Friday, December 31, 2004

My charming parents who take us on fabulous adventures... Posted by Hello

look for a handsome man...

Let's try this again. I wrote a genius blog this afternoon, and with my last sentance, the electricity went out. While a tragedy, I've decided that the previous blog wasn't meant to be, and thus, you get this one.
First things first. I am now moving here. Italy is fucking fabulous. We're all getting into it, with Dad and Alex walking around in huge Eurotrash scarves and sunglasses. All they're missing are Vespas.
Last night, we napped and had wine in our huge 15th century apartment, and then went out for dinner. We found a fabulous trattoria 2 seconds from our piazza and dined and drank for an eternity. Perhaps I'm tapping into the fourth of my heritage that's Italian, but everything's better here. The clothes, the food, the's so much more marvelous than at home.
Mom's overwhelmed with her own fabulusness as she was actually hit upon by a local. She speaks of little else, and in addition to her in-flight screening of Anchorman, The Legend of Ron Burgundy, getting picked up by some dirty old Italian is the highlight of her trip.
Today, we slept in till 11am, and then sat around getting ready, drinking coffee, and watching tsunami coverage on the BBC. We're quite anxious for Jenny to arrive on Sunday as she was actually in Thailand when the tsunami hit. While she's been studying in Florence for the past 6 months, her school group decided to spend the holidays in Southeast Asia. Nice timing. She's perfectly fine, of course, but will have a far more interesting perspective than the rest of us. Like everyone else on the planet, we're pretty obsessed with getting tsunami info, and have taken to carrying around our copies of the International Herald Tribune, which Lufthansa throws at you like peanuts.
This morning, we headed out to the local food market, stocking up on bread, meat, cheese, and wine for the apartment. It was quite fun mingling with the locals, who either couldn't be bothered with us or flirted like crazy. We now have more food than anyone could possibly eat, although, it looks so fabulous, it'll be gone in a week.
Lunch was huge individual pizzas along our piazza, and then shopping. Mom and I went nuts on the Ponte Veccio, drooling over gold, diamonds, and handbags. I'm thrilled to report that the knock-off selection here rivals China. Seriously, I'm going nuts. Mom and I wandered through the cobblestone streets, finally coming upon a huge tent filled with stalls.
"Hey. I think I've been here." I said, and mom readilly agreed, we had indeed shopped here 11 years ago. I don't remember museums, I don't remember cathedrals, but take me to a great accessory market, it's burned in my brain forever. At one point, I wandered over to inspect some pashminas as mother haggled over huge leather overnight bags. She looked up and I was gone. The salesman kept trying to talk to her, but in her panic, mom couldn't concentrate. "I can't find my daughter!"
The salesman laughed and casually replied, "Look for a handsome man."
I love Italy.
We shopped all afternoon, stopping only for cappuchinos and people watching. As we strolled home, the dark alleyways lit only by the strings of lights hanging above us, old men stood in doorways, smiled, and said "Buona Serra." Beat that.
Tonight, it's dinner in the neighborhood and then New Year's festivities. I have no idea what we'll find and quite frankly, don't really care. I very much subscribe to the Patrick Reese philosophy that New Year's Eve is "amateur night" and would be perfectly happy sitting at a bar flirting with some grad student.
Having been here a solid 24 hours, I'm entirely assimilated. I know my Italian phrases, I can order the house wine flawlessly, and I've already selected everything I want to buy.
Unlike our China trip 6 months ago, in which we travelled constantly and were forced to, you know, learn about the culture and shit, Italy is all about chilling out, sipping cappuchinos, and looking fabulous. This is my kind of vacation, and my kind of town...

Thursday, December 30, 2004

ciao italia...

I am still amazed by technology. It seemed like Ted dropped us off at the SFO airport an hour ago. And here we are in Florence, in a huge apartment, literally ON one of the most popular plazas in town. It is insane, and for a bit, we were actually jumping up and down at our good fortune. It is also fucking freezing. But that is why God invented cashmere.
Our flight to Frankfurt was fine, the highlight of Mom's flight being the film, Anchorman. She loved it, and disturbed those around her with her loud laughter. She chose not to watch Around the World in 80 Days because she doesn't like, "that Charlie Chan." The coach seats were huge, though, so I won't go into a long diatribe about how much steerage sucks. Lufthansa ain't so bad. I sat next to an Indian man and his son, on their way to Bombay. In an attempt an an international gesture of kindness, I switched seats so they could have an aisle seat. I'm anticipating this karma coming back tenfold.
We spent 3 hours in Frankfurt and I have this to say...I challenge you to find me a funny German. They don't exist and any attempt at humor is met with cold stares and a request for my passport. Whatever. You know who's got funny people? Jews. Very telling.
Our flight from Frankfurt to Florence was on this little plane where the windows were below the wings, like we were on our way to Casablanca or something. The pilot, perhaps on his first flight EVER, crashed our tiny old Lufthansa into Aeroport de Frienze and badda bing, here we are.
My suitcase is trashed, I didn't bring enough warm clothes, and I could use a manicure. But otherwise, I'm thrilled to be here and now plan to go eat. In a fabulous stoke of luck, a cheap internet cafe is half a block away. It looks like this blog thing may indeed work.
Safe and sound, the Spotswood are back in the old country.
Bring on the Chianti...

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

this christmas...

Wow. I can't believe I haven't written in so long. My bad. I was overwhelmed by the holiday spirit, apparently.
Christmas was awesome, and Bonnie dutifully attended many, many family parties. I threw a couple myself, while here at Judy's, and had a marvelous time. I'm also constantly playing with my new digital camera, a gift from Santa. I know that my new camera is actually from Santa, because on Christmas Eve, my father left out milk and cookies, and of course, carrots for the reindeer. On Christmas morning, half the milk was gone, and big bites were taken out of the cookies and carrots. Amazing.

Last night was a Christmas Party with my cousins that started off horribly boring, and ended in several heated games of PIT, the greatest card game of all time. They made me shift out because I kept winning. What's that? It's like, that Michael Jordan keeps making those baskets. Let's take him out and put in a shitty player to lower the skill level in the game. Whatever.
Alex won the last game of PIT, practically jumping up and down on his chair, screaming , "PIT Motherfucker! PIT!"
Merry Christmas to you, too.

Tomorrow we leave for Italy, and I'm quite excited. I haven't been since I was 15 or 16, and I've been itching to go back. I have no idea how we'll entertain ourselves on New Year's, although I don't think that'll really be a problem. I'd be happy drunkenly dancing through the cobblestone streets of Florence, toasting my good fortune and thanking God for my wonderful family of friends.

With that, Spots has once again left the country...

Sunday, December 26, 2004

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Thursday, December 23, 2004

i'm going to party like it's 2005...

Turns out, the blog is becoming Spots' international travel journal. This New Year's you can look forward to 2 weeks of Italian mayhem, as Kate's family and my family will be ringing in 2005 in Florence, Italy. This is especially fabulous as Kate's sister, Jen, has been studying there for months, and she's going to take us to all kinds of marvelous places.
Last night, during our annual dinner at The Big Four, I announced to my travel companions that Kate and I would be having Italian flings. No one really seemed to care or mind, as my father was busy convincing everyone that Economy Plus was somehow better than coach. Once again, I'll be crossing an ocean in steerage, although this time, the folks must slum it with us.
I'm a little worried about my blog updates, as we aren't staying in some swanky hotel with a fancy business center. Because there are so many of us (10), we'll be staying in a couple of big apartments in the middle of Florence. This means I'll be writing my tales of lost luggage and lusty lovers from some Euro Internet Cafe, which strikes me as less than reliable.
Regardless, I guarantee hilarious adventures and huge fights, this time with an additional and bizarre cast of characters. Maybe, just maybe, I'll discover some real hospitaliano...named Marcello.

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

oh captain my captain...

Matt's back in town from Colorado, and invited me to join him in seeing his friend Arthur do stand-up last night. Arthur is 22 and has been doing stand up for years. He happened to be performing at the 142 Throckmorton Theater in Mill Valley last night, at a Tuesday Night Showcase hosted by Mark Pitta. Arthur kinda talked his way into this gig and wasn't sure what to expect.
The theater was packed with a little over 100 people, and Matt and I had to fight to find 2 seats together. Arthur was kind enough to put us on the guest list, so I saved $10, although turns out, I would have gladly paid. The show started and onto the stage comes Mark Pitta, who you'd recognize as the "funny" guy on Channel 2. He does a little bit and then introduces this old guy, who bombed. In the great words of my brother, "You could hear crickets."
Arthur is next. The audience clearly didn't know what to expect, as Arthur looks about 12, and runs out there in his Goodwill pants and wild Mr. Kotter hair. But, uh, Arthur's fucking hysterical. He killed. Killed! The place went nuts for him, falling into aisles and stomping on the floor. He was easily better than anyone else. Well, almost...
After Arthur's set, Matt and I snuck into the lobby to find him.
"Oh my god, guys. Can't talk. Gotta run. Dana Carvey and Robin Williams are in the greenroom. They're going on stage in a bit. I've got to go..."
Matt and I scrambled up to the balcony, now thrilled with our luck. I wasn't particularly shocked, as Dana Carvey lives 3 blocks from my parents just up the hill, and Robin Williams lives in the city. They'd shown up before to try stuff out, but none the less, no one expected it and it was an awesome surprise.
During Dana Carvey's set, I snuck out into the lobby to call my brother and tell him to get his ass down there. Sitting in a chair was one of the other comedians, a relatively funny black guy who was pretty hot. We ended up talking which turned into flirting. Then serious flirting. Then dirty flirting. So I gave him my number. Little did I know, as Arthur informed me later, his girlfriend was sitting in the greenroom the entire time. Asshole.
I left the sexy slimebag once Robin Williams came onstage, telling him once he won an Oscar, we'd talk. Needless to say, Robin was incredible. What was most bizarre and magnificent, however, was hearing these famous comedians do comedy about Mill Valley. It was very specific to Southern Marin and fucking hilarious. They made fun of Tiburon people and San Rafael people, bitched about the construction on Miller Avenue, and made lot of rich people jokes.
2 and a half hours later, it was over. Alex, Matt, Arthur, and I stumbled over to the 2am Club, where Arthur regaled us with greenroom tales as we discussed comedy over PBR. Arthur couldn't believe his luck, thinking he was showing up at some suburban open mike night, and ending up doing a bit onstage with Robin fucking Williams.

PS. In 3 days, I've seen 2 cast members from Dead Poet's Society, which was once my favorite film. This is a sign, and I'm expecting Ethan Hawke to pop out from behind a corner any minute.

Tuesday, December 21, 2004


I had noticed some yellow crap on my jeans. I'll admit, I thought it was curry. I decided to ignore it. After all, I was just running over to Trader Joe's. I approaced my car, and for an instant, thought it might have been vandalized. The hood of the car looked like someone had rolled all over it and... wait a minute. That was me. Upon closer inspection, it wasn't curry on my jeans, folks. It was bird shit.

This is what I get for drunkenly dry humping the hood of my car for the entertainment of gays. Fucking bird shit on my Long and Lean's. Damn it!

Monday, December 20, 2004

the adventures of itty and spots... Posted by Hello

the adventures of itty and spots...

Itty Bitty and I decided we needed to hit the town and have some blog-worthy adventures. We figured that if we set out with the sole purpose of having wacky experiences to write about, this crazy city would deliver. We were right.

Adventure Number One:
Joe, Itty, and I headed over to Haight Street, a mere 2 blocks from their apartment. On the way, we stopped at a convenience store. As I stood at the ATM, Joe and Itty bought some cigarettes. I’m pretty much oblivious to all that’s around me, until I hear Joe whisper/yell, “Beth!” I look at Joe across the store, and he motions with his eyes for me to look at the television mounted on the wall. With the volume on max, the convenience store owner had decided to entertain not only himself, but the entire neighborhood with an Arab soap opera, in which a blood covered man in a hospital bed appeared to be screaming his last words to his lover, brother, and/or friend. It was all in Arabic, so I couldn’t really grasp what was going on. I can tell you, it gave me the giggles.

Adventure Number Two:
While enjoying drinks at Trax, we decided to step outside for a smoke. Needless to say, the conversation turned to bitchy gossip as the three of us stood around and complained about this skank we know. Suddenly, a hobo sitting on the sidewalk starts preaching to us, “Ah, hell. Ya bunch of gossips. You like a hen party, all walking up in here, bitching about some scraggly ass bitch. She don’t like you, so get the fuck over it…” On and on, he went, rambling about how much we suck for gossiping. At this point, Robert shows up. This sends the Box Car Willie into further fits of anger. “Fuck, walking up in here with your Dharma and Greg haircut. (We think he meant Will and Grace, but when you watch your TV through the window at Circuit City, it’s hard to keep it all straight.) Look at you, all fancy in your black stretch pants…” He continued mumbling to himself as we walked back inside. I was tempted to lean over and ask, “How to you keep people from stealing your shoes while you sleep?” but thought better of it.

Adventure Number Three:
No sooner had we returned to our seats at the bar, then a Christmas Clad group of Pub Crawlers piled in. With their theme being “Tacky Christmas”, they were decked out in sequined Santa hats and appliqu├ęd sweaters. They invited us to join them, but Itty and I noted the dramatic lack of sexiness among them, and declined. Also, they were drinking Long Island Iced Teas. Uh, no thanks.

Adventure Number Four:
Joined by Janine, we stopped by both Hobson’s Choice and Martin Mack’s. Done with the Haight, Joe wanted to go meet Robert at Sugar. We left Itty and Janine, and headed over to the gay disco. Because I am a SoMa genius, we found awesome parking but were forced to stay in the car, as there was good music on and we needed to sing. (In Your Eyes, Peter Gabriel) The song ended and we were just about to go inside, but of course, we had to wait and see what the next song was. Turned out, it was “Nasty Girls.” I don’t know what came over me, but I turned the volume up, instructed Joe to stay in the car, leapt outside, and jumped on the hood. Like a cross between Tawny Kitaen in that Whitesnake video, and a really well dressed stripper, I did my dirty little dance atop that dented Civic. Rhonda the Honda will never be the same, and sadly, neither will Joe…

For another perspective on the night’s events, check out Itty’s blog:

i love you joe walsh...

As Joe and Robert lay in post-coital bliss, Robert looked into Joe's eyes, and in a moment of intense vulnerability, said, "I love you, Joe Walsh."
Joe looked back and responded, "Maybe we ARE moving too fast, as, uh, my name's Joe Wagner."

so, tell me about clooney... Posted by Hello

yeah, i pretty much rule...

I'll be too hungover to even write about it, but I have the entire weekend's blogs saved up. It's some good stuff. Before I fall asleep, let me just tell you.. just got back from the Beach Blanket Christmas Party at Tosca. I was Zoe's date. Um, I partied with Winona Ryder, Julianna Marguiles, and Josh Charles tonight. Winona Ryder folks. Fuckin' Winona Ryder...

As she walked in, Pip goes, "Hold on to your handbags ladies..."


me and Itty at Trax, the night before I got trashed with Winona Ryder, shoplifter and star... Posted by Hello

Saturday, December 18, 2004

some people wear bow ties...

Joe was going up to the bar to get another round of drinks. He asked what Bonnie and I wanted, and we both said red wine. He returned with one red wine and one cocktail. Bonnie looked up at him, confused. "I don't get wine?"
"Beth's drinking wine." he casually replied.
"So?" asked Bonnie, sipping her vodka.
"It's her trademark."

how ya like me now...

Last night was Hannah's 30th Birthday Extravaganza at The Monkey Club, our corner bar. Apparently, another birthday was planned for the same night. We felt we had the home court advantage. We hang out there all the time and we're friends with everyone who works there, especially Dave and Gigi who own the joint. They were running around, trying to find room for both groups, when I suddenly realized that the other party was made up of a bunch of bitches I went to high school with. Let's just say, they were not cool back in the day. Not fucking cool at all.
I pointed this out to Bonnie and Gert, who sent me over there. The leader appeared to be someone we'll call Whore-en, so I decided to be a class act and go say hello. Stupid move.
Beth: "Uh, hi. I went to high school with you."
Whore-en: "Oh my god. Look at you!"
Beth: "What are you doing at this bar?"
Whore-en: "It's my sister's birthday, and actually, we had booked those 2 booths that all of your friends are in."
Beth: "What?"
Whore-en: (enthusiastically, and this is verbatim)"So if you could go rally the troops and get them to move, that'd be awesome."
In a rare moment of speechlessness, I had nothing to say. I turned and reported back to Bonnie. Bon, in turn, walked up to Dave and Gigi, who were still trying to figure out how to accommodate both groups.
Bon: "That girl was a bitch to Beth in high school"
Dave: "No shit. Fuck 'em. The bar is yours."

How ya like me now?

Ultimately, it didn't matter. By 10, you could barely move, the place was so packed. The party was fabulous, and tremendously fun, due in large part to the fact that once our booze ran out, Bonnie kept buying everyone drinks, throwing her credit card around like a frisbee.
Sadly, and as is typical with the holidays, I got a little more inebriated than usual. I believe dancing was involved. What's worse, I vaguely recall trying to bust some serious moves in an attempt to one-up my former classmates.
Jason complained that I never write about him on my blog as he did shots of Jaeger with his brother, Pete. At which point, Gert comes up to me and says, "You know bitch, none of this goes on the damn blog."
Jason, who is quite possibly the most metrosexual man of all time, chose to wear his scarf as a belt, which I'm still chuckling about as I write this. Genius. Seriously. I should've taken a picture.
At 2:30, I received a drunken text from Ben in Chico. "Welcome to Trashedville. Population: Ben."
I awoke to the phone ringing, my father reminding me that Alex and I were to meet him at the Plush Room at 9:45 a. fucking m. We were going to be in the live audience of West Coast Live, a Saturday morning radio show. One of the guests was Harry Shearer, and I must say, it was almost worth dragging my hungover ass downtown because Harry Shearer is fucking awesome. Never heard of Harry Shearer? Hmmm. You're a loser. He's not only a brilliant film actor (Spinal Tap, A Mighty Wind), but he's THE voice on the Simpsons. Mongomery Burns, Smithers, Ned Flanders, Reverend Lovejoy... I could barely hold my head up, but I was in heaven watching him do those voices, as was my Simpson's obsessed brother. He'll be at The Make-Out Room on December 20th, playing music with his wife.
I can barely move now, and must spend the rest of the day recovering. I'll need my energy as Itty and I plan to have blog-worthy adventures tonight. I apologize, but I'm far too hungover to write a snappy ending. I owe you one...

Friday, December 17, 2004

eight ball, corner pocket...

Ever heard of a little game called pool? Yeah, let me know if you ever want lessons because I fucking rule. Last night, Bonnie and I met Joe, Robert, and Greg at the Elbo Room to partake in their marvelous, 4 hour Happy Hour. We had a couple of cocktails and headed over to the pool table.
I'm not normally one of those girls that saunters up to the pool table for 2 reasons. 1) Those girls are bitches, and 2) I suck at pool. However, peer pressure and the fact that the pool table was relatively hidden convinced me I should play.

Greg and Bonnie versus Beth and Joe: Game One...
Okay. We sucked. Bonnie said she likes playing against 2 gay men. Anytime anyone would scratch, Greg would scream, "You pulled a Spotswood!" Bonnie and Greg suck just as bad as we do, but somehow years of tailgating and sitting in filthy sports bars have given them the slight upper hand. Joe and I lost and had to buy a round.

Greg and Bonnie versus Joe and Robert: Game Two...
Joe spent much of his time ignoring the game and sitting at the bar. Thus, I joined Robert and under his excellent tutelage, I began to rapidly improve. Bon and Greg were getting nervous. I could tell by their inflections when they mocked us. Sadly, through no fault of his own, Robert did that thing where you hit the eight ball in before you're supposed to. It was painful and difficult, but a learning experience.

Greg and Bonnie versus Robert and Beth: Game Three...
Blues played in the background. Smoke filled the pool room. I stood in the corner, applying needless chalk to my stick and trying to look intimidating. Sometimes, you can go 26 years and never know you're the greatest pool player of all time. Folks, Game Three was my game. Call me The Black Widow, because I couldn't stop knocking those striped balls into the pockets. One after another, it was as if I'd brought in a ringer. Finally, it was almost over. And it was my turn. Eight ball, corner pocket...

I cannot fully describe the mayhem when that little black ball rolled perfectly into the pocket, but I went nuts. Joe and Robert leapt from their seats, screaming and yelling and hugging me. Greg and Bonnie hung their heads and were forced to begrudgingly shake hands with me. It was glorious and triumphant.

If you can't find me, try the pool halls. I'll be the one the regulars refer to as "The Hustler."

Thursday, December 16, 2004

pound puppy...

Andy has discovered that his mother, Rhonda Kay, and I have the same favorite show: Dog, Bounty Hunter. It's my new favorite guilty pleasure, now that Laguna Beach is over.
In general, I'd have to say that A&E and Bravo! are my favorite channels, not only because they're right next to each other (channels 47 and 48, respectively) but because they have such awesome reality shows. Dog, Bounty Hunter is the real life adventures of a former felon and current Hawaiian bounty hunter, who sports a sparse blonde mullett and a rag tag, similarly coifed family. With his raspy voiced pidgeon talk and American flag sweatpants, I was hooked on Dog immediately. Plus, his wife's name is Beth, and she has an American flag tank top (and corresponding do-rag). They appear to wear weightlifting belts, with badges affixed to them.
Which brings me to my question: What exactly is a bounty hunter? They're not cops, although they seem to carry the weight of the law somehow. And they seem to have their own version of justice, occasionally kicking some ass or alternately, letting their criminal cronies go free. Not that I'm complaining. I love Dog. I love his hair. I love his beefy-ness. And I love his truck...

um, bon? that guy's naked...

This year, I made my first pilgrimage to The Folsom Street Fair. The Folsom Street Fair, for those that live in caves, is a leather and fetish fair taking place every fall. People fly in from all over the world to attend, and it's a hugely attended fetish weekend. Bonnie, Big Chris, Joe, Itty, and I strolled down to the fair a few months ago.
I walked in a girl. I left a woman.
Surrounded my all variations of nude, we pushed our way into the leather-clad crowd of sweat. As we walked along the stalls, admiring the whips and vibrators and porn for sale, a scaggly gentleman offered us some "cookies." Big Chris was the only one wise enough to just say no, as the rest of us inhaled our curiously green treats and went on our way.
Bonnie and Itty thrilled at getting their photo taken with a gay porn star, as Joe and I posed before an obese woman getting beaten against a tractor. At one point, Joe looked over at me and said, "I don't think these stupid cookies are working."
With that, the skies turned purple, people grew horns and tails, and I started to trip the fuck out. As did, I guess, everyone else.
"You guys." I said. "One way or another, I'm sitting down right now. Be it on the asphalt, a port-o-potty, or a whipping post, I need a moment to maintain my wits."
Everyone readily agreed; the cookies were suddenly working. Joe appeared to be grabbing invisible objects from the air, Itty was shoving chicken breasts in her mouth, and Bonnie kept announcing, "This Fair is fucking hot!"
We decided to pause before a middle-aged couple posing on some stairs. The woman was wearing a huge straw hat, some Southern inspired corset thing, and heels. Her fella wore a straw golf hat, a leather vest, thigh high panty hose, and high heels. They just stood there, casually touching each other, and observing the freak fest. Perhaps they didn't notice, or perhaps simply didn't care, but there was an 80 year old man, standing completely nude, wildly masturbating right next to them. It was this that sent me over the edge. This is the reason I'll never be the same.
"Beth!" Bonnie screamed. "You're staring. That's so rude."
Uh, I think that's the idea, Bon. I pulled out my camera, snapped a shot, and stumbled on my way. We ended up sitting in a burrito joint, with our heads on the table, trying to make sense of the bizarre and come down from those crazy cookies. Itty and I both fell fast asleep by 5pm, and the dreams I dreamed that night were filled with old ladies in leather and giant venereal disease cartoon characters.

I'd gladly recommend the Folsom Street Fair to anyone. Just stay away from the tractor.

right before the skies turned purple...

Bon, Joe, Itty, and me... Posted by Hello

missed connections...

Are you at all familiar with Craigslist Missed Connections? It's pretty much my favorite thing in the world. Missed Connections have existed forever, still appearing in the back of the Bay Guardian or Pacific Sun. But they've taken it to a whole new level on Craigslist. With hundreds of posts daily, looking for everything from long lost loves to the hottie from the bus to "Phil Smith, I hate you", Missed Connections is my morning paper.
I've definitely spotted people I know on Missed Connections. Early on, I'd wake up to discover posts from Beach Blanket audience members, proclaiming their love for one of the actors or a band member. I'd print it out and post it backstage, the thrill nearly overwhelming me. In fact, some skank recently used Missed Connections to diss Pork Chop Express, in one of the most highly forwarded Missed Connections of all time. But, uh, Bonnie took care of that humorless bitch.
Last night, I met Bon and some Gymbo folks at Kate O'Brien's Irish Pub for Happy hour. One of the benefits to Bon now working in the financial district is that she's surrounded by young, employed, straight men. I delighted in the fact that Kate O'Brien's was packed with boys, as we settled into out table. While thoroughly entertained by Joey and Brian, I was still working the room, scoping the suits and winking at the bartender. At one point, perhaps after a few goblets of wine, I decided that if I just held eye contact for one second too long, I'd definitely score a missed connection.
Thus, I'm convinced that I've either frightened some very nice men, or I'm about to meet my husband on Craigslist, in some charming and witty missed connection he ran right home and wrote. Either way's win-win, if you ask me.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

sadly, this is how we entertain ourselves... Posted by Hello

Zoe and I lounging at the party last night... Posted by Hello

damn that jeff galooley...

Apparently, God didn't like my knocking the clumsies the other day. At Doug and Richard's Holiday Soiree last night, while relatively sober, I walked right into an ottoman. While a lame and pointless act of awkward clumsiness, I played my gaff off brilliantly. My legs, however, posess the bruises of a cheap stripper. I look like Nancy Kerrigan.
Zoe, Tom, Andy, and I did create a fabulous photo shoot in the boudoir. Itty's got to get her ass over here and help me post images. Our photo shoot is hilarious and obscene. Maybe, I'll load them onto Friendster. Check it out.
In typical fashion, Ignacio hugged me so hard, he broke my earring. Nice. Zoe chucked, until I handed her the mangled accessory, at which point she collapsed onto the bed in hysterics. Apparently, Ignacio expresses the strength of his love with the strength of his grip. I mean, my god. He bent silver.

Monday, December 13, 2004

i've created a monster...

Itty has a blog! Check it

I got an e-mail the other day, from a friend and blog reader on the East Coast, telling me that she checks out my Friendster profile to get visuals on all of my friends. "I was looking at your friends, going, 'Oh, that's Bonnie, and that's Kate,' and then suddenly, I saw Andy and it all came together. He looks exactly like I pictured him. Somehow, I thought you had made these people up."
Well, I HAVE made them up, stealing images from frames I buy and magazines I cut up. None the less, I think I'll soon be able to post pictures on here. Why? Because my little protege, Itty, figured it out in 2 minutes. Thus, I'll be dragging her tiny ass over here, shoving wine down her throat, and making her help me. She owes me, as she has posted a photo of us at Folsom Street Fair, where thank god I'm wearing sunglasses. Had I not been, you'd be able to see my dead, dead eyes, produced by the "cookies" that crazy man on the sidewalk sold us...
Rock on, Itty.

Sunday, December 12, 2004

lose my number, please...

In an unfortunate twist of events, I just received a disturbing phone call.
Last year, I attended the Gymboree Christmas Party, held at Bimbo's. Due to my roommate's responsibility over the drink vouchers, I got exceedingly trashed and hooked up with one of the photographers hired to capture the event. He proclaimed his undying love for me as we stood in the rain and called a few times after the party, but we never hooked up again. Bonnie got word that he'd never be hired back because he got drunk and ditched the party to make out on street corners with me. And his name, believe it or not, was Jimmy Valentine.

Last night was the Gymbo Christmas Party, again at Bimbo's. I didn't attend because a) Bonnie's in Mexico and b) I wanted to see Pork Chop. Not 5 minutes ago, I received a phonecall from Joe, owner of the photography company. He and Jimmy wanted to know where their favorite "party girls" were last night.
First of all, I can't believe they still have my number. Second of all, I think it's both awesome and sad that we're remembered as the "party girls." Somehow, they envision us as a real life version of "Girls Gone Wild; Corporate Christmas Party Edition." Third, I find it depressing that these guys have had a year of photographing parties and events, and we're remembered as the hardcore "party girls." Yikes.
I will say this: I've been a serious nerd my entire life, both in personality and appearance. And I've been waiting 26 years for some straight men to think of me as a wild and crazy late night party vixen. I'm thrilled, even if it is a bunch of lonely camera geeks from Sacramento. Now that I've established myself as a "party girl", and have resumed my practice of uber sophistication and grace while inebriated, please lose my number...

karma's a bitch...

Friday night, I met Gert and Collin for drinks at Sadie's Flying Elephant, where Collin and I got into a conversation about whether or not clumsy people are charming.
Collin: "Oh, it doesn't bother me. I find it endearing."
Beth: "I don't. I don't at all. I mean, come on. There's something to be said for a little grace."

Cut last night at the Pork Chop Express gig at the Tongue and Groove. I'm sitting on the arm of a big old red velvet couch, about to whisper gossip in Erica's ear, when suddenly I lose my balance and begin to fall off the couch. In an attempt to counter-act my tumble, I simultaneously grab Erica with the "death grip" (her words) and hook my heels under a chair, sending the chair flying.
Yeah, Beth. There IS something to be said for a little grace. You know, maybe it's endearing when Bonnie charmingly falls or Gert trips down stairs. When I do, it's sad and pathetic, prompting uncomfortable stares, forced smiles of pity, and lots of, "Oh my God! Are you okay?"
My new best friends, Laura and Tiffany, spotted Andrew Firestone in the audience. I quickly forgot about my humiliating, scene causing act of physical destruction and scanned the crowd. Apparently wearing a backwards green baseball hat, the former Bachelor stayed only for Pork Chop and split. I can't say I blame him. The band that followed PCE was super Euro, a hard rock version of the 90's Swedish sensation, Ace of Base.
Pork Chop rocked as usual, and needless to say, Gert and I got pretty trashed. At 1:30, we stumbled out onto the street to find a cab. Suddenly, a huge, black Towncar pulls up and the driver offers us a ride home. Figuring, fuck it, we dive atop the huge, comfy, leather seats and chat all the way home with Manny, who encouraged us to stop by Hotel Nikko where we were guaranteed to find some hot boys.
No thanks, Manny. Just take us home.
He did indeed, actually getting out and opening the door for each of us. There's nothing like pulling up to Alabama Street at 2am, with drug dealers on every corner and hobos pushing their homes along the road, with a fancy and mysterious car and driver. Fabulous.
In my new version of the drunk dial, I text messaged a bunch of friends. I finally passed out after receiving the following text:
Ben: You are a goddess who walks the earth among mere mortals and uglies and floating pieces of poop. You've never gotten a better compliment in your life. Put it on the blog."
Hmmmm, I wonder if goddesses fall off couches. I guess so...

Saturday, December 11, 2004


It's the holidays. Which means there are loads of parties and thus, loads of Evites, the brilliant e-mailed invitation in which you can view all the other invitees, check out who'll be attending the event, and see what they have to say for themselves.
When I respond to an Evite, I feel intense pressure to be simultaneously charming, clever, and brief. Because, really, your response says so much about you. It's as if the other guests will somehow read the response, laugh out loud, and make a mental note to introduce themselves to you. In fact, I won't respond to an invitation until I've figured out the perfect little remark. I knew I'd probably go to Collin's Halloween party, but didn't respond till I came up with, "Trick or treat, smell my feet. I hope there are cute boys to meet." That's what's called mastering an Evite, people. And that's what I expect when I send out Evites.
Whenever I send out an Evite, I become obsessed with updating it, seeing who's viewed the invitation, who's coming, who's not, and what witty remark they've represented themselves with. The only thing worse than viewing and not responding are those that just respond with their name and no little blurb. Ugh, how uninteresting. I make a mental note to stay away from those that can't muster one single, solitary, sentence of charm. If someone took the effort to type your shitty little e-mail address into this thing, you could at least respond with a, "Lookin' forward to it..."
Many wait to respond to see who else plans to show. That's great if you're a guest, but sucks if you're a host. When you invite 150 people and 14 RSVP, it looks lame. And it's beyond frustrating. One must rely on their good friends to respond early on, make the event look like it'll be packed with clever, witty hipsters.
Sometimes, I'll respond with an inside joke, which is fine when you don't really care who's reading. For Hannah's upcoming 30th bash, held a mere block and half away from my house at The Monkey Club, I brilliantly responded, "How do I get there?" But that was just to crack Hannah up.
Alex refuses to respond to an Evite because he feels that the pressure to perform in one's remarks is too great. I can understand that, particularly if you don't know many of the other guests. But, if you're brave enough to walk into a party full of strangers, you should be brave enough to post a friggin' response, no?
The folks at Evite have upped the ante on throwing a party, really because you can get a sense of what's in store, well before ever showing up with your tray of phyllo triangles or the wine that you bought on the way over. It's genius, really. It's also terribly addictive.
You know, there's something to be said for an old school, engraved, and mailed paper invitation. Next time I throw a party, check your mailbox, not your e-mail.

Friday, December 10, 2004

oh, mista sheffield...

So, uh, because I'm such a winner, I watched The Nanny Reunion on Lifetime last night. I think, in all truth, it's the most horrible monstrosity to ever be aired on Basic Cable. Hosted by Fran Drescher, at her beachfront Malibu estate, anyone who ever appeared on that cursed sitcom stopped by for cocktails and food prepared by Fran. In between uncomfortable scripted banter and reminiscing, we're forced to watch "highlights" from The Nanny. I didn't realize The Nanny had any highlights. I mean, I remember watching Lifetime with Pip, and as soon as The Nanny would come on, he'd scream, "Change it before she speaks!"
Apparently, none of the stars of The Nanny have worked since 1999, when the show was finally put out of it's misery. Thus, they've decided that 5 years is reason enough, and as they're all desperate for a gig, were willing to sell their souls for one last shot on camera.
Why did I spend an hour with these people, watching them kiss each other's ass and pretend that they were on some groundbreaking show, like All in the Family or The Mary Tyler Moore Show. I couldn't look away. It was like a car accident. I'll be haunted forever, but I couldn't help myself.
I'm now counting the days until the Family Matters reunion. I've got to know whatever happened to that talented Jaleel White.

that suit, it's...incredible...

I don't believe in paying for music. But sometimes you have to. So I bought the Napoleon Dynamite Sountrack. Let me just say, I've got candy in my ears tonight.

Wednesday, December 08, 2004


When I was in college, I was assigned to write an opinion paper on which particular actors and actresses working today were the least appreciated for their genius and most under-rated for their immense talent.
I chose Catherine O'Hara and Craig Ferguson.
(If you don't know who they are, that's your fault and you suck. Do yourself a favor and find out.)
I am thrilled to report that Craig Ferguson will be taking over for Craig Kilborn on CBS's The Late Late Show. Maybe they're lazy over there at CBS and don't want to change the sign on the dressing room, but we'll all benefit from this excellent choice.
Also in the final running was Michael Ian Black, whom I worship as a god. It deeply saddens me that he wasn't picked but I don't know that late night is his fortay. I'm a little torn, because he's such an awesome choice, though. Tough stuff.
Clearly, the late night honchos only recruit from VHI's Pop Culture List show commentators, but that's cool. If I were to write another opinion paper right now, for that foxy Professor Andrew Thatcher with the sassy ass(ignments), on who'd I'd pick to replace Craig Kilborn, I'd say Sarah Silverman.
But a Jew AND a woman? Yikes... Watch out Sheboygan.

January 3rd. CBS. I'm excited. Right on, Mr. Wick!

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

i always knew nazis sucked...

Turns out, the crazy shit doesn't go down on the weekends. It happens on Monday nights.
Because there are shows Wednesday through Sunday, Beach Blanketers party Monday and Tuesday, and last night was a big holiday house party at Kathleen and Luc's.
Out with Zoe first, she dropped me off and went home. Thus, Andy was my date. As Kathleen and Luc live so close, we decided to leave the car at my house and cab it. The taxi driver was pretty cool, a laid back hippy who reeked of weed and patchouli. We wound our way around the side streets of Bernal Heights, until we find ourselves blocked in the middle of the street by a huge truck filled with debris. After waiting a few minutes, with the meter ticking away mind you, the cab driver finally honks. The truck slowly moves forward, then stops. The truck driver exits and stumbles up to the cab, instructing the cabby to roll down his window. Obviously fucked up on something white trash and readily available, he begins to speak.
"Why you gotta hassle me. Be a gentleman, don't pressure me."
The cab driver was cool, "I'm just trying to get these people to their party, dude."
"Well then, don't ride my ass. Do I have to pull out my swastikas? Do I need to show you all my swastikas?" He rubs his chest, somehow implying he's got Nazi tattoos everywhere.
"No man, we're cool."
Adolf gets back in his truck and drives off. A mere block from our destination, I was so frazzeled by our encounter, I left the wine in the cab. Fuck!
The party was awesome, in a funky little house packed with all of my old BBB friends. After making my rounds, I set up camp in the back room, known as The Tiki Lounge. That's where the pomegranate cosmos were, that's where the available seating was, and that's where the straight boys were. 'Nuf said.
The party continued all night. Glasses broke, toilets flooded, people hooked up. It was very old school Beach Blanket. Thus, it was really fucking fun. And, I must say, Andy and I looked fierce. I'd leave the lounge from time to time, to get more drinks, to flirt with someone else, and to grab some fabulous food. At some point, I walked back to the Tiki Lounge, and when I entered, the room screams, "No!" as I let the door close. Apparently, someone broke the lock earlier and every time the Tiki Lounge door closes, we're locked in and essentially fucked. Luckily, one of our hosts was with us and knew the way out, so Luc climbs over some dry wall and runs out into the rain, down an alley to the front door and eventually frees us. The party continues and quite frankly, I forget about the broken lock.
At some point, it's just me, Tammy, and Josh sitting back there and we realize that we are, yet again, locked in. As music is blaring and 50 people are wildly partying in other rooms, we know we're trapped until someone stumbles upon us. We take inventory of the room, noting the apple and citrus slices floating in some boozy punch, agreeing to conserve all but liquor until we really need it. After an eternity, Jorge stumbles in, double fisting something tropical-looking and as we all scream, "Don't close the door!" we hear the door SLAM as Jorge looks in and says, "What?"
Now the apple and citrus slices must be divided by four, not three.
We debate climbing over the drywall ourselves, but just as I suggest that, the skies open and dump a sea of water upon San Francisco. Trees were ripped from their roots, cars seemed to flip in the wind, and I was wearing pointy toed heels. It wasn’t going to happen. There was no way for us to survive the elements. We were really and truly trapped.
Jorge pulls out his cell, and begins to call people. Obviously, Luc and Kathleen couldn’t hear their phone, and after leaving them a series of messages we found quite hysterical, we realized that, like, 30 minutes had passed.
“You guys. I think it’s time we accepted it. No one’s coming for us.”
Jorge was still working on his phone, desperate to find someone capable of hearing their phone ringing over the holiday dance remix album. Finally, he gets a hold of Ignacio, and in a dramatic and highly attended rescue, Ignacio and about 20 other people all ceremoniously throw the door open. Finally emancipated, I bid farewell to the Tiki Lounge, and head for the safety of the living room.
The rest of the evening was spent sitting around the fire, eating and drinking and listening to my friends play guitar and sing the blues. Around 2am, Kathleen, Tim, and I create a little drink now known as “Lemon Drops for Alcoholics” and after half of one of those, it was time for me to retire to the comfort of my huge, fluffy bed. I mean, really. After a run-in with a Nazi, getting locked in a back room surviving on gin soaked fruit, and belting some serious soul in Luc’s recording studio, I was exhausted.
All in all, it rocked. No one parties like Beach Blanket, and I was so pumped up from my wild night at Kathleen and Luc’s, I came home and spent an hour dancing around my kitchen to gay disco.
Free at last, free at last, thank Ignacio almighty, I’m free at last.

Monday, December 06, 2004

someone's in here...

I was talking to Big Chris last night, and he admitted that Monday was his favorite day to read my "daily diary" because he could hear all about my madcap weekends filled with booze, boys, and constant humiliation. While the holiday season is upon us, and I've got parties up the wazoo, there were no major hilarities this weekend. Maybe, I'm losing my touch.
Friday night was a party at Mercedes, where I did one Jell-O shot and called it a night. Saturday was a fabulous party at Janine's, where the only excitement was when angry neighbors threw eggs at us and we returned fire with apples. Also "Itty Bitty" (Amanda) caused the greatest party foul by losing control of her dance moves and knocking my huge goblet of wine over. While I don't recall this, I apparently screamed, "Damn you, Itsey Bitsey! That was the last of the good wine!"
Sunday began with brunch at Foreign Cinema with Gert, Joe, and Joe's fabulous new boyfriend, Robert. The highlight of brunch was when Joe and I were told that our scrambled eggs would be served "medium rare." Uh, okay. We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking at Lime, where I had my first white cosmo and some bathroom trouble.
I headed back to the ladies for a touch up, and found the door to be locked. I did the requisite knock and heard the standard, "Someone's in here." Thus, like a civilized person, I patiently waited until the inhabitant exited. I, in turn, enter the ladies and lock the door. No sooner had I sat down (because yes, Chris, girls sit when they pee) than I hear someone trying the door. No knock. Just frustrated fumbling. I then hear a woman angrily ask a waiter, "Is there a key for this bathroom because the door won't open!"
"Well, Ma''am, someone's probably in there. It's a single use bathroom.”
With that, she bangs on the door and screams, “There’s a line out here!”
This is all over the course of 30 seconds. Clearly, she was dealing with an “emergency” situation. We’ve all been there, but I like to think I would have handled the situation with a little more grace and tact. Thus, I took my time. I reapplied make-up. I played with my hair. I re-washed my hands. Finally, I emerged, to find an exasperated looking lesbian. “All yours.” I smile and walk away, hearing her mutter under her breath, “Fuckin’ girls!”
My weekend ended with a fabulous and huge cocktail party thrown by a friend of my parents. Hosted by a gay Republican lobbyist, the guests consisted of San Francisco’s political elite and gay, gay men. It was fascinating and wonderful to see my father at the bar, standing next to a Superior Court Judge and a leather daddy.
So, gang… no hooking up with ethnic DJ’s, no falling down stairs, no handicapped boyfriends. Just a simple bathroom altercation with a lesbian...

Saturday, December 04, 2004

make it stop...

On our way to a party down the block at Mercedes' house last night, Bonnie and I were skipping along the sidewalk, looking and feeling adorable. Bonnie, so moved by her fabulousness, begins to belt out some song. As soon as she starts to scream her rendition, our uptight, humor-less, upstairs neighbors swing around the corner and practically run into us. Now finding us even more crazy and annoying than before, a feat once thought impossible, they hid their looks of horror and ran off down the street. We erupted into hysterics and Bonnie resumed her melody.
I'd normally feel far more embarrassed that our neighbors hate us so much, finding us loud, slutty, drunks. But this morning I awoke to the sounds of them having bad sex directly above me. Debating whether to suffocate myself with a pillow or stab myself in my ears with a handy pen, I was forced out of the warmth of my cozy bed into the frigid halls of 916A, where I turned on the gay radio station in an attempt to drown out disturbing sounds from above.
Sing away, Bon. We've got nothing to be embarrassed about ever again. We might leave the kegs to rot in the backyard. We might play Beyonce at 3am. But we will never commit an act as ungodly and unnatural as that which I heard this morning.

Thursday, December 02, 2004

fine ass spotswood love...

Greg picked us up last night in his huge, loaded SUV, with all the windows down blasting hardcore rap. I was prompted to ask both Bonnie and Greg what their rapper names would be. Lo and behold, this morning, Andy sent us a link that was pretty close. Wanna know your pimp name???

Greg: Sticky Fingers Walbridge Trump
Bonnie: Funk Master B. Rockefeller
Andy: Golden Brown Jolley Skillz
Mercedes: Dopetastic Ferreira Luthor
Chris: Deacon Doctor Chris Flex
Zoe: Delicious Zoe Wicked
and then me... Fine Ass Spotswood Love

drink up, ladies...

I hate being poor. It means you have to drink faster.

Last night, Bonnie, Greg, and I went to drinks and dinner at Rex on Polk Street. Rex has an awesome happy hour from 5-7pm, consisting of $3 wine, well, beer, and appetizers. As we rolled in at 6:37pm, we had to hustle. We ordered our first round of wine and perused the menu. At 6:49pm, Greg, noting the rapidly approaching end to cheap drinks, hollers, "Drink up, Ladies. Time is of the essence."
I guess during the last 15 minutes of Happy Hour, every Rex staff member disappears, in some vain attempt to keep patrons from fully taking advantage of their much advertised offer. Rex didn't know who they were dealing with however, or so we thought, as Greg tackled some hostess and got us another round. In just under the wire at 6:52pm, we were quite pleased with ourselves.
When the bill arrived, we found, to our dismay, we had been charged full price for the last round of drinks. Not cool. As we didn't want to get into a huge confrontational argument with Emily, our 8 chinned waitress, Greg simply deducted the difference from her tip. Nice.
The thing is, Rex has good drinks, superb food, a cool vibe, and all kinds of good deals, depending on the day of the week. I'm not going to write off this great spot because they screwed us out of 6 bucks. But I do want revenge, however. Thus I propose this: I want 20 of my nearest and dearest to saddle up to the Rex bar at 6:55pm and order every happy hour special they're offering. We'll call it the "Happy Minute" and it will piss Emily off.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

why not a manger?

I've just come from hanging out at Andy's, helping him
decorate his studio apartment into a tacky,
Midwestern, Jesus-less, gay, Winter Wonderland. Andy
lives on the roof of an apartment building, in what's
basically a one room, windowed, box overlooking the
entire city. His place is right in the middle of the
roof, guests having to actually walk on the roof to
reach his front door. It's quite cool, and Andy has
the run of the "4th floor". He's always decorated for
every possible holiday, but this year, he wants to
take full advantage of his unique situation. As we're
hanging lights and placing the various snowman
figurines and wooden reindeer in their appropriate
places, a light bulb suddenly appears over Andy's


"I have a brilliant idea right now but neither the
motivation nor the resources to execute it. I want to
turn the exterior of my apartment into a gingerbread
house. If I still did speed, I'd be cutting up those
cardboard boxes into gingerbread shingles right now!
And I'd paint White Out around the edges..."

Genius. I can't wait till Andy goes out to the gay bars and comes home drunk with some trick, walking him all the way up to the 4th floor, until they emerge onto the roof to find a glittering, blinking, gingerbread house made of cardboard and white out. "Oh, yeah. I, uh, decorated the exterior of my apartment. Just call me Hansel."

Only if you call me Gretel...