon your arrival at his fabulously appointed flat that you’ve been offered sequined flip flops for your comfort. I fucking love this guy.
He’s so beautifully and ironically out of touch with fashion, he confused my Old Navy jacket and skirt for Prada and Theory, and was shocked to learn that the cost of my entire look was about $30. I decided to find it charming instead of sad, as we love our Ryan so, but I must admit I’m a little disappointed he’s got such a shitty eye. I think my neighbor, Big Juan, probably knows the difference between Old Navy and Prada. Why doesn’t Ryan?
I want to know everything about Ryan. Where’s he from? Who does he date? How does he afford all this designer shit? I think Jason and I should take him out and befriend him. I want Ryan at my parties, telling me how “divine” my accessories are and sipping his mojito. He adds such flavor and entertainment value to our shopping, one can only imagine the pizzazz he brings to one’s personal life.
So, dear Ryan, if you’re reading this, the girl in the sequined flops and the guy with the natural highlights adore you.
Find us, and make our lives extraordinary.

My actual letter to JC...

Dear John Cusack,
You make me re-fall in love with you every time you speak. You make me love Chicago. You make me expect more from men. I would follow your trench tails to the ends of the earth. I would save any phone message you left me for the entirety of my life. I would totally get along with your sister.
Lloyd Dobbler changed the way I looked at the opposite sex. And really, that role in Say Anything is the greatest manifestation of your fabulousness. The best thing about Lloyd was his consistency. Lloyd was not about bullshit. He committed to Diane. He possessed focus. He wasn’t like some of the jackasses I have come to know, who seem like Lloyd at the beginning, but then turn into neglectful, cranky, disinterested jerks.
Moving on, so few can pull off sweet and cool and innocent and street-smart and vulnerable all at the same time. Lloyd had a deep simplicity, if that‘s possible. And let me tell you, it is intoxicating. But most importantly of all, John, you were the star of the most profound romantic moment in film history. I’m speaking, of course, of the “In Your Eyes” boom box scene. Each time I see it, I am overwhelmed in new and intense ways. In addition to the brilliance captured in the final cut of Say Anything, deleted scenes on the DVD reveal an even more personal and moving performance in that moment. Thank you.
To be honest, I secretly first fell for you in The Journey of Natty Gann (1985), but I could never admit, even at 7, that I loved that retarded movie. God, how I loved you in that. You were so wonderfully protective and resourceful, like a slightly hipper, younger, more brooding MacGuyver.
You seemed so fun to be around in Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. I just wanted to explore bizarre Southern cities with you and crash debutante balls and plantation weddings. Conveniently enough, I get along famously with drag queens as well. However, in Being John Malkovitch, all I desperately wanted was to have your hair professionally styled. I hated your hair in that movie. Never do that to me again.
High Fidelity was heaven and hell for me. Rob did not posses Lloyd’s devotion. And it is the devotion that I so adore. Rob found so many faults with every woman he encountered. It made me self conscious, and I like to think that you would love me as I am, forever and ever and ever. But Rob was super cool, and who doesn’t love a Top 5 list. I should make a Top 5 list of all the things I love about you. Top 5? Ha! Try Top 5 Million.
John, even in all too brief celluloid moments, like your moving turn as the dead older brother in Stand By Me, you were remarkable and memorable.
Your talent overwhelms me. Your constant black trench coat excites me. But most of all, your sophisticated wit and charming essence define my being. And even though, you feel the need to occasionally assault my soul, (Anastasia, Serendipity, etc.) I know you truly are the greatest living man on our fine planet.
Contact me immediately.
Warmest Regards,
Spots

Friday, July 09, 2004

commute cont...

Today, while driving over to Katherine's to use her computer (which I'm now on), I tuned into my beloved KOIT and am somewhat embarassed to say that "I Hope You Dance" by some country bumpkin was playing, and I secretly love that song. Looking back on the Chaka Khan fiasco, I thought, Fuck it, and sang my little heart out.
I was rewarded with George Michael's "Faith" and Bill Whithers "Ain't No Sunshine." Needless to say, I've pretty much lost my voice. KOIT rules.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

here comes trouble...

Zoe and I were both bored out of our minds last night, and as it was a rare occasion that Zoe didn't have to slave over the cursed costumes at Beach Blanket, we felt the need to utilize this opportunity and hit the town.
Seated on the floor of Zoe's flat with maps and tour books in front of us, we couldn't agree on where to go. We wanted an experience, you see, and had no desire to patronize our usual haunts. Thus, we spent a solid hour looking up random establishments that struck us as bizarre and experience-worthy. We decided on some place called Sherlock's, on the 30th floor of the Crown Plaza Hotel. Envisioning it as some kind of British, mystery-themed, tourist establishment, we delighted in the prospect of some sort of trivia contest or similar. We found street parking (possibly the most notable event of the evening) and walked to the hotel. The Crown Plaza is a shitty looking hotel, that smells quite similar to a dorm room refridgerator, and the staff there is mildly retaded at best. We hopped an elevator to the 30th floor and emotionally prepared ourselves for the bizarre experience we felt sure we would find.
There is no longer a Sherlock's on the 30th floor of the Crown Plaza Hotel. There is a cheezy mauve banquet room, a dumpster, and a white courtesy phone, but there is no turn of the century themed pub with fireplaces and mystery games. Fuck!
Next, we tried Harry Denton's Starlight Room. We rode the elevator with 3 gentlemen of questionable intelligence and entered the club. After being carded twice, we were told there was a $20 cover. Fuck!
We walked over to The St. Francis Hotel, as I remembered there being some sort of hoppin' club at the top, and decided we'd rather drop our $20 on top shelf liquor than pay to get our asses grabbed at the Starlight Room. As fate would have it, there was a private party there, and a Janet Reno-esque woman shoved us back on the elevator while drunkedly trying to pick up a petite, poorly dressed businessman. Fuck!
Frustrated and curious as to why god insisted we not have an experience, I recalled a bar near the Stockton/Sutter garage that always looked kinda cool. We headed over there, cursing Janet Reno and joking as to what could be wrong with this place. Well, I'll tell you what was wrong with it. It's closed for renovations, with caution tape and everything. Fuck!
Finally, ready to give up and down our booze in the comfort of Zoe's living room, we walked one last block and discovered The Irish Bank. Located in an alley off Bush Street, The Irish Bank is a pub straight from the dole lines of Dublin. Filled with drunken Irishmen and hideous women, Zoe and I had finally found our experience. We ordered our wine and cider, like the suburban wenches we are, and decided the benches outside in the alley were preferrable to the long tables of profanity inside.
Within minutes, we were surrounded by Irishmen, all having come from a Giants game and desperate to chat with random American women snobbilly sipping their libations. Michael is an electrician and fascinated by peep shows and strippers. Johnny looks like the villian in Kindergarten Cop, but is lovely and a little quiet. Emyn is gorgeous, polite, and very into the Tour de France. And Rory was the best dressed, and had a very manly handshake which I enjoyed immensly. There were various others, of course, but I didn't catch their names. There Zoe and I sat, surrounded by The Committments and attempting to decipher their drunken brogues. It was really quite marvelous.
After a few drinks and a few inviataions to do god knows what, we took our leave and laughed all the way home, debating which drunkard was the hottest. (We decided on Emyn)
I'd say we got our experience, and needless to say, I think you know where we'll be next Wednesday night.

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

be careful what you wish for...

My good friend Katherine won a bunch of free tickets to the Punchline and invited me along. I, in turn, invited Andy, my beloved homosexual companion. Andy and I met Katherine and her husband there, and along with 2 other couples I barely knew, we entered the club and ordered drinks.
I often bitch about being single. I moan and complain and curse the gods. I wonder aloud how someone so charming and occasionally attractive could be so universally rejected. And I can't fathom why the only men who find me breathtaking are the elderly or incarcerated. Last night, I thanked my lucky stars.
We sat there, the 8 of us, and heard 5 or 6 comedians of various talent levels perform. Some were grand, some sucked ass. Regardless, I was really watching the 3 couples at my table. And I was bored. They sat, with their hands in their laps, laughing when appropriate and sipping their non-alcoholic beverages. By their apparel, I could tell they no longer cared how they looked to each other. Physical contact was obligitory, and everything was "us" or "we."
"We don't like bananas."
"We'll have diet cokes."
"We're going to the bathroom."
Jesus Christ. I was ready to kill myself. The kicker, and this is entirely my snobbery and judgement, was when one couple ordered hot chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles. We're at a bar, people, with commedians on stage who will readilly mock that beverage. Grow some balls and get a fucking beer, little girl. They might as welll have ordered Shirley Temples.
I sat there, loving Katherine, but wanting no part of this lifestyle of joint checking accounts and moderate drinking. I looked over at my opposite-sexuality life partner, Andy Jay Jolley, and proposed.

Saturday, July 03, 2004

dmv...

Yesterday, fate and possibly karma required that I take care of some business with the fine folks at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I opted to go to the Marin DMV because my car is registered in Marin and the lines are significantly shorter than the Ellis Island-esque San Francisco DMV. One would imagine that the Marin DMV line, short as it is, would be filled with the likes of trophy wives in tennis skirts and illegal immigrants. Turns out, not so much.
In front of me was a butch lesbian, in men’s clothing, with her keys attached to her belt loops and a necklace made out of wild animal teeth. Behind me was a young, black mother of three, with a gold tooth marked with $. Her youngest child, appearing no older than three had a diamond earring and a huge diamond encrusted medallion. All three children roamed wildly about the room, knocking over sign stands and accusing each other of “fronting.”
When you arrive at the Marin DMV, there appears to be some sort of concierge at the front door, screaming “Hello!!!” in her puffy paint sweatshirt with squirrels on it. I approached her desk, and noticed in small cursive at the bottom of her squirrel image, the appalling, “Branson, Missouri.” She inquired as to my DMV needs, and promptly sent me to the end of the line. She did this with everyone. I began to realize, as I watched her and waited in line, she’s simply some sort of very nosy woman who’s fascinated by the various reasons anyone would spend a glorious Friday afternoon in the bureaucratic hell that is The Department of Motor Vehicles. She is not employed by the state, and those that are find it too effortful to remove her.
Actual DMV employees remind me of a propaganda documentary I saw as a child, depicting Russian Communist workers as slackers with no sense of urgency, work ethic, or customer service. Those of us in line stare down the people at each window, desperate to predict which one will be done first. I smile at the fast people, people who understand that the most important thing is to get out with as much efficiency and speed as possible. I smile at the employees who appear to know what they’re doing, hoping my turn falls on one of them. And I glare at those that look upon their time at the window as a personal government class, asking every stupid question under the sun and then proceeding to be ill-prepared.
One man at the window left his insurance card in his car. “That’s okay,” said the wench behind the window, “I’ll wait.” Are you shitting me? You snooze, you loose, pal. I came prepared and I should be rewarded for doing so.
Finally, my turn came. I hiked over to Window 17, where “Lodovico” informed me I had a little unpaid parking ticket issue. No shit, Lodovico. Mind your business and give me my fucking tags. I’ve been in line over there in Calcutta and I’m ready to go home.
Finally free, and in possession of the fucking sticker “the man” requires I suffer for, I break free into the sunshine as affix the yellow tag to Rhonda the Honda, or as she’s become known of late, The Silver Bullet. With the knowledge that, at least for the next 30 days, I’m finally legally allowed to drive my car, I cut across the double lines and speed past the Corte Madera police station. Fuck you, coppers! I’ve played your game and now I’m free…

Friday, July 02, 2004

who are these people...

Who are these people commenting on my blogs? Where do they come from and why do they care? I love it, don't get me wrong. But I assume that the only people reading this shit are my bored friends checking to see if I've ripped on them.
Now, I feel some sort of responsibility to write something profound, because "Gil" might have another comment to make.
Who the fuck are you, Gil? Does this make any sense to you? Are you single?

i should have majored in drama...

I tend towards the dramatic. (Understatement of century) I create it, I encourage it, I wallow in it. If I go a week without a crisis, I think I get bored.
I bring this up, because this moring, I dramatically overreacted. Now, of course, I still believe I'm right and everyone else is wrong. That's a given. But, the events which resulted in my hysterics aren't really that big a deal. No one meant to rip my beating heart from my chest and crush it before my face. People simply got obscenely drunk and did stupid, stupid things which I took as an assault on my soul. This happens with some frequency.
So, I say it here. The drama is ending. No more drama for Spotswood. I've had enough. Really. I mean it this time. I'm not fucking around anymore.

Aren't you all desperate to know what happened? That's a book, honey. Not a blog.