Sunday, October 31, 2004

goonies never say die...

Turns out, people get angry when they can't figure out your costume. Maybe it's my fault for dressing up as an obscure 80's movie character, but I don't see why other's must take it so personally.
Last night was Collin's Halloween Party, and I went as Mama Fratelli from Goonies. I think my biggest problem is that I assume that everyone is just as obsessed with Goonies as myself. Not so much. Who doesn't know the Goonies? Lots of sad, sad people, that's who.
Bonnie told me it was a stupid idea, but it was all I could come up with and required minimal effort. I mean, really, all Mama Fratelli wore was all black with a black beret.
Everyone thought I was a Cold War Era spy.
Big Chris and I left the party and went to meet up with Jason in the Mission. At this point, I had enjoyed several pumpkin pie shots and was skipping down the street saying lines from Gonnies, in the hopes that someone would recognize my attempt at a costume and appreciate the subtle beauty of Mama Fratelli.
I decided the first man to walk up to me and say, "This ain't the kind of place you want to go to the bathroom in", is the man I'm supposed marry. Apparently, the future Mr. Spots wasn't in the Mission last night. You know who was in the Mission last night? Lots of assholes who kept saying, "What are you supposed to be? French?"

Saturday, October 30, 2004

e-mail theft...

Have you ever been included on a mass e-mail and searched the other recipients of said mass e-mail to see if there was anyone interesting, scandelous, or hot and then secretly copied their e-mail address into your address book?

Me neither.

Okay. I'm lying. My most recent infraction happened 2 minutes ago. My good pal Kirk sent a mass e-mail to about 75 people, many of whom I know. I was scanning the other people cc-ed in on this random political satire forward and one name lept out at me.

Gavin Newsom.

Awwww yeah. Guess who's on every evite from now until the end of time...

Friday, October 29, 2004

jam night....

Last night was Halloween Jam Night at Capp's. Capp's is the bar right next to Beach Blanket, and Jam Night is when the cast and crew comes over, plays music and dances. Jam night used to happen every Thursday, but now, it's about once a month. As Zoe had class until 10, I swung by and watched the West Wing with Tim until Zoe showed and we were off.
The best thing about Capp's is that they have Coppola Claret, and I get charged $3 a glass. It's like I'm paying wholesale. Zoe and I perched ourselves in the Partick Reese memorial corner and made eyes at all the boys who walked by the window. We had a marvelous time, decided we looked adoreable, and every so often, cute boys would just walk right up and start talking to us. I love Capp's.
But the best part of last night's Jam Night was re-connecting with an old friend, a BBBer who I used to be incredibly close with until he went nuts. Everyone's told me he's no longer nuts and back to his usual, adoreable self, and I didn't believe it until last night. Sometimes, it takes a year or so to shake off the bad stuff. But when you finally do, it's so worth it. We picked up right where we left off. He was the first one to take me to Jam Night 4 years ago, and the first person I ever danced with there. Last night, we danced to our song, "Walk the dog", drank a case of Claret, and made up.
I miss my North Beach, so with a need to reclaim my territory, I dragged Richard over to Amante to see Pat, my favorite bartender. Amante, which is kind of a trendy bar for posers, wasn't really packed, but I'd say there was about 5 guys to every girl. Nice. Richard, who's now growing on me, was itching to split, so he dragged me out of there and we hightailed it back to Capp's. When I met Richard, he'd never heard of me. I found this abhorent, as I expect shrines to pop up after I leave a room, much less a job. So last night, when I met the new tech Bob, he said, "Ah, Beth. The legend." Bob, you now have a new best friend.
You all know I love super expensive, fancy pants, snooty and overpriced bars. But sometimes, the only place I'd ever want to be is Jam Night at Capps, with just enough drama to keep me interested, just enough eye candy to get dolled up, and just enough money to fund a night of drinking my favorite wine with my favorite people...

Thursday, October 28, 2004

i'm not falling tonight, spotswood...

After leaving Judy's, Bonnie talked me into meeting her and Greg for drinks and dinner in the Mission. I arrived to find an emprty pitcher of margaritas and some sauced up friends. We admired the lunar eclipse, as Greg passed me the "wine list" with it's one four dollar glas of red. Sold.
Then we ordered. Bonnie ordered something entitled "Number 24" and I must say, when it arrived, I was pretty impressed. Greg deemed it Chicken Fried Carne Asada and it was fabulous. Even my wine was good. I was digging this place.
Bonnie and Greg had another pitcher of margaritas, as I pointed out to them that this would most definitely appear on the blog, prompting the genius line, "I'm not falling tonight, Spotswood." Bon then pointed out that she did, indeed, feel like throwing up.
That's when Greg and I compared notes on the most disgusting thing we've ever seen on the streets of San Francisco. Greg wins hands down. I won't butcher his beautiful story by re-telling it here, but I want to have a party for the sole purpose of having Greg stand up and re-enact his experience.
At this point, a woman arrives selling flowers, and as Bonnie and I politely refuse, Greg screams, "My bitches don't like flowers."
Now, the two of them have had a pitcher of margaritas each, but I wanted another drink. So, Greg and I forced Bonnie into Limon, a restaurant and wine bar next door. Limon has a very cool vibe, a very good wine list, and a very hot bartender. But Miss "I'm not falling tonight, Spotswood...although I may throw up" was ready to go. Fair enough. We down our beautiful Pinot Noir and head back out into the night, the streets of the Mission now filled with 3 more crazies...

Monday, October 25, 2004

emma...

I am not a dog person. I never have been. I don't subscribe to the notion of loving ALL dogs. It's like loving ALL children. No way. There are some pretty shitty kids out there. You've got to take them on a case by case basis. But Judy's dog Emma, for whom I'm now sitting, is the most loyal creature I've ever met. I'm up at Judy's gorgeous place in Sausalito, which overlooks all of San Francisco, and I'm in heaven. Not because I get to play house in this perfect palace. Not because the sub-zero is stocked with gourmet delights. Not because there's a cabinet full of beautiful booze. I'm in heaven because of this perfect dog. No matter what room I'm in, no matter what I'm doing, she follows me everywhere, snuggles at my feet, and protects me from all that is evil. Find a man that'll do that...

appreciation...

Yesterday was the Volunteer Appreciation Party at Yet Wah. This was quite nervewracking, as I had to give a speech to 200 volunteers, and then MC the raffle, which took an eternity. But it was great, and the volunteers even got up and said how cool I was. It was kind of like camp, everyone exchanging information and hugging goodbye. I was feeling fabulous, and then I was reminded that my life is never supposed to go this well.
Suddenly, my stalker volunteer comes up to me. He's the one who kept saying, "When we gonna slow dance" at the closing night party, the one Big Chris refused to rescue me from. He saunters up and says, "Can I talk to you?"
Oh fuck. "Yeah, of course."
"I just want to make sure we're cool. I mean, yeah I'm a little obsessed with you, but I'm not obsessed obsessed. You know. I'm just getting a wierd vibe from you today, so I just wanted to make sure I wasn't freaking you out."

Yes. You are freaking me out. You really fucking freak me out everytime I see you. In fact, you're freaking me out right now.

"Don't be silly! We're so cool. We couldn't be cooler. I adore you. You're my favorite volunteer." Oh my god, make this end. Please, just make him go away. "Hey look. They just replenished the eggrolls." And off I ran.

It only got worse.
There's a group of volunteers, guys in their late 20's and early 30's who fancy themselves film experts and live in their parent's basements. Their volunteer t-shirts are always filthy, they're terrified of women, and they show up at anything with free food. There's about 5 of them, and they all congregated at one table. In an attempt at hilarity, I rigged the raffle so guys at their table won a manicure, a pearl necklace, and a silk scarf. They were pissed. And drunk on the free Stella. They started hooting and hollering at me from their table in the back.
"Yo Beth. Hook us up! Be our beer wench."
But I had a microphone and a stage. I was going to win this one. Or so I thought.
"Hey look. It's the pretty boy table. Ladies, I ask that you now turn your heads and admire the 5 gentleman sitting in the rear. I think it's safe to say that they're all single and looking. Seriously, seriously looking."
The place went nuts, and the guys shut up.
After the raffle and speeches, the party mellowed out and people sat around and drank. I was at a table with my real favorite volunteer, Denise, gossipping and making dinner plans. The hot volunteer photographer comes up and gives me some photos he took of me. Denise is kicking me under the table, agreeing that this guy is adoreable, as the three of us sit and chat, with the table of 5 freakshows right behind me. As Mr. Hot Photographer gets up to leave, I notice that my short, pleated skirt is flipped up over the arm of the chair, and my ass has been hanging out for like a half and hour, in full, perfect view of the "pretty boy table."
I push my skirt down, turn and look at all of them, and say, "Thanks for letting me know my ass was hanging out, fellas."
They all errupt into hysterics, falling of chairs and high fiving each other.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Sunday, October 24, 2004

you have no idea...

Working at Beach Blanket, you become part of this big family. Even when you no longer work there, you're still part of the family, invited to weddings, parties, roasts, jam nights, etc. It is the greatest and most priceless benefit of suffering through the hell that was being the costume mistress.
My roommate previous to Bonnie (Phillip) is one of the stars of Beach Blanket. One night, Pip, Tammy, and I head over to Martuni's and lo and behold, Pip meets Michael. They fell madly in love, and yesterday, they got married.
Keep in mind, the last BBB wedding I attended was for Jessica and Valerie, a huge crimson colored lesbian affair at a fabulous winery. Pip is one of my dearest friends on this fine planet, but I didn't think anything could beat the gay extravaganza that Jess and Val created. I was wrong.
Held at a lovely Presbiterian Church in Sausalito, the chappel was 75% full of BBBers, and the other 25% deemed by me and Andy, "those we don't know." Having not seen many of these people in some time, Andy and I got dolled up. In fact, on the way over, we couldn't stop remarking just how fabulous we looked. We arrived at the perfect moment to make a serious entrance, and I think it's safe to say, everyone was appropriately impressed.
The ceremony was lovely, and very emotional. All of the music was Carpenter's, which Tammy sang, and when the grooms were presented to the congregation as "committed to each other for life", the place went nuts. Nuts. It was wonderful.
We piled out into the rain and headed downstairs for the reception, greeted immediately by the very hot wine boy. As this was a gay, gay wedding, he was actually refered to as "hot wine boy!" all night long. I grabbed a glass of red and started my rounds, ending up grilled in the corner about my love life by Darren and Ignacio.
Everyone was having a lovely time, my mother fascinated by the amount of gay couples AND the amount of inter-racial couples. (Pip is very black and very Southern, and Mike...well, he's from Kansas.) There was one gay inter-racial couple wearing matching Nehru collar embroidered suits, my mother and Zoe noting that the black guy wore the white suit and the white guy wore the black suit. In fact, my mother was the belle of the ball, downing Chardonnay and mingling with the Castro crowd.
Suddenly, it was time for the speeches. The best man spoke, then Tammy, then Pip and Mike. I'm standing in the back, smiling and thrilled for my Pip. Then I hear, "And there's someone very special to us, who was there on the night we met. Where's our Beth?"
Everyone turns and looks at me, and I do the obligitory glass raise.
"No, no, no. Come up here and talk."
Now, I'm never one to turn down a public speaking engagement, but this one caught me off guard. I walk up there, composing something in my head and laughing as Juan announces, "This is the first time any of us have seen her speechless!" The place errupts into hysterics.
I down my Cabernet and begin. I told the story of how every night after work, Pip and I would get home and immediately turn on the midnight back to back episodes of Golden Girls on Lifetime. We'd watch and talk, often about the boys we were going to marry. And yadda, yadda, yadda, here we are today. It was a hit, I tell you, my brother particularly impressed.
They cut the cake, the crowd thinned, and the old time party people were left. Someone rolled out a piano, and some of the greatest performers in the Bay Area sang their hearts out just for us. You have no idea. It was incredible. Celisse sang Whitney, Skye sang a gospel version of Wind Beneath My Wings, and Patrick...oh Patrick. Well, he's indescribable.
We helped clean up, went to Pip and Mike's to pee, and then to the Yacht Club for drinks. Finally, we headed back into the city, to where it all began. Yep, we all rolled into Martuni's. Everyone came, including Pip and Mike, and we sang the night away. Even Bonnie and Mercedes showed, hooting and hollering for Patrick to sing.
At 1am, Patrick announces we're going to 2211. Everyone else heads home as Andy, Patrick, Tommy Halligan, and I pile in my car and head over there, the bartender Pat being a dear friend. Sitting around 2211, Pat hooking us up with drinks, surrounded by 3 of my favorite men of all time, I was in heaven. Or maybe trashed from 12 hours of straight drinking. Either way, who cares.
I got home at 3am, having never removed my gold heels. I passed out soon thereafter. It was a glorious affair, just like old times. I love these people, and while I bitch and moan, I love Beach Blanket.
More importantly, I friggin' love gay weddings.

Saturday, October 23, 2004

home sweet home...

916A rules.
Sometimes you need to go out, get trashed, and hook up with a DJ. And sometimes, you need to stay home, sit around the dining room table, and spend hours laughing with your friends. That's what I did last night, and it was awesome.
The new Chris, (that's what we call my election night intern) came over last night, to help me prepare questions for the politicians appearing on the show, and Andy came over to help. Bonnie, who couldn't care less about local politics, assisted by ordering Chinese food and sassing everybody. We sat around the dining room for an eternity, debating stem cell research and fortune cookie alotment. It was marvelous.
At 10, Chris, having experienced the heaven that is 916A, had to run off to some benefit, and Andy and Bonnie got to comparing notes on the blog. I'm sore from laughing. I laughed so hard, I actually fell off the chair. Why? Because Bonnie and Andy pointed out that they've been made into blog characters, edited Real World style into stereotypical personalities. It's so fucking true. You'd have to be an avid reader of the blog to notice it, but they have a really good point.
Bonnie is the "drunk whore" and Andy is the "gay stoner."
Bonnie asserts that she's always portrayed trashed and slutty, falling down stairs or breaking heels, and stumbling out of some hotel side door at 8am. (true, true, true.)
Andy insists he's portrayed as the flaming homosexual weed addict, having constant wacky and wild adventures. "Apparently, every time I go out in public, it's crazy hilarity." (true, true, true.)
I think this is exactly what I want. I mean, at the toga party, I introduced someone to Andy and they said, "Oh Andy! From the blog!"
Quit your complaining, slut and queen. I've made you immortal.

Today is Phillip and Michael's wedding in Sausalito. My parent's and brother are going, this being their first gay committment ceremony, and Andy and I are, of course, going together. Andy, wanting to steal the thunder of my low cut Nicole Fahri gown, bought himself a stunning Kenneth Cole pinstriped suit. As soon as he arrived, Bonnie and I insist he model it for us, to which he aggreed immediately. 30 minutes later (!), he emerges from my room, looking spectacular, twirling around the house admiring himself.
Yeah. I'm the one that makes him look like a nelly queen.

We had a lovely time last night. And even though I almost crashed into a black Lexus at Castro and Market driving Andy home, I'd do this every night. I love you guys.

And now, a personal and confidential note to B and A: The greatest line of last night...
"Do you want to be First Lady or not!!!"

Thursday, October 21, 2004

marion...

This morning, I dragged my huge ass out of bed and to the gym. I haven't gone to the gym since the film festival took over my life, and having spent the past 2 weeks eating and drinking obscene amounts of crap, I can barely fit out the door. Thus, I'm hell bent kicking my own ass into gear and looking fabulous for the holidays.
I love my gym, the ghetto Potrero Hill 24 Hour Fitness, because apparently, you have to be hideous to join. It's the least intimidating gym on earth, filled with immigrants and the elderly. There are no cute boys to worry about, and no one is in shape. Save of course, for my trainer, Marion. Marion isn't really my trainer anymore, but whenever she sees me, she kind of follows me around, encouraging me and upping my incline on the treadmill.
Marion is of course, stunning. She's 29, perfectly toned and tan, and Swedish. She's all blue-eyed and blonde, with the accent and everything. And she wanders around in a tiny sports bra and low rise designer sweat pants. Her abs scream from across the room, "You'll never posess me, cow." as she inquires as to my life and gym progress, both of which are dismal.
The thing about Marion is that she'll push you until you can barely breathe, grasping the hand rail for dear life, and then suddenly asks "Do you have any pets?"
"Can't talk...no pets...must slow stairmaster..."
"Oh Beth. Come on. You rock so hard! Yes? Keep it going, now."
After forcing me to hike 4 miles uphill, and then climb 20 flights of stairs, Marion, who's no longer my trainer, mind you, decides to join me up in the weight room. Forcing me onto the ab roller, she screams out "200!" and with each curl, I feel my soul drain out of me, onto the filthy floor. I stare up at Marion's perfect, flawless, appalling stomach, and pray for mercy. On curl 36, I'm ready to kill myself. At 100, I'm allowed a break, in so much pain, I'm about to cry. And Marion pipes up and says, "Keep rolling, ab roller! I talk so you forget and sooner you get done. You gonna look sooooo hot, sister!"
Fuck you, Nordic Princess. Fuck you and your Juicy Couture. Fuck you and your protein suppliments. Fuck you and your thighs that will never touch.
After 90 minutes in the goddamn gym, Marion decides I'm done.
And now, of course, I feel fabulous. I'm sore, I can't really move, and I know that no matter how many curls I do on that stupid ab roller, Marion and I come from different planets. Apparently, cheesecake only exists on my planet. Irregardless, I feel all healthy and wonderful, blood flowing through once dormant veins.
I'm not sure how long Marion intends to keep up her gratis boot camp, and while I'm in physical and emotional hell during my time with her, there is no fucking way I'd ever work out this hard without her.

baseball...

I was raised in one of those families that's obsessed with sports. My mother becomes livid if one calls during a Giants or 49er game, and my brother...well, sports is his life. It's multi-generational, my grandfathers both Giants fanatics themselves. These people don't just watch sporting events, they verbally participate, screaming and jumping around. The huge new flatscreen upstairs at my parents was purchased for the sole purpose of baseball season, and now that football is apparently soon upon us, the TV room will again become the sports bar my family designed it to be.
So, last night, I was quite proud of myself for turning on the baseball game to see how the Red Sox were doing. I'm no idiot. Big Chris has been keeping me up to speed, I'm well aware of the Yankees/Red Sox rivalry, I even have a "Yankees Suck" t-shirt. So, during a commercial break for something far more interesting, I clicked over to Channel 2 and both congratulated the Red Sox on being ahead, and myself on actually caring, even if no one was home to pat me on the back.
I watched for a bit, and noted how the announcers kept talking about Damon. On and on, they mentioned this Damon. And, I, of course, assumed they were talking about Matt Damon. I desperately scanned the crowd shots for an eternity, before I realized that they were talking about some player. In my defense, it does make sense. Matt Damon's a huge Red Sox fan and would most certainly be able to get tickets. While stupid, yes, I've made far more embarassing blunders.
More notably, this Damon guy (not Matt) totally looks like one of the members of Color Me Badd. Check it out. It's uncanny.

Monday, October 18, 2004

waking up...

And just like that, the festival's over. The party last night kinda sucked, especially compared to all the other parties. They ran out of food in about 5 minutes, you had to wait in line for booze, and the surprise guest went to some Kerry event instead. Of course, this is the party I make all my friends come to. But, really, it was all worth it to watch Bonnie and Alex on the dancefloor. Hilarious. I think Alex may have actually gotten down on one knee and proposed, although I was pretty trashed.
My head feels like dead weight, everything's kinda blurry, I only vaguely remember most of the evening. But I did have a marvelous time, Andy looked fierce, and the only real downer is that when I was being pursued by some freak who kept saying, "When we gonna slow dance?", Big Chris wouldn't pretend he was my boyfriend. Asshole. Not that I blame him, but Hello? What good are you? He just kept double fisting his Stella's, saying something to the effect of, "You're on your own, slut." Ah, chivalry.
This morning, though, I get to wake up at my parents. Everyone's gone, they left scones and a huge pot of coffee, and now I can crawl into my parent's giant bed, internationally regarded as the most comfortable and fabulous bed of all time.
I haven't been this hungover in a while. but it was all worth it. The whole festival. I mean, I'm still not over Lewis from Revenge of the Nerds. And I made wonderful friends, particularly Kiki and his marvelous girlfriend, who's hilarious and just as much fun as Kiki.
The volunteer appreciation party is on Sunday, where Kiki and I have to make speeches. Bonnie promised Kiki she'd come, so now she really has to. We're having raffle, with some pretty good prizes. This is a testament to how cool Kiki can be. We're going to rig the raffle. Isn't that awesome? So the shitty and bad volunteers get nothing and the wonderful, fun, laid back volunteers we like win the case of wine and trips to Disneyland. Finally, a little justice.

Friday, October 15, 2004

and i thought people talked shit about ME...

www.craigslist.org/eby/m4m/45744470.html




what not to say...

Every night during the festival, there's at least one party. I usually go to them, and am shocked at how surprisingly cool and well attended they are. Plus, I can sneak whomever I want in, and it's been quite fun. Keith and I have been having a really good time, and as we've been spending hours and hours a day together, he's gotten to know the intimate details of my life. One of those details, the one that Keith finds most entertaining, is that at any party and any event, I'll get picked up by the biggest freak in the room.
At first he didn't believe me, but night after night, he's watched the cast of American Splendor attempt to woo me. He finds it hilarious, and I don't blame him. Were it happening to someone else, I'd find it marvelous as well. Last night was no different, and I have to say, not once, but twice, I was reminded that fate will require me to live happilly ever after with a Member's Only jacket wearing, D and D addicted, Big Gulp slurping schmuck.
At the Coldwell Banker event last night, and some shitty golf course Kiki and I now refer to as "the dump", we're standing by the bar, and this troll walks over to me and does the double eyebrow raise, as he rolls by. Keith could barely control his laughter, and said, "Holy Shit. Every time. That was so blatant. He's Carmine, the Big Ragu!"
Then, in a dramatically unchivalrous move, Kiki goes and stands with the event planner, to watch me sqirm from afar. 2 seconds later, who rolls up, but Carmine.
"When I walked in, I thought I knew you. But I don't."
"Oh." I say uncomfortably, noting his elastic waist khakis and velcro flesh toned sneakers.
"You've got to keep me away from this bar." He stammers, getting closer.
"Away from the bar? Why'd you want to go and do something stupid like that?"
"I'm a friend of Bill."
Like an idiot, I reply, "Who's Bill?"
"That means I'm in AA."
How the fuck do you respond to that? He then goes on to say that he's here with his parents, he went to Tam High with Tupac (yeah, Tupac went to high school in Mill Valley) and "Pac" apparently still owes him $800. He also gave Carmine the not-so-origonal advice, "Once you black, you never go back."
This guy goes on and on, while I glance over and notice Keith and the event planner, Clare, laughing so hysterically, Keith must actually brace himself on the wall. It was so painful, with every sentance Carmine spoke, I looked for an out to move on.
"....so I like all kinds of women. Black, white, yellow. I love women, any woman, really. Especially Brazillian women."
"Well, I'll certainly keep an eye out for you. Any Brazillians in the room? Good luck with that." And off I ran, kicking and cursing Keith, and now the entire catering staff, all of whom enjoyed my misfortune.
Keith and I snuck into a back room, to go through the next day's events and get ready to leave, both remarking at what a shithole this place was, and how, no matter how hard I bat my eyelashes at the hot boys, it's always the most terrifying creature that wants to chat me up. "We're building up to serial killer, Beth. This is awesome."
With that, a mouse scurried across the floor before us. "Time to go."
On the way out, Carmine stops me to say goodbye. As I walk away, Keith looks back, and Carmine gives him the thumbs up sign and the double eyebrow raise.
We walk outside together, Keith barely breathing he's laughing so hard. "I can't wait till tomorrow. I just can't wait. Has Manson been parolled yet?"

Tonight, I'm just going to Happy Hour at the Rafael, and then going out with regular people. But Saturday night is a huge party in a huge mansion in Ross. It's an event for all of the filmmakers, I don't have to work, I'm an actual guest, and I get to bring a date. It's going to be the most ridiculous, fabulous party, and I've been racking my brain at who to bring with me.
Now I know. He may not drink, he might dress like the elderly, he might live with the folks, but nothing gets a gal like the double eyebrow raise.
Carmine, you available?

Thursday, October 14, 2004

the best e-mail I've ever received...

Literally, word for word...

Bethy
How are things...good I hope, but fabulous is what I
imagine. First I would like o disclaim this letter
with my situation. I am quite drunk, yet with this
comes a kind of clearity that suddenly make sense out
a previously unseen or quagmired senerio. As a result
of this I found myself on a lone walk home,
contemplating what a man of sort contemplates, when
the thought occured that I had been quite selfish. And
with the understanding that only alcohol can provide,
I decided that I will make it my poragitive to email
you of the incident and explain my new found
enlightenment.
After all the years that we have been friends How
could it be that I dont know alex's email address?

Could you email it to me? Also tell him I am
unavalible on my cell phone, so you and he can reach
me at 831-555-5555. Simple enough.
So Ive moved onto campus into a four bedroom
apartment, which is actually quite nice, I live at
about a thousand feet on top of a redwood canyon (I
cant really describe how beautiful it looks) there
are amazing ocean views from campus and sunset over
the mountains. In the winter the sun goes more south
on the horizon so Ill get to see the sunset over thes
ocean. Living on campus is alot the same sort of
routine as montana however there seems to be alot more
people here to learn and less of a crack house like
enviroment. Im meeting alot of people ( as is
expected) and am trying to find something to do to get
involved. I do try to remember the Tao approach and
drift like a leaf in a stream (:P) ya know the whole
active not doing lifestyle. Im taking more specific
classes and its there is a sense of urgency with my
studies, for I only have two years to make an
impression and find my way into a graduate program of
some sort. I have alot of work ahead of me, but no
road that certain. So its an exciting new chapter Im
beginning. there ya go
yogic hugs and tantric kisses
love
J


I love him so fucking much.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

who's the asian lady...

Last night, I ran out of the Mike Leigh party in Mill Valley and hightailed it to Martuni's for Phillip and Michael's wedding shower. Phillip was my roommate before Bonnie, and one night 2 years ago, as he, Tammy, and I were boozing it up at Martuni's, he met Michael. They're getting hitched next weekend in Sausalito, and I couldn't be more thrilled. They're pretty much the most wonderful men I know, and are fiercely loyal. I love them.
Anyway, it was a big, old, Beach Blanket reunion. Most of the party was over once I arrived, and Martuni's was open to the public. Just the old time BBB boozehounds were left, and needless to say, that's my crowd. Pip, Kathleen, Tammy, Mike, Andy, Juan, and the queen of them all, Patrick. Patrick taught me how to drink. Literally. He's this incredible, magical man, who's currently Jaffar at Disneyland, and thus, lives in LA. But he's in town through the wedding, and that means that it's going to get crazy.
Which, it did last night. I don't know that I've ever actually paid for a drink at Martuni's. I mean, I practically lived there for 3 years, and glasses of wine just seem to appear before me. As I was sitting at our table, watching my friends sing, my Pip in love, and my Andy at my side, I got a little teary eyed. While I hated my job at the Blanket, I made the best friends I will ever have.
I wasn't always the party throwing vixen you see before you. My life used to be much different. My life used to be Martuni's. Gay men, caberet, dim lighting, and the run of the place. Martuni's was home.
We sat in a group, Kathleen, Andy, and I apprently causing a scene. We were really obnoxious, but having the most fun. In our group, however, there sat a middleaged Asian lady. I couldn't figure out who she was, but there's always a groupie or two. At about midnight, everyone totally shitfaced, I lean over to Andy and ask, "Who's the Asian lady?"
Deadpan and rolling his eyes, he responds, "Oh. It's man. I'll tell you later."
Ah, Martuni's.

Kathleen, Andy, and I headed outside for a "breather." The result of this "breather" is that I danced in the middle of the street while Kathleen sang the blues and Andy laughed so hard, he nearly fell in the gutter. He kept screaming, "Crazy Bitches!Crazy Sluts!"
A middle aged-pilot tried to pick me up, using cheezy 70's pick-up lines, which set my friends into hysterics. Andy didn't even try to rescue me. He just stumbled up and said, "Girl, you'd better watch out. I'm taking my drunk ass home. Ya hear?"

Soon after, I too took my drunk-ass home, after saying goodbye to the mysterious Asian lady, aptly named Alan.

The festival is over on Sunday, and Patrick's in town for 2 more weeks. Oh yeah. This is going to fun. If you can't find me, I'll be with Jaffar at Martuni's...


Tuesday, October 12, 2004

alexander the great...

My brother is a genius. My brother is a god. My brother is a bigger nerd than me. And that's why I love him.
At the festival, we have quite a cast of characters volunteering with us, including Gary. Gary's been with the festival for years, hangs out all the time, and generally has nothing better to do. He's in his 40's, unmarried, has this crazy, curly, mane of hair, and a whiny, nasaly, New York accent. He instantly reminded me of this stand-up comic I've seen a million times before, a character actor who's been on every sitcom, in every movie. But, for the life of me, I couldn't place him.
I mentioned this to Keith, who I now regard as my entertainment equal.
"Oh my god. I know! I said the same thing to my girlfriend and she had no idea. God, that's so funny, you noticed too."
The next day being KiKi's birthday, I wracked my brain all night, trying to place this guy. I mean, what a great birthday present. I'd walk in the office the next day with the answer. I'd be hailed as a genius. But I couldn't figure out just which episode of Seinfeld this guy was from, which cheezy bit character he played in a movie. And neither could Keith. Gary would come and go, and each time, we'd go nuts.
"I think he was behind a counter on Seinfeld. A pharmacist?" I'd say.
"Well, that's be the sponge episode. Nope. Not him." Kiki'd say.
"Stationary store?"
"That's the wedding invite episode. I don't think so."
We'd come to an impass. "You know who'll figure it out?" I piped up. "My brother."
"How are you going to describe this guy to your brother? He's never met Gary."
Keith, Keith, Keith. Siblings have a bond. Alex and I have a language. And the most symbiotic frame of reference in existence. It took two sentances trying to explain this guy to Alex. "I know exactly who you're talking about." he said. "Fuck. What's that guy in? I can see him. I can totally hear him."
"We know, we know." Kiki and I waited for weeks. Yesterday, even, Kiki calls. "When's Alex going to figure out Gary's twin?"
"Don't doubt my brother. He's never let me down. He never will. The boy is a genius."

Last night, after chatting with Andy for an eternity, I turned off the lights and tried to sleep. I never sleep, so this was poitless, and I stared at my alarm clock, thinking and thinking about all of my stupid drama, trying to figure out what to do. I'd forgotten about identifying this comic, and was swept up in my personal nonsense. I watched the minutes tick by. At 11:11, the phone rang. Blocked number.

"Beth?" it was my brother. He sounded excited. "Turn on Channel 2! Now!"
"What? Okay. Hold on."
There he was. It's the Bosco episode of Seinfeld, and he's the guy who can't remember Elaine. I jumped on the internet and found him. Fred Stoller, people. Fred Stoller. Look him up. You'll be like, "Oh, yeah. THAT guy!"

I've often said that my brother is my best friend, the best person I know. And it's true. He'd move heaven and earth to make me happy, he's seen me at my absolute worst, he's physically carried me when I literally couldn't walk. He's like Jesus.

But I have never loved him more than I did at 11:11pm last night.

Monday, October 11, 2004

more midgets...

I'm at the internet cafe next to the Rafael, the theater I'm stationed at until Sunday. Big Chris was over last night, as he and Bonnie have a permanent Sunday day of drinking, and we suddenly realized we'd missed a midget on our Midget Top 5.
Our apologies to Vern Troyer.
Mini-Me, we salute you.

Also, props to Big Chris and Bonnie for bringing me BBQ and making me watch Desperate Housewives. Good times.

Sunday, October 10, 2004

lambda, lambda, lambda...

While there's been a little drama lately, (and really, when isn't there?) the last 2 days have been incredible. The festival is off and running, and I'm having so much fun I can barely stand it. Keith and I have split duties, him managing the volunteers at two different theaters. We then meet up every evening at whatever the nightly event is, and party away.
Yesterday, with a packed schedule of 50 volunteers, and an awesome group of friends working with me at the theater, I started to finally relax and get into my job.
Film makers come and go, crowds line the street, there's free movies, food, and booze at all times, and I really like the folks I work with. While a tad stressed by my personal drama, I was suddenly pulled into heaven. Across a crowded sidewalk, I spotted him. Robert Caradine. Better known as Lewis from Revenge of the Nerds.
Now, over the past 3 days, I've met Laura Linney, George Lucas, and Gena Rowlands, all of whom thrill a movie nerd like myself. But Lewis from Revenge of the Nerds is another story all together. He stood there, looking like he might have a question. As I have a very important-looking badge around my neck, I felt this was my in.
"Can I answer a question?"
"No." he replied. "Can I?"
There are some moments you have to seize, some risks you have to take, some cliffs you've simply got to jump from.
"Yes." I said. "What was it like to star in the greatest movie of all time, Revenge of the Nerds."
He laughed. "It was great. I loved it, and I think it's terrific it's become such a cult classic."
"Well, as a nerd myself, that movie means the world to me." I fawned.
He grabbed my badge. "Beth Spotswood" he procliamed. "Well, you're very sweet Beth. I'm Robert."
"Well, it's been an absolute pleasure to meet you. Enjoy the festival." And off I ran to the Happy Hour lounge, beaming and laughing and thrilled to pieces. Someone made me a nametag that said Hello, My Name is Booger, and I walked out into the street filled with the joy that only a tri-lam knows.
Keith and I planned to meet at the Bluegrass Party, and I practically skipped down the street, still glowing from my encounter. The party was awesome, open to the public, with free food and booze and music. I stood with my wine and admired the actual Slimer from Ghostbusters, when a man came up and said, "Slimer fan?"
I didn't even look over. "Who isn't?"
"I designed him" he casually replied. Yep, my day was getting better and better.
The party picked up, I was schmoozing with festival big wigs, I was enjoying how truly awesome this job was becoming. Then, I heard it.
"There she is." The voice was right behind me. I turned around. It was Robert Caradine. He actually remembered me.
Now, I spoke with him for nearly 10 minutes, and I have no idea what I said. All I can tell you is that he was bopping to the bluegrass band, enjoying himself, and putting up with me. He actually hugged me goodbye.
I make 10 cents a day, working 10am-god knows when. But my god, I wouldn't have been anywhere else for all the money in the world.
Lewis Skulnick, people. Revenge of the Nerds is on Comedy Central as I type this.
Few things make me this happy, but this is one of them.

the elephant in the room...

If you've been keeping up with the commenting over the past 48 hours, you've probably noticed that someone from my past is posting less than kind remarks and generally creating a ruckus. I don't want to waste a lot of blog space on this, but I can't ignore the obvious elephant in the room, so let's discuss.
First of all, it's Chris. (Hi Chris.) I used to be very close with Chris. Unfortunately, I'm obviously not anymore. You know how I said I loved drama? Case in point. All of my friends have said that I need to write a blog about it, rip him a new one, tell my story. And I should point out, that while he's remarked that he can't understand why anyone would care about my self-centered ramblings, he used to love those ramblings more than anyone else. Scroll down and read his comments from a few months ago. Chris posted all the time. He adored this blog, and clearly still reads and thus, must still care.
The thing is, if Chris wants to be the nut who posts crazies on here, I can't stop him. And I've got all kinds of sassy shit to say and many funny ways to make him look like a tool. But, the fact of the matter is, there's a little shortcut known as the high road, and I plan to take it.
So, this is the last you'll hear of it, at least outsie of the comments section. Instead of stirring the pot and playing this game, which I'd love to do, I'm going to tell you a funny story about me and Chris. That's why you read anyway, and quite frankly, some one my funniest stories involve him. We had a lot of fun together, and I was actually lying in bed cracking up last night, trying to pick the best story to tell. It's either the Harry Potter story or the No Name story. You're getting the No Name.
Months ago, Chris and I stopped by the No Name Bar in Sausalito, on what appeared to be Open Mike Night. The No Name is a tiny little bar, with a few old tables and chairs, a back patio, and a small stage in the middle. We grabbed our drinks and sat down, both appalled and delighted by the bizarre cast of characters before us. Filled with old time locals, the No Name offers Open Mike every Tuesday. On stage, however, there seemed to be a hippie folk band, and they were clearly doing an extended set. Chris and I sat back, and began to develop our love of this insane yet fabulous venue.
Suddenly, a weathered, drunken, 30-ish old dude crawled up on stage, at sat at the unused piano behind the band. Patrons exchanged nervous glances, as this guy starts to play the piano, apparently joining in. The thing is, either he was playing a different song, or just pounding on the keyes, but it sounded horrible. Chris and I start to kick each other under the table. While highly entertained, we were a tad frightened as well. This guy was planning on staying up there for awhile.
The band kinda stopped, and asked him to leave, which he did. Crazy walked over the bar, where the staff and locals seemed to know him, rolling their eyes, and trying to get him to sit quietly. He really walked the line between being the drunk asshole or simply mentally ill. He was put at a table a little too close to Chris and I, and with horror, we pretended not to stare as he began to sing along, clapping his hands, stomping his feet, causing a bigger scene than the piano incident. This pretty much continued all night, and I think it's safe to say, it made our evening. We left, drunk, sore from laughing, and with a new found respect for the No Name.
Not a week later, with plans to return to Open Mike the next night, we went to dinner at Max's. Sitting in a booth, Chris eating his standard wedge of iceberg, I spotted him.
"Oh my god, Chris. I think...Yeah. I think that's him."
"What are you talking about?"
I replied through gritted teeth, "That's the guy from the No Name. Over there. the busboy."
Chris finally saw him. Sure enough, it was our piano player, bussing tables and appearing slightly more presentable in his little Max's outfit.
"Holy Shit. It IS him. This is awesome!"
Crazy passed by our table, and I grabbed my chance.
"Excuse me. I think we may have met you last week at the No Name."
"Oh." Crazy seemed confused, then pretended to recognize us. "Oh yeah! How are you? What's happenin'?"
"We'll be there tomorrow night." I said. "Will you?"
"Yeah, yeah. I think so."
Chris piped up. "You should totally go. We'll hang out. That place is awesome."
"Yeah, sure. I'm Tim." (It was something like Tim. I can't exactly call Chris and ask him if he remembers, so let's stick with Tim.)
We introduced ourselves, promised to see him the next night, and off he went with his dirty dishes.
Needless to say, 24 hours later, we were at the No name, with Kelsey and Dinelle in tow. We'd attempted to tell them the Tim story, but they were less than interested and didn't really get the beauty of the situation. We didn't spot Tim inside, so we grabbed a small table and got some drinks. After a while, Chris and Kelsey went outside to smoke. At that moment, who walks in, but Tim. He gets himself a beer, and I instantly call him over to our table. Dinelle whispers a "What the fuck are you doing?" as Tim makes himself comfortable.
The three of us, sat nervously around the table, but there was no way I was letting Tim leave. I needed Chris to return from the patio to find Tim sitting with us, the visual so perfect, I wouldn't allow it to be wasted on Dinelle, who clearly didn't care. After a few minutes that seemed like a few hours, Chris and Kelsey sauntered in from the back patio and discovered the scene at our table.
Say whatever you want about Chris, but god bless him, he runs up, shakes Tim's hand, slaps him on the back, and buys the guy a beer.
Tim stayed off the stage that night, until Kelsey hopped up to the piano and actually played real music. Then, with maniacal cruelty, I encouraged Tim on stage to join Kelsey in a duet, which he did. It was hilarious and wonderful, and some of the most fun I've had.
Magic happens at the No Name folks. Magic.

And in the great words of Forrest Gump, That's all I have to say about that.

Thursday, October 07, 2004

last minute...

I just stumbled upon an extra ticket to tonight's HUGE gala. Open bar, tons of food, live music, 300 people, Hollywood VIPs, and me. Who wants it...

festivus for the rest of us....

The Film Festival opens today. This is terribly exciting, as it begins with the Opening Night Gala. My boss, Keith, has promised to bust a move on the dancefloor, prompting yesterday's quote of the day, "It's gonna be KiKi on the dancefloor, yo."
The first volunteer doesn't need to show up anywhere until 6 today, yet for some reason, I've got to be there at noon. I do get a snazzy and exclusive staff badge, which gets me into everything without a ticket, thus I refuse to complain. I'm going to be like Wayne and Garth, holding up my pass to get into the VIP events or the Happy Hour tent. (Yep. There's a Happy Hour tent.)
I'm actually really excited for this to start, as it'll be 10 days of Hollywood North, celebrities, and open bars. If Johnny Depp shows, I'll shit my pants. This is going to be fun.
We do have some insane volunteers, which always makes work interesting. Yesterday, I returned from lunch at the Depot, to find some idiot and her dog sitting at my desk. I walk into our office, she looks up, and says, "You can sit in that chair in the corner. I'm going to be a few minutes."
Well, you know what? That's MY desk and MY computer and MY phone ringing, so why don't you go sit in the fucking corner, and take your mutt with you.
Actually, I said, "I'm Beth. Can I help you with something?"
"Oh." She says, without looking up. "I guess you want your chair back."
"Yeah. I do. Really just because I should grab the phone."
She gets up, walks to the corner chair, and resumes filling out her Volunteer Application. After my call, she looks up, sees my staff badge hanging on my cork board and says, "Are you related to Dick?"
"Yes, I am. He's my dad."
"Oh god. Well, I read his column and sometimes he's way off base. He doesn't know what he's talking about."

How nice. Guess who's getting reassigned to manning the Port-o-Potty area...

i'm with yasser...

The other night, Ryan and I met at Liverpool Lil's for drinks. Instead of watching the debates, we got drunk and caused scenes with our loudness. Liverpool Lil's was a favorite hangout of both of our grandparents, Bob and Joanne. Ryan was particularly close with my grandfather, Bob and I adored his Grandma Joanne. Every few months, we bring flowers to them at the cemetery, and then go to Lil's. The family has taken to finding this charming and thus, joining us for dinner. It's our little tradition, and we've got it down to a science. Ryan and I show at Lil's at 6, but tell our respective parents to show at 8. They then cover our bar tab AND buy us dinner. Genius.
Tuesday was particularly special, as Ryan was presenting my family with the gifts he purchased us in the Middle East, where he's been fighting off insurgents for the past few months. Ryan decided to get my dad and entire Arab sheik outfit, complete with the dishtowel on the head with the rope around it. Dad actually put it on the middle of Lil's, to the horror of everyone, he looked just like Yasser Arafat. Seriously.
Now, if my grandfather was still alive, Ryan would've gotten him the same thing, and I think it's safe to say, Bob woulda put everything on andwandered around Lil's speaking in mock-Arabic to strangers.

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

i guess that's what they call it the blues...

On Monday night, Bonnie, Andy, Zoe and I went to the Marin Theater Company to see Dani perform in a benefit for Broadway Cares: Equity Fights AIDS. The show was comprised of 6 musicicans and performers, all of whom are in MTC's current show, Beggar's Holiday. The performed a series of songs from new muicals and younger composers. I don't have to tell you it was incredible. These people are freakishly talented, and the program was made up of some very intense songs.
After the show, Bonnie and I were in the bathroom, chatting, and she mentioned how some of the songs were very emotional for her. I noticed the same thing and said, "You know, whatever emotion you're going through, no matter how specific and complicated and personal it is, someone's felt it before and they already wrote a song about it."
What' so horrible about this though is that you can't pick the artist that's going to articulate your feelings. Sometimes, as I confessed to Kelsey at 1am last night, Whitney Houston gets it right. (It's not Right, But it's Okay) It's been worse. I've been profoundly moved and comforted by the music of the following: Avril Levigne, Hoobastank, Robbie Williams, and N*Sync. Not a good sign.
It all comes down to the fact that at some point, you hear a song for the first or the hunderedth time and suddenly, it feels like it was written just for you, just for right now. Sometimes, you're driving a round listening to Elton John, and it all makes sense.
Oh my god. This IS why they call it the blues.

Sunday, October 03, 2004

fantasy...

Tonight, overcome by a need to cook, I surveyed the kitchen for ingredients. There are few recipes I've mastered, but I kick ass with phyllo and puff pastry. My spanakopita is legedary, and as I result, I always have some frozen phyllo dough stored away. I immediately decided to have a phyllo party, pulling out an array of ingredients, from Havarti to Nutella. Bonnie was in her room and on the phone, but I was desperate for her to come out and join my party. I began with onion, cheese and egg triangles, and then started to invent a new masterpeice, when Bonnie popped her head out the door. Delighted at the sight, she instantly opened a bottle of wine and got to work.
"Oh my god. Can I join you?" she asked.
"Are you nuts? It was my fantasy that you'd come out here and join my phyllo party!"
I returned to my masterpiece, and created the now famous, "Evenin' News."
Evenin' News, an exotic mix of peanut butter, Nutella, and puff pastry, is THE GREATEST FOOD EVER INVENTED. I call it Evenin' News because it looks like little newspapers rolled up. Bonnie, while frightened by my freakish display, sampled the Evenin' News and agreed. I had created a culinary miracle. Bonnie, not to be outdone, developed the exciting Asparagus and Grilled Onion triangle and the night's triumph, a turkey, onion, and melted cheese medly rolled in phyllo.
We played music and drank wine, and quite frankly, should have had our own cooking show, because we were marvelous. Bonnie crowned me the "Phyllo Queen" and she is my princess. Together, we rule the Phyllo Kingdom, and our currency is Evenin' News.

Saturday, October 02, 2004

soul mates...

There's that one moment, if you're lucky enough, that you realize you've met your soul mate. For me, it happened 3 years ago, backstage, at Beach Blanket. I was the jaded principal costume mistress, and I was assigned a eager, new understudy; a young Midwestern queen named Andy Jay Jolley. Andy and I hit it off immediately, spending every break chain-smoking Marlboro Lights and gossiping about everyone in the back steps. Smoking, while horrible, is a sure-fire way to make friends at work. Forced into the darkest recesses of workplaces, smokers huddle together and talk trash. Andy and I instantly discovered we'd be fast friends. But it wasn't until a few months into our friendship that we realized just how profound our bond would become.
Backstage is just as choreographed as onstage. With 10 actors and 4 crew positions, in a space smaller than our backyard, it's incredibly complicated and fast paced. It takes months to train and is a big deal when you finally solo. As the only girl crew member at the time, my solo was celebrated with my introduction to Petron. It's like graduating theater boot camp, surviving aggressively homosexual hazing, and aging 3 years in 3 months. Andy was almost ready to solo, and it was his final show with me still backstage, watching his every move. At this point, he pretty much had it down to muscle memory, and could chat and relax a little.
We were having a good time, laughing and joking around with everyone, Andy perfectly trained to rip the clothes off and throw different ones back on. Under their costumes, men wear dance belts: little, lycra, banana hammock thongs in either white, black, or nude. There are always men in dance belts running around, and quite frankly, you never get quite used to it.
Towards the end of the show, backstage is packed, a mass of actors all getting ready for the finale. I'm huddled in a corner, trying to stay out of the way but still keeping an eye on Andy, as everyone is throwing on gospel choir outfits. One actor in particular, Tiny Pabst*, has just returned from a quick pit stop. To my horror, I notice a perfect quarter size pee stain in the center of his nude dance belt. I instantly look up and search for anyone to join me in this hilarious observation.
With 14 people backstage, only one set of big blue eyes caught mine. Andy and I suddenly realize the other has witnessed the horrifying sight. What makes it so hilarious is the fact that Tiny Pabst is nuts, certifiably insane. He marches around singing "Pork Chops and Applesauce!", so much so that for Secret Santa, he was actually given pork chops and applesauce. He, while wearing a dashiki, made a pass at my father in the middle of a Christmas Party. He twice had a breakdown and refused to go on stage in the middle of shows. He's bizarre, and everyone from BBB totally knows who I'm talking about right now. Yeah, Tiny had a big, bright, pee stain, and Andy and I were the sole observers.
Years later (yesterday), Andy recalled, "That's when I knew we'd be friends forever. You were the only other person that noticed, and as soon as I saw that you saw, it became the funniest thing that has ever happened. "
Somehow, everything changed after Andy and I shared in Tiny's unknown humiliation. We became instantly inseparable, and remain so. It's true, what they say. Sometimes, it takes a traumatic, life-changing event to bring two people together.

*Tiny Pabst is obviously not his real name. But, if you know who I’m talking about, “Tiny Pabst” is hilarious. Of course, Andy thought of it.


Friday, October 01, 2004

have a nice trip...

Yesterday, while driving to the Kerry event, I was stopped at a crosswalk, and these two Marin trophy wives sauntered across the street. All of a sudden, in the middle of the crosswalk, the most offensive one took a header, and landed flat on her face. The other one, and this is fabulous, pretended it didn't happen, and simply crossed the street. She found it so embarassing, she didn't even help her "friend." If I was falling, I'd grab onto someone so I didn't go down alone.
It reminded me of when I lived in Philadelphia. Several apartment buildings off campus were used as student housing, and there was a big van that would show up and take kids to and from campus. Our building was about half students and half regular people, including an apartment on the 5th floor filled entirely with retarded adults. Like, 6 of them.
One snowy morning, I sat in the Ram Van (that's what they called it), and 4 or 5 big basketball players pile in. Before we drive away, we must wait for the 6 retarded adults to cross street in front of us. Now, it's snowing like crazy and the ground is covered in ice. Wisely, the retards decide to hold hands as they cross, lest one lose his balance. As they cross, the basketball players and myself watch in anticipatory silence for the inevitable. Then it happened.
The first retard fell, pulling the second, then the third, and then the whole group down with him. The van errupts into hoots, hollers, and high fives, the basketball players thrilled by this display, as the 6 retards lay on the ice. They took an eternity to get their bearings, find their mittens, and put their little knit hats back on. The basketball players, finding the humor of the situation dwindling, start to yell things like, "Move it or lose it, Corky!" and "Yo Rainman, haul ass!"
While I felt horrible for them, none of the retards seemed to mind. Perhaps, this happened all the time, or maybe they simply didn't care. They got back up, grabbed onto each other's hands again, and went on their independent way. Really, it's a good life lesson. I'd much rather be the retard than the trophy wife. The trophy wife went down alone, and no one held her hand when she got back up. They might of had mismatched shoes and lazy eyes, but, god bless 'em, those retards had each other.