Tuesday, November 30, 2004

axe me about my ignunt chirren...

Shirley Q. Liquor

Look into it. It's the greatest thing I've ever heard in my life.


"Last year, Knipp gained notoriety for his holiday song "12 Days of Kwanzaa," which The Atlanta Journal-Constitution described as "toxically politically incorrect." The year before, he ran for Congress as a Libertarian candidate in Beaumont, Texas and claimed to be a black woman with 19 children."


When introducing a new flame to friends, it's customary to prep one's friends with pertinent information about your new lover, especially anything unusual or out of the ordinary. Last night, Zoe hosted a dinner party to celebrate Ryan's birthday, and we were going to get to meet Ryan's new fella, Mark. Zoe had been prepped on Mark, hearing about how they met, their new place, all of their fights, etc. Ryan really went into detail, filling Zoe in on their entire relationship well before the dinner. Early in the morning, Zoe called Ryan to confirm dinner plans, and left a message on their joint voicemail. Mark's voice appears on the answering machine, and Zoe noticed a prominent speech impediment. She kinda forgot about it, but as we're sitting around drinking wine waiting for Ryan and Mark to show, we hear the doorbell ring and Zoe goes, "That's them! Oh yeah, I forgot to warn you, Mark has a speech impediment." And with that, they walk up the stairs.
Ryan is one of the more adorable people alive, and his boyfriend Mark is pretty gorgeous as well. He's also deaf, and wears this headset thing attached to his head. Now, before you lambaste me for noticing, much less mentioning it, allow me to say that obviously, I'm down with deaf people. And if I were dating a deaf guy, I'd be shouting it from the rooftops (I'd probably be shouting a lot, actually). I would certainly discuss this with Zoe, and should we be invited to dinner, I'd give my hostess a heads up. As Zoe pointed out, a deaf boyfriend warrants disclosure.
We enjoyed a lovely dinner, had a great time, and chatted away, but obviously, I was fascinated with the fact that gorgeous Mark was deaf AND amazed Ryan hadn’t mentioned it. Towards the end of the evening, Mark's headset battery ran out, and the boys had to go. As Ryan and Mark hugged us goodbye and walked down the stairs, I looked over at Tim and he warns me, "Wait till you hear the door close."
Fair enough. We hear the front door slam and stand around in silence staring at each other, until I finally say, "Well, hello? He's DEAF? No one told me he was deaf."
We decided that anything protected under the American Disabilities Act warrants disclosure.
ZoĆ«’s invited me over for dinner next week, and I'm supposed to bring a date. I hope her place is wheelchair accessible...

Sunday, November 28, 2004

mazel tov, darlin'...

My friend Ben returned home for Thanksgiving to find a new addition at his mother's front door. Ben's mom, Sharon, is very Texan, and her fiance, Morrie, is very Jewish. Thus, there's currently a tile right at their front door, and it says "Shalom Y'all!"
That is fabulous. I wonder if they could get a doorbell to chime that, somehow?

I went out drinking with Ben twice this weekend, and both times, he brought his friend Jeremy. Jeremy is the exact cross between Jesus and Jason Lee. He's awesome, carries around an obscene amount of weed in a Baco's jar, and giggles a lot in the corner. The great thing about Jeremy is that he'll be quiet for like an hour, and then suddenly he'll speak, and it'll be the most brilliant or hilarious observation I've ever heard in my life. He's the highest functioning stoner on earth, and he will be my sidekick when I have my own talkshow.

At about 1 am last night, I dragged my posse of boys into Capp's for cheap drinks and available seating. My good friend Doug, one of the actors in Beach Blanket, was in there drinking away in a booth. Barely out of his Elvis make-up, he kisses me hello and leans in to whisper...
"Oh my god, Beth! I can't believe you just walked in here with all kinds of hot boys. Who are they?"
"Have at 'em, Doug. They're slutty and drunk."
I went off to grab another $3 glass of Claret, and as I sat at the bar chatting with some friends, I look over to find both John and Ben with their hands down Doug's shirt, caressing his chest and admiring his velvety soft skin, which feels surprisingly like "rosepetals."
Leave it to me to go out with 5 straight boys and turn them all gay by closing time...

Friday, November 26, 2004

thanksgiving quotes...

"I don't like watching black people have sex either." -Joanne
"Girls pee sitting down, right?"- Big Chris
"How ya feelin', buddy? You wanna put that on a cracker?" -Ted to Rob, after Rob vomitted all over the downstairs bathroom and denied it.

Thursday, November 25, 2004

gobble, gobble, gobble...

Ah, Thanksgiving. Bonnie, Andy, and I are heading to my folks again. As we were shopping at the ridiculously wonderful and expensive Whole Foods this morning, scoping out all the pretty boys buying organic supplies, Bon asked me to reconfirm who'd be in attendance today. Here's the cast of characters I'm spending this holiday with. With me luck:

Dad: 57 year old lawyer and political columnist, great story teller, penchant for announcing needless trivia facts, particularly those about lesser known 19th century presidents, loves taste testing, especially fancy booze and chutneys. Actively ignores grandma, cooks most of the food, and has probably already had several Manhattans.

Mother: 59 year old small business owner, oldest and most exalted of my grandma's three children, usually the voice of reason until 3 glasses of Chardonnay, at which point everyone must play parlor games. Prefers to serve non-traditional trendy Thanksgiving food, usually gets stuck being polite to the boring people, and is the only one attentive to Grandma's needs.

Alex: 21 year old brother, only normal Spotswood, and generally lovely. Makes superb mashed potatoes, is in charge of the fire, and subtly ignores grandma.

Uncle Ted: 57 year old brother of mom, divorced high school teacher from Ukiah, technology hater, and conspiracy theorist. Brings tons of wines and bread, loves talking to non-family members as he's tired of us, and, as much as he tries, can't ignore grandma because she drives him nuts. Former hippy and insane asylum teacher (aka: patient), also suffers from middle child syndrome.

Grandma: (Helen Yvonne McDevitt Peterson aka: Buzzkill) 92 year old matriarch, requests "child size" portions of gin, will most likely refer to my outfit as "flattering", and loves to regale anyone who'll listen with bizarre half truths, like the time she was giving birth to my mother and spoke directly with Jesus. My father, the half Italian, is the most ethnic person she knows who doesn't work for her, and she still wears gloves whenever she goes to the city. Andy and my uncles have hatched a secret plan to get her high, and subsequently, cure her glaucoma.

Susan: 42 year old assistant to mom, stopping by for pre-dinner drinks, formerly thought to be a lesbian but recently announced she's been seeing a fella for 3 years. While poorly dressed, she's very friendly and helpful, and will most likely be stuck refilling Grandma's gin.

Via phone: Uncle Bill (yeah, I know. Bill and Ted. I get it.) 54 year old painter and resident of Savannah, Georgia. Youngest of Yvonne's children, free spirit, and dog lover. Divorced and blissfully far away from holiday barrage of Catholic guilt and judgment, Bill only shows up for Christmas and funerals. He calls during Thanksgiving and Easter, in which the phone is ceremoniously passed around the dinner table.

Dropping by: Any number of Alex's friends, stopping in to do shots with my dad and play the official game of Thanksgiving, PIT.

And then, of course, Bonnie, Andy, and myself, who'll spend the evening sitting by the fire, downing wine and stuffing our faces, while attempting to avoid getting into a heated discussion with Grandma regarding gays, minorities, or poor people.

As my late grandfather, Bob "Da" Spotswood would say, "This is gonna end in tears..."

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

thankful for cable...

If you've nothing to do this Thanksgiving, I'll give you two options. You can either suffer through the emotional hell, constant guilt, and drunken games of charades that make up The Spotswood Family Thanksgiving, or you can rent the following awesome movies, all about this bizarre holiday.

Beth's Top Five Thanksgiving Movies:

5. Dutch
4. The Ice Storm
3. Planes, Trains, and Automobiles
2. Home for the Holidays
1. A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving

Although, the best part of Thanksgiving is the random movies that are played on TBS and USA and TNT all day long. Starting at, like, 10am, they'll play Ghost, Top Gun, The Breakfast Club, and Indiana Jones all in a row. Heaven. (It's important to note that when I speak of Indiana Jones, I'm only talking about 1 and 2. 3 is complete bullshit, and doesn't deserve to be mass broadcast on a national holiday.)

You can have your football. I'll take Dutch any day of the week and twice on Thursdays...

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

i'm so sorry, matt...

I've been fawning over Mayor Gavin Newsom for months, dissecting his wardrobe, his hair, his flawless presence. But I've neglected to publicly admire a worthy man who deserves a little Spots attention as well, and that man is Supervisor Matt Gonzales.
Andy and I caught a glimpse of him today on Public Access, leading some crazy meeting in which one Supervisor (Michela Alioto-Pier) was trying to get another Supervisor (Chris Daly) censured for flipping out during a board meeting and telling the room of angry citizens to "Fuck off!" Matt led the meeting with grace and common sense, reminding Michela just how much of a nut she is, while appearing relatively restrained and professional. I always kind of envisioned his as some sort of present day Green Party Caesar Chavez, letting homeless people live in his basement and reclaiming Alcatraz for the Indians.
Not so. He's professional and smart and quite frankly, adorable. Sure he's got wired hair, yes he wears white sweat socks with his suits, granted Zoe claims she saw bugs flying around him, as if he were made of hippy filth. But, I've got to tell you, watching this San Francisco Board of Supervisor's vote, I've got to give Matt Gonzales props for looking pretty hot.
I feel kinda bad about giving that Gavin so much attention, while blatantly ignoring his former challenger.
Matt Gonzales, you're a fox. Clean it up, and we could party...

waiting for a star to fall...

I'm always claiming radio is a dying medium, yet it's all I seem to talk about. I mean, there's no such thing as destination radio, unless it's NPR on Saturday mornings. Otherwise, the only time anyone listens to the radio is when they're driving and their car CD player is broken. That'd be me right now. Thus, I listen to a lot of radio and I have this to say:
KOIT (96.5) rules and here's why.
Reason #1: At 8pm every weeknight, they have 3 hours of cheesy love songs known as "Between the Sheets." Hilarious.
Reason #2: It's not even Thanksgiving, and they're playing all kinds of Christmas music. I was driving down Divis listening to Whitney Houston's "Little Drummer Boy." Being someone who gladly listens to Holiday tunes in June, I'm thrilled.
Reason #3: Their on air promos are always, like 12 minutes long, and the entire time, they're saying over and over again, "Less talk, more music. KOIT." That takes balls.
Reason #4: I ask you, who else plays Chaka Khan at least twice a day?
Reason #5: KOIT makes you suffer through some pretty shitty music. But stick around and it pays off. You'll inevitably be rewarded with some obscure song from your childhood, taking you back to 1984, as was my experience yesterday. Ever hear a little song called "(I Ain't) Missing You" by John Waite. Good stuff. That's one of those songs that you'd drunkenly e-mail the lyrics to an ex. Or maybe that's just me...

I would just like to give a shout out to KOIT. Thanks for making easy listening truly rock.
Your fan,

Monday, November 22, 2004

face for radio...

Yesterday being Sunday, Bonnie, Big Chris, and I met Joe at Hobbson's Choice for an afternoon of drinking and general mayhem. Chris drove us over there in his huge, elderly person Camry, and we were forced to listen to his extensive collection of Eminem. A mere 4 blocks away from our house and I couldn't take it anymore. I told Chris to put on the gay station.
After 5 minutes of moans and groans from the gangsta rap honkie posers in the front seats, Bonnie and Chris finally turned the dial to ENERGY 92.7 and the party began.
This radio station is so gay, in their on air promos, they proclaim, "Wanna tell if a guy is straight or gay? Turn on ENERGY 92.7 and if he doesn't dance, he's straight." They also say, "What Beach Blanket Babylon is to theater, 92.7 is to radio." That always cracks Andy and I up.
Needless to say, it's pretty much all I listen to.
The thing is, they play awesome music. Within mere seconds, Chris and Bon were singing along to Depeche Mode, Madonna, and Erasure. Everyone loves this shit, so I don't get what all the bitching is about. That is, until, The Bucketheads song, "The Bomb (These Sounds Fall into My Mind)" came on. We were driving along having a lovely time until Chris announces, "This is the gayest song I've ever heard in my life."
Hardly. Straighty over here obviously knows nothing of gay culture.
That sounds like a challenge to me.
I have now created the GAYEST MIX OF ALL TIME!

"I'm a dirty frat boy on a dirty soccer team, go into the locker room after wrestling"
-"Soccer Practice" by Johnny McGovern (officially the gayest song on earth)

Sunday, November 21, 2004

the shirt off his back...

If there was any doubt in my fag hag status before last night, it's disappeared. The Castro is my Kingdom and I am there queen. Well, maybe not their Queen, but I'm certainly their favorite straight person. Ever. I don't even know why I bother talking to non-gays. There's really no point.
Last night, Andy and I attended a house warming party for Andy's fabulous former roommate, Dale. Dale just bought himself a gorgeous place in the hills above the Castro, and then threw himself a fabulous party packed with gay after gay. Actually, I was one of probably 4 women in attendance, and then there were like, 60 guys.
Of the four women, one was a work colleague of Dale's who brought her husband. Another was a stunning supermodel, who brought her boyfriend and spent the entire evening doing drugs in the corner. And the last woman was the lesbian neighbor from downstairs, who kept telling me how much she liked turning weak straight women.
Andy immediately found some beefy stud named Brandon who needed to vent about his tumultuous past relationships while simultaneously flexing his huge guns and the two of them went off together. So there I stood, in a sparkly gold ensemble, holding my glass on wine, and looking for a friend.
The thing about parties like this, especially gay ones, is that there's lots of people who don't know a soul and are desperate for someone to talk to. Gays will show up at anything providing free booze and an abundance of men. Within 5 minutes, I had found my group, a rag tag bunch made up of Jason, an EMT, Lucius, a shy yet huge personal trainer, Jeffrey and Fernando, an uber-rich gay couple, and Sophie, the lesbian neighbor.
Once I had my posse, the party became incredibly fun, as we made fun of people's outfits and dissected our love lives, comparing the dating of straights versus gays. We took over the bar area, which required that we meet everyone at the party, and every time a hot new gay came over, Fernando would announce in his heavy El Salvadoran accent, "Meet Bette. She a-fabulous."
At one point, we went out onto the deck to smoke. As we admired the other houses in the neighborhood, this hot guy in a house across the backyard starts to undress in front of a window, amid hoots and hollers from our party. He finally saw us, and waved as he seductively removed his pants.
Finally Andy decides that beefy Brandon isn't the one for him, and implies that he's ready to leave. Before we depart, I must make my rounds, saying goodbye to my new best friends. We hug Dale goodbye, congratulate him on his fabulous purchase, and make our way to the door, when I see this adorable little Asian man in a fabulous Marc Jacobs t-shirt which says, "MARC JACKASS".
"I fucking love your shirt!" I rudely scream at him. "Where on earth did you find it?"
"Oh here, honey. Have it." He casually replies, as he removes the shirt and hands it to me.
"No, no, you can't be serious." I stammer, thrilled to pieces.
"I'm so over it. It's yours, sweetie."
Fair enough. I grab my t-shirt, my satin clutch, and my handful of gay phone numbers and leave triumphant.
As we walked to the car, Andy looks over and says, "Well, weren't you a hit, Miss Beth."
Yes. Yes I was. I was, sadly, deep within my element. Or as I like to call it, Reason 624 why I'll die a spinster.

Saturday, November 20, 2004

mitch all together...

I went to the gym the other morning for 2 reasons. The first reason is because I was about to start housesitting for Judy in Sausalito and I hate the Marin 24 Hour. I prefer my ghetto establishment in Potrero Hill. The second is to test my new theory that I can do cardio longer if I forgo my usual Work Out Mix CD and listen to either books on CD or comedy shows. Thus, Mitch Hedberg and I hopped on the treadmill and off we went.
I've heard every joke on Mitch Hedberg's CD a million times, but he still cracks me up constantly. So, there I am, in this packed gym, with what appeared to be two huge Marines flanking me on the treadmills on either side, and I start to laugh at this hilarious CD. The Marine's were sprinting away, as if running for their lives, wearing t-shirts with obnoxious work out phrases on them, such as "Live for the Pain." Like an idiot, I'm working out with a million gym rats all staring at nothing and listening to hip hop, and I'm in hysterics, occasionally actually clapping, to the comedic stylings of an obscure stand up.
At one point, I notice the Marine to my right roll his eyes. Whatever, soldier. I was having fun. When I finally finished, and took off my earphones, the rolling eyes Marine looks over and says, "What were you listening to?"
"Oh, a comedian named Mitch Hedberg."
"Are you shitting me! That guy is hilrious! I love that guy! No wonder you were laughing. I can't believe he has a CD."
Like the true patriot I am, I opened my CD player, handed him my illegally burned disk, and said, "God Bless America."

"You can't be like pancakes. All exciting at first, but by the end, you're sick of 'em." -MH

Friday, November 19, 2004

fuck the east bay...

I hate the East Bay. I always have and I always will. There is no point in going there, other than for the rare Berkeley trip or some type of live entertainment. Otherwise, I avoid that hell hole like the plague. I'm from Marin. We have no need to go over there, and when we do, we're shocked and appalled. Admit it. You know it's gross.
As I was housesitting for Judy for the past few days, I drove her to the Oakland Airport. Judy drives a big Audi station wagon, and it was running out of gas. So, having dropped Judy at her gate, I got on the freeway, and sat through hours of traffic looking for an exit with a gas station. Finally, I pulled off the freeway into the ghetto and found some independent gas station with no name, yet packed with shady looking drug dealers and cars stripped of their paint.
I've driven Judy's car a million times, but because I am an idiot, I couldn't figure out how to open the gas tank. An elderly man, wearing a dashiki and bearing an uncanny resemblance to Nelson Mandella, came over and helped me out. Turns out, you just pull it open and unscrew the cap.
I threw my credit card in the machine and went inside to get a Snapple. I guess I was inside for awhile, because as I emerged from the Quik Mart, I discovered that the pump had put $57 worth of gas in that damn Audi and was still going. Noooooo!
I ran up to the pump and, without thinking, just pulled it out. Gas flew everywhere, landing primarilly on me, covering my cashmere sweater, my favorite jeans, and my leather ballet flats. I'm talking a lot of fuel, here.
Not only did the entire gas station turn to look, most likely prompted by my screaming, but they all started to snicker. Turns out, the snobby bitch in the Audi can't pump her own gas.
My humilliation was compounded by the fact that I had to drive the rest of the way home, still in the dead locked East Bay traffic, with every window down as I was convinced I'd pass out from the overwhelming fumes.
I hate the East Bay so fucking much.

snuggle whore...

I have been obsessed with snuggling all my life. As a child, I loved to curl up alongside my parents as they read in bed. In fact, I still do. I will gladly snuggle with any and all, and pretty much anyone who knows me has been forced to snuggle with me at one time or another.
Every year, on the big family ski trip to Yosemite, Kate and I spend hours snuggling in bed all day, watching trashy movies, ordering room service, and reading girly magazines. In college, my friends Jesse and Kelly would snuggle with me under blankets on snowy days, and we'd rewatch The Firm over and over again. And anyone who sleeps over at 916A will most likely be woken up with me jumping in their bed screaming, "Snuggle with me!"
I know, I know. Poor Bonnie.
The other night I felt the need to snuggle, so I called my parents house and tried to talk a family member into driving to the city just to snuggle with me. My brother, the only person who outright refuses to snuggle with me or anyone under any cirmumstances, pointed out that perhaps it's time to return to therapy, and then called me a snuggle whore.
"Well, Alex, if that's your attitide, I'm going out into the street to find a hobo."
We developed a scheme in which I'd offer hobos a shower, a cheese sandwich, and a clean bed for an hour, and all they had to do was snuggle with me. I mean really, I have fancy linens, I smell good, and who doesn't want a cheese sandwhich?

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

aunt kandy...

My beloved gay sidekick is back in Chicago for his Aunt Kandy's funeral. Andy's family is like a Lifetime Afternoon Movie, filled with constant tragedy and scandal. Andy's been to so many funerals and suffered through so much drama, it's no wonder he's chosen to live 2000 miles away.
Andy's family is dramatically different from my own, and far more fabulous. The first photo I ever saw of his mom, Rhonda Kay, she was standing in some yard wearing a Marlboro beach towel with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. His younger brother practiced Satan worship for awhile, and his older brother lives with his Filipino wife and her parents, yet has been having an internet affair with some lady in Boston for like, 5 years. I friggin' love the Jolley's.
Aunt Kandy, who was 42 and the mother to 3 kids, the youngest being 4 years old, died unexpectedly of a massive brain aneurysm last week. Touched by dramatic tragedy, including the recent unsolved murder of his 20 year old cousin, Andy and family have a wonderful way of finding humor in every situation, no matter how horrible.
As Kandy was being taken to the hospital, the doctors and nurses were asking her questions to keep her awake and see how cognizant she was.
When finally asked who the president was, Aunt Kandy roused herself and matter of factly responded from her deathbed, "That fucker, Bush."

Rest in Peace, Aunt Kandy. I never got to meet you, but obviously, I think we coulda partied.

Monday, November 15, 2004

the hottest mayor...

What's the best thing about San Francisco? The fact that we have, hands down, the hottest mayor in America.
Bonnie just called me in hysterics from work, as Gavin is due to arrive any minute and give all of Gymboree a speech, I'd imagine thanking them for moving their offices to San Francisco, which Gymbo just did. She screamed this information at me, then ran off to get a seat in the front row.
Here's the thing. I know he's smart, talented, good at his job, etc. But he's breathtaking, perfectly dressed, and named Gavin, for crying out loud. He might as well be Troy or Blaine, for that matter. How are we supposed to take him seriously when he's so damn pretty.
Zoe has weekly encounters with Gavin, as she works in his office. Bitch. Actually, she works in Charlotte Shultz's office, planning parties for dignitaries and refugees. Charlotte is the grande dame of San Francisco society, and has a wing of the Mayor's office just for her fabulousness. She also has Zoe. And thus, my best friend has extraordinary access to, I can't say it enough, the hottest mayor in America.
I've met Gavin 3 times, and each time, he surpassed all of my expectations, both in the charm and aesthetic departments. He even smells divine. The only area in which Gavin is lacking is in his much discussed hair gel use. He must go through a bottle a week, his hair formed into a shiny black helmet of pomade. While I've never had the pleasure of running my hands through it, I often imagine it, and I'm willing to bet Gavin's hair isn't as touchable as one would hope. But that is his only flaw. And it's fixable.
As I type this, Bonnie is probably sitting front and center in some big room, winking and licking her lips at, once again, the hottest mayor in the United States of America.

Sunday, November 14, 2004

that's just fowl...

Dressed in a fabulous new outfit, with perfectly blown out hair and brand new shoes, I emerged from my home and walked to my car convinced I couldn't possibly look any cooler. As if in a Salon Selectives ad, I leapt out into the street, hair bouncing and handbag swinging. Feeling far to fabulous to actually look where I was going, I stepped directly into the rotting maggoty decaying carcass of a rather large dead pigeon.
I had no choice but to admit defeat, concede that I will never be nearly as cool as I imagine, and returned to my home, where I put on sweats, turned on the TV, and cut my losses on a charming pair of kitten heel boots.
I may have lost the battle, God, but I shall win the greater war.

god save the queen...

I just watched Hugh Grant on Inside the Actor's Studio, and I'm so enamored, I have to get it out. He is FLAWLESS. It's ridiculous, how marvelous Hugh Grant is.
Interviewed by the staggeringly obnoxious James Lipton, who tonight must spend an hour kissing Marky Mark's oft-photographed ass, (Bravo, 8pm) Hugh had me in hysterics instantly, with his tale of the man who lived 2 doors down from his childhood home, and was found to be "chopping ladies up to bits and burying them in the golf course." I don't know why, but I find morbid humor charming. In fact, I find everything about Hugh Grant charming.
First of all, his full name is Hugh John Mungo Grant. Beat that.
He's so wonderfully British and self-deprecating. He confessed that he got into Oxford because some professor had a crush on him, and then into Grad School for the same reason. Big Surprise. I'd give Hugh Grant state secrets. I'd betray god and country for this man. He SHOULD be at Oxford, just so all the braniacs get to truly understand what fabulous is.
He has flawless taste in clothes, a divine accent, and the most fabulous hair ever captured on film. But his true beauty lies in his overwhelming charm. I found myself with my feet up off the couch kicking in the air, he was so fucking marvelous.
In the tragic Actor's Studio Interview tradition, people's shitty movies are always overlooked, as if somehow, when you're at the fancy pants Actor's Studio, all of your sell-outs and bombs never happened. You'll recall the offensive and insulting exclusion of the films Cocktail and All the Right Moves in the Tom Cruise Interview. Well, Hugh Grant was no different. We went straight from Four Wedding and a Funeral(1994) to Notting Hill (1999). Hello? No Nine Months? No Extreme Measures? No Mickey Blue Eyes? We're not stupid, Lipton. We notice.
The thing is, Hugh Grant has been very open in interviews, especially in the past few years, about his hatred of acting. He desperately wants to quit, but he's making gabillions of dollars and is an international icon, so it's kind of hard to give up. He was born with this appalling luck and natural charm, which he's clearly developed into an career, and literally everything has simply magically worked out for this guy. His stars are just always aligned. (Much like James Lipton overlooked Two Weeks Notice, I'm overlooking the unfortunate Divine Brown incident) What I can't understand is how Hugh can justify going on some pretentious interview show and discussing the intellectual art of acting, which he despises. It's no longer some great honor to be asked, anyway. My god. Marky Mark? Jennifer Lopez? Ben Affleck? Please.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. I'd watch Hugh Grant recite the dictionary. I assure you, it would be a fantastic experience. But he kinda bullshitted his way through the interview by making fun of James Lipton, and telling hilarious stories, like that of his father's recurring dream, where he's being chased by a bear around a farmhouse. If I were an actual drama student hoping to learn something, as opposed to the celebrity whore I actually am, I'd be pissed they didn't get someone legit to discuss acting as opposed to the star of Small Time Crooks.
Although, you can't beat this:
When asked about some director he worked with...
"John is an Australian, and like all Australians...filthy." The crowd erupts into laughter, to which Hugh Grant replies, "...which is, of course, why I like him."
Hugh John Mungo Grant, marry me.

Saturday, November 13, 2004

tommy, can you hear me...

Alex and John were out partying in Marin the other night and ran into Alex's best friend from grammar school, Tommy Howard. Now, when Tommy was 5, he was the sweetest, most adorable little fella who had a great family and a good attitude. I always liked Tommy, and as he and Alex were inseparable, he got to travel with us a lot. Tommy would follow me around, asking questions and telling me how cool I was. How could you not love him? But after 5th grade, off he went to (gasp) public school, and that was the last I saw of him.
Last night, I saw Tommy Howard for the first time in 12 years. And let me just say, well done Father Time.
Tommy told Alex to show up at some club in Marin (Frusetti's?) where his friend's band was performing. So John, Alex, and I roll into this dive in San Rafael which featured the following clientele: 1/3rd trampy ho's in tank tops, 1/3rd Marin Catholic boys, 1/3rd illegal immigrants. And me.
But there he was. Sweet, little, impressionable Tommy became huge, gorgeous, wrestling coach Tommy as he leapt up to hug me. But more noticeable than anything, the boy is popular. He knew everyone in the place, was very in with the surprisingly good band, and every girl in the room was trying to work him. He's like a god.
As Tommy's area was packed with his admirers, we found a table far away across the room. But since Tommy is still sweet as can be, he came over and sat with us. His posse soon followed, and I found myself sitting in the center of a fucking Marin Catholic reunion. What could be less intellectually challenging? Being seated next to the tool who was obviously gay, but needed to prove how straight he's not by trying to pick up the 26 year old with a pashmina and wine. He thought he could pull off the witty banter. Not so much.
"So, you went to Marin Catholic with all of these people?" I asked.
"Yeah, we hang out all the time." Ohhh. Winner.
"What class were you?"
Brace yourselves: "Long after your time, Miss Sophisticated."
I don't know what was more offensive; calling me old or thinking I went to MC. I then took his drink away.
"No, no, no. Seriously. Older women love me."
"Not this grandma."
It's at this point that a 45 year old, 4 foot tall, illegal immigrant comes up and starts talking to me. Oh god. Tommy, can you hear me...
Like Superman, Tommy comes over, tells the little Marin Catholic Shithead (of which there are apparently many) to "Haul ass", sits down and throws his arm around my shoulder frightening the migrant worker, leans over and says, "When I was a kid, I had the biggest crush on you."
I fucking love Tommy Howard.
While I will never return to this frightening establishment, which included a stripper's pole by the way, I will say it was worth putting up with the shitty wine, the 30 townies still wearing their high school gym pants, and the tramps crying for help on the dancefloor, because I got to see this wonderful kid who turned into a wonderful man.
Even better, Tommy has gladly promised to come to any and all future parties, and bring lots of boys and no girls. (You're welcome, Bonnie.)
While it's worrisome that I'm adding yet another 21 year old to the mix, this is a good one. I swear.

Friday, November 12, 2004


Andy and I both had paperwork to drop off at Beach Blanket. As I didn't really feel like seeing anyone, I told him to handle the paperwork and the crowd of former co-workers, and I'd be at the bar at Rose Pistola drinking.
Since my night in Hong Kong drinking and dining by myself, I've become quite adept at entertaining myself at a nice bar alone. I actually kind of like it now, and find myself looking for excuses to arrive somewhere early, just to have a drink alone. It has to be a swankier bar though. Sports bars and dives don't work.
So there I sat at Rose Pistola, drinking my glass of Merlot, eating my olives, and developing my aura of mystery. There were all kinds of interesting people hanging out there, and an adoreable and attentive bartender. It was working out nicely, and I was looking forward to Andy showing up eventually and taking me to dinner.
I guess I had been sitting at the bar for half an hour, when suddenly, crashing through my mysterious aura came a scream.
"Oh hell no! That stunning creature isn't sitting alone, is she?!!?!?!"
I looked up to find 3 gay, gay, gay men running up to me. Andy, it seems, had run into both Phillip and Michael, just back from their honeymoon in New York, seeing everything on Broadway and then some.
My mysterious aura squashed, as patrons looked at each other and silently mouthed, "fag hag", Phillip ordered a bottle of wine, grabbed my pashmina, and got us all a table. The four of us ended up having a lovely and hilarious dinner, and as Phillip had to dash off to go into make-up as he was in the show last night, Mike, Andy, and I promised to meet him at Capp's after.
For just planning on swinging by the old office to drop off paperwork, Andy and I were having quite a night. We ended up having some drinks at Capp's with Michael, and popped into Beach Blanket for the last 15 minutes, really just to hoot and holler at Phillip during the finale.
It was a marvelous time, although I've learned something about myself. No matter what bar I'm in, no matter how slutty my outfit, no matter how long I sit there or whom I speak to, I will always, always, always end up having the best time with a bunch of flaming queens.

Thursday, November 11, 2004

method acting in boxer briefs...

I just saw the promo for the upcoming Inside the Actor's Studio interview with Marky Mark.
Who's next? Carrot Top?

what happens at the dinner table...

...goes on the blog. Just kidding, gang.
Last night, we had a small dinner party that turned into a big dinner party, and it rocked. It did, however, get a little politically incorrect around the dinner table once the joke trading began. 10 people sitting around my dining room, all screaming the most offensive jokes you've ever heard at each other, everyone far too drunk to pretend not to laugh. In fact, there was one joke in particular, involving food stamps and work boots, that had me laughing so hard, I nearly passed out.
What I can tell you is that Big Chris has a new nickname. It's Rita "Pretty Shoes" Cullen. Chris arrived in what can only be described as "foot coverings", apparently the new Air Jordan's. God love him, I didn't know people still cared so much about sneakers. The last I heard, the Reebok Pump was all the rage. But Chris was working his shiny red Jordan's, which require one to slide one's foot into a sheath of plastic and then velcro the shoe closed up the back. Curious.
Most of you are familiar with my term "priest shoes", coined for a bad date's unfortunate choice of footwear. So Andy started calling Chris "pretty shoes." And then Kate brought along her friend Katie, who's hilarious and incidentally, kept calling everyone Rita. Turns out, that's her way of politely calling someone retarded. Thus, he's now Rita "Pretty Shoes" Cullen. Spread the word.
Pretty Shoes was, however, responsible for one of the highlights of the night. In our horribly offensive dinner conversation, we discussed at length the appropriate term for someone of mixed race, which by the way, is the appropriate term. Pretty Shoes, it seems, has developed his own term. Halfrican.
Aside from the ridiculous and obscene dinner conversation, allow me to say that the event was lovely, and should have been photographed for Gourmet, In Style, or similar. Nothing makes me happier than entertaining, although a day of slaving away in the kitchen and decorating the house, and perhaps my decision to "test" the wine at 4pm, exhausted me. Yet right on cue, after dessert we rolled into The Monkey Club, the bar down the street, for what I was calling, "after dinner drinks."
As the night wound down, I returned home and crawled in my bed, only to be joined by Kelsey, who then decided that dinner was so lovely, we needed to call our friends that couldn't make it and express our sadness. We passed out around 1 or 2, full of food and wine and appalling humor.
I love having dinner parties, especially on the fly, and last night was no different. Rock on, Ritas, let's do it again tonight.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

kevan "cheekbones" barlow...

This should go without saying, but there's no reason I'd ever purposely watch sports, much less sporting news. On the few occasions I've enjoyed sports, it's been sports documentaries my brother forced me to watch on vacation or rare trips to the ballpark, where they have Coppola wine and cute boys. But the other night, I found myself watching the Channel 2 10 O'Clock News sports segment because of a 49er named Kevan Barlow. Or as I like to call him, Cheekbones.
Kevan (let's just take a moment to appreciate the name 'Kevan') was participating in some charity billiards event, and chose to mark the occasion by wearing a kelly green cable knit sweater, the kind of thing a gay Kennedy would have worn to a Hyannisport garden party in the 60's. It was fabulous. He had a striped shirt on underneath, the huge collar displayed prominently atop the kelly green. His diamond earring almost winked at me, as suddenly, I noticed his ridiculous cheekbones.
Why is it that people who could care less about it always have the best features? Long eyelashes, thick hair, cheekbones...boys never give a shit. I guarantee you Kevan Barlow has never stood before the mirror and said, "Fuck, I have me some fabulous cheekbones."
But he does. He looks like a Sub-Saharan supermodel.
The Channel 2 Sports guy kept asking rude questions about why the 49ers suck so hard right now, which I didn't know. Perhaps I misunderstand sports culture, but isn't every city supposed to blindly worship their sports teams, regardless of performance? It worked for Boston. Poor Kevan had to dodge questions like "What do you have to say to all Niner fans, who are struggling out there right now?"
I know what I'd say, but it's too easy...
For 10 minutes, this guy goes on and on about how shitty the 49ers are playing, and Kevan just stood there with his pool cue and cheekbones, trying to be fabulous, and explain that the team is really young and finding themselves and learning how to play together. (Snooze. Just stand there and look pretty and let the bad man tell us how much you suck.)
I actually found it fascinating that I got to discover the marvelous Kevan while at the same time watch him respond to bitchy gossip about a glorified game of capture the flag. I finally had to change the channel, when the interviewer and the guys in the studio all started making fun of Kevan's kelly green cable knit sweater.
Now that's just wrong.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004


After Bonnie and I returned from a fabulous dinner at Limon last night, where our waiter possessed an uncanny resemblance to Mr. Antonio Banderas, I crawled in bed and watched a documentary on women's prisons. I couldn't help but wonder how I would handle incarceration.
I've had this conversation before, and at the time, the consensus was that I'd freak out, be made into a bitch immediately, and probably die by shiv. I disagree. In watching this documentary, and maybe it's the left-wing media portrayal, I found many of the gal prisoners lovely, smart, peaceful women. Not only could I survive there, I'd thrive, becoming a revolutionary leader, fighting for prisoners rights, a low carb cafeteria menu, and a better thread count.
If I ended up in prison, it would most likely be because some man done me wrong and I had to have him killed. (Note: I wouldn't do the actual killing. I'd contract out.) So, already, I'd have the hard edge reputation of being in the slammer for murder. Plus, most of the women are in there for the very same thing, choosing life behind bars versus life with Vernon, the alcoholic abuser with stains on his shirt.
The rule of thumb in prison is to get in a fight on your first day, to throw down so everyone knows not to fuck with you. I think my advantage in this arena is that I'd be able to pick out the only other woman who was more hoity toity than me, and kick her ass.
Also, you have to make friends immediately, which I can usually do. While not my typical crowd, I'm quite adaptable. I could easily learn the lingo, adjust my outfit in accordance with current prison trends, and cornrow my hair.
Towards the end of the program, the women discussed sex in prison, of which 90% of them have. The uber-butch gal prisoners are known as "studs", and are prized as the hottest catches in the pen. I guess they're the closest thing you'd get to a man, although, quite frankly, if you're smart at all, I'd say bed a guard. The only problem with that is the fact that other, less ingenious prisoners might resent the accompanying special attention. That's a tough call.
Overall, I think I'd do a hell of a lot better than Martha. And I'd do nothing but write. Just imagine the blog then.

headache for me, heartache for her...

Of all my brother's friends, Lucas* is my favorite. I've known him since he was 7, when he smiles, there's a flash of light and angels sing, and I will forever think of him as the Little Drummer Boy in the Christmas pageant. Lucas is obscenely adorable, and while I regard him as an exalted family member, he's apparently quite a hit with the ladies. It's not that I'm surprised. The boy is breathtaking. It's just that I prefer to view him as innocent little Lucas, not the womanizing nymphomaniac he's become.
As Lucas regaled me with his tales of "tapping ass", I reminded him that perhaps some of these poor, disturbed girls might get a little attached, especially since he refers to girls he's already slept with as "redos". Lucas pointed out that he's very sensitive to this sad fact, and if a conquest seems to have the potential of becoming a "headache", he'll cut her loose.
"You know, Lucas," I said. "Keep in mind, if it's a headache for you, it's probably heartache for her."
Lucas found this hilarious, prompting him to turn it into his theme song.

"Headache for me, Heartache for her!"

*His name ain't Lucas, but moms read this...

Monday, November 08, 2004

the greatest blog of all time...

Don't worry. It's not mine.


Read everything, "especially 5 shitty movies that everyone loves..."

And check out images. I friggin' love this guy.

help, I need cpr...

Praise Jesus. Andy's back from Florida, thus making this awesome weekend complete.

Saturday was fancy pants, dressed up, drinks and dinner with Dani, Zoe, and Tim. Needless to say, that was marvelous, and as both Dani and I got to wear our "fur", we found ourselves fabulous. And Sunday, my opposite sexuality life partner returned from hell, back to the land of tolerance, lattes, and literacy.
Andy was pretty easy to spot outside the baggage claim, standing in fabulous new ass-hugging pants, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, waving frantically. Within minutes, we were back to normal, belting Elton John out the windows and gossiping about every detail from the past week. We went out to lunch and then shopped, and Andy delighted as we returned home. Why? Because his porn had arrived. Aptly titled, "CPR (Crazy Puerto Ricans)", Andy read me the description on the back of the box as I left messages for my grandmother, clergyperson, or similar.
Andy then regaled me with stories of his week in Jesusland, the greatest tale being the man who came over to hook up with Andy's host, Jason, and fervently assembled a sex sling whilst casually discussing the weather, the election, and the big sale at the Pigly Wigly. I don't know what's really appropriate to talk about when putting together a huge sex toy, but I think I'd prefer silence. Or perhaps soft music. Either way, if I have to watch someone assemble a sex sling while having uncomfortable conversations, I'd prefer it to be a CPR.

Saturday, November 06, 2004

i'm 61 fucking years old...

Last night, Katherine, Shawn, and I went to dinner at Park Chow. As there was a tremendous line, we walked over to the Little Shamrock for a drink. I actually really like the Little Shamrock, and would like it more if the battered old Victorian couches didn't sodomize you with their springs.
Park Chow was seriously packed, this being 8pm on a Friday night, and after throwing down with the hostess, we were escorted upstairs to our table. No sooner did we sit down than a fight broke our 2 tables away. An old drunk man was screaming (yes, screaming) at the staff, all stemming from an apparent unwiped table. The best thing about drunk people fighting is the stupid shit they say in the heat of the moment. My favorites:
"I'm going to throw you out on your ear!"
"Wipe the fucking table, bitch!"
And, "I'm 61 fucking years old", which K, S, and I repeated all night long.
Mr. 61 fucking years old was escorted out by the burly kitchen staff, although it took our waitress some time to recover, and I can't say I blame her. She kept wandering around, forgetting our orders, and finally just stood at our table and vented. As is my motto, if you don't have something nice to say, come sit by me. I'll take gossip in whatever form I can. The entire restaurant witnessed the screaming match, as we were getting the scoop from the horse's mouth. Fabulous.
We left Park Chow, and after discovering that the fudge factory at Ghiradelli Square was open till midnight, we headed down to the wharf in search of dessert. Waiting in line to place my order, I approached the lazy eyed cashier and ordered. Without realizing it, I made the grave faux pas of not specifying if I wanted my ice cream in a cone or "goblet." Drooling, with neither eye aimed at me, the cashier grunted, "What do you want (unintelligible)."
"I'm sorry." I politely reply. "What do I want on it?"
The troll raised her head, focused one eye on me, and as a huge wad of spit escaped her mouth, screamed, "WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT. IT. IN?!?!?!"
A goblet, bitch. I'm 61 fucking years old.

Friday, November 05, 2004

sally kramer...

In a rare act of classiness, Big Chris checked in to make sure I wasn't toally dying from my illness. Because I think it's important to encourage these fleeting moments of chivalry, he's being rewarded with a mix CD.
Backstory: When we were going to Collin's Halloween Party, we drove around for an eternity looking for parking, largely due to my refusing to walk any further than 7-8 blocks. The thing is, Big Chris has some pretty sorry CD's in his car (the soundtrack to Alfie?) and I was forced to suffer through a bizarre medly of Mick Jagger and rap. As we were driving around, I pointed out that if you say "Sally Kramer" a bunch of times, you'll find a parking space, at least according to Andy. It's definitely worked before, and it worked on Halloween.
Thus, the name of the Mix CD I'm making is called Sally Kramer. Here's the deal. You can only put it on when you're looking for a parking place, you have to listen to it until you find said parking place, and you have to say "Sally Kramer" in between each song. I assure you, it'll work. I'm making a million of these parking place finders and anyone who's nice to me when I'm sick gets one.


I take an obscene amount of vitamins. I drink gallons of water. I wash my hands like an obsessive compulsive. Why the fuck am I so sick? You don't just get sick. Someone makes you sick. On purpose. So they don't have to suffer alone.
When I get this sick, I just want to backtrack and find the filthy ass that afflicted me with this cursed malady. Was it my ill mother, who forced me to bring her a popscicle, entering her sphere of bacteria? Was it my darling brother, who coughed into his hand then smacked me on the head with it? Was it the dreadful child at Trader Joe's, sneezing onto the produce? Could it have been the elderly Asian man, spitting green slime onto the sidewalk inches from my clogs?
Regardless, I want to find this dying creature and finish them off. I can barely breathe, I'm out of the good tea, and my DVD player appears to be broken. Perhaps I was a Nazi or something equally evil in my former life, because I'm clearly being punished for something big. Thus, I'll crawl back into bed, curse the disgusting creature that spewed their disease upon me, and watch my VHS copy of Home Alone.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004


I think the rule at KRCB is that to be a cameraman, you have to be the most disgusting individual to walk the earth. Years ago, when Katherine and I were up there helping out on Election Night, we saw the cameraman eating corn chips off the floor. At the time, we couldn't imagine anything more disgusting. Ah, the naivete of youth.
Last night, my spot in the studio was in between the two main cameras, holding up signs, making hand signals at the achors, and trying not to bump into the cameras. (They get kinda mad when you bump into the cameras) Prior to the show starting, Alex comes up and says, "Did you see the guy who totally looks like Milton from Office Space?" Yes. Yes I did.
He turned out to be Camera 1, on my left, and he blows the corn chip guy right out of the water. The most notable thing about "Milton", aside from his uncanny resemblance to a character in Office Space, is the huge, scabby rashes covering his exposed arms. Unbandaged and oozing, these open sores came perilously close to my new outfit and distracted me from the task at hand. Worse, I believe these sores emitted an indescribable odor that enduced gag reflexs and watering eyes.
The thing is, being in such lose proximity to each other, we HAD to talk. But what do you say to someone who is denial of his clear need for immediate medical attention?
"Is this not the most boring show you've ever seen?"
He looked over and snidely replied, "Aren't you the producer?"
Uh, yeah. Aren't I allowed to talk shit about my own show? Apparently not. I moved on to the more childlike, "Do you like being a cameraman?"
"Does it look like I like being a cameraman?"
Hmmm. That's a tough one. Obviously, Milton now hates me. And as the feeling is quite mutual, I decided to entertain myself by trying to converse with him for as long as possible, asking only annoying and obnoxious questions as those seemed to be the answers he liked to give.
"Who does your hair?"
"What?" he wouldn't even look at me.
"I really like your hair."
"No one does my hair." Sweet.
"Oh. I got to Misty in Mill Valley."
"What's that supposed to be? A hint?"
This was awesome, and no one was there to hear it. "No. No. I'm just chatting. You know, shooting the shit."
And then, with beautiful simplicity, he looked over and said, "I don't know about you, Miss Producer, but some of us need to concentrate on our jobs."
With the confidence only pure apathy provides, I looked back and said, "I was just testing you. Good work."

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

r.o.c.k. in the usa...

Bonnie and I waited in line for fucking ever to vote this morning. But, like true Americans, we made good use of our time. And by good use, I mean we elbowed each other every time a hot guy showed up in line.
I think the highlight of the morning was when Bonnie announced to everyone in line, "It's hot as shit out here." Ah, freedom of speech.

Tonight's my big election night show. Normally, I wouldn't make you watch boring, incredibly local political commentary, but I've been working my tail off on this stupid show and I'm terrified everything will go wrong. Thus, I encourage you to watch. You'll have plenty to make fun of, and if you stick around till 10:42pm, Ms. Zoe Stagg will be interviewed live from Oregon, reporting on the madness of swing state elections. What could be more fascinating?