Saturday, April 30, 2005

counting sheep...

“Uh, Zoe. In a shocking twist, I’m suddenly available tonight.”
“Are you kidding me? Well, I don’t have to work. Let‘s do something fabulous.”
“And I’m willing to throw down some cash. Let‘s go OUT.”
“Yeah, me too! In that case, I need to start getting ready.”
We talked Kate into joining us and decided on fancy, adult dinner at Absinthe. Poor Kate not only had her car stolen, she got it back from the cops to find used condoms and dirty underwear strewn about.
“They used it for hooking, Beth!” Kate screamed into the phone.
“So, then, we’ll be taking you to dinner.”
Sadly, whilst Kate’s car was in the hands of a working girl, Kate used a rental, which she, ummm, crashed. We talked our way into a table at the fabulously packed Absinthe, a restaurant I had yet to enjoy but eyed for years. Over goat cheese, ahi and incredible wine, we enjoyed a hilarious and long dinner, laughing across our low lit table, eyeing hot boys around us, and flirting with our foreign waiter.
Three hours later, we’re brought the dessert menu. We’ll have that. And then, maybe that. For some unknown reason, my intellectually superior roommate ordered decaf coffee and I insisted upon regular.
After what has to be one of the better times I’ve had, the three of us headed out onto Hayes Street, group hugged goodbye, and Zoe and I headed home. Zoe, stuffed and toasted, fell asleep immediately. Hmmm, I’m incredibly full. I’ve had more wine than I can remember, but I’m awake. Wide awake.
After wading through Eric Estrada’s time-share infomercials, which I sadly find tempting, I found myself watching “Battlefield Britain” on KQED at 3am. Now, before you roll your eyes and say, “Spots, there are better things on at 3am”, let me tell you about my new favorite show.
Battlefield Britain is hosted by two guys, both British, one fucking hot. For an hour, from 3 to 4am, I learned all about this huge war in 60A.D. when Britain revolted from the Roman Empire who had enslaved them. Apparently, a fabulous Queen with an unpronounceable name got so pissed after the public rapings of her young daughters, she rallied 100,000 pissed of Brits to violently overthrow the government. Who knew? What makes the show so fabulous, in addition to the hot guy wandering about Battlefields in Wales, is that they have re-enactments and interviews with actors pretending to be actual warriors, slaves or Roman assholes.

Finally, at 4, I forced myself to sleep, whereupon I had highly inappropriate dreams which make me question my subconscious. I should’ve stayed up and watched the second installment of Battlefield Britain. It would have been far less psychologically damaging. If you find yourself wide awake in the early morning hours, do yourself a favor and check out Battlefield Britain, if for no other reason than to see a hot guy with a hot accent wandering around empty fields, taking about British military strategy…

Friday, April 29, 2005

fan mail continues...

So, we got another piece of crazy mail today. Thus, it was agreed we file a report with the cops, particularly as this woman seems fixated on finding out where I live. I call down to the MVPD and eventually, they send over a cruiser with a big old cop, who walks in with, "Hey gals! What's the story?"
I nervously recap the past communications with nutjob and copper listens attentively. He agrees to file an "incident report" and takes both my business card and copies of the letters. "I'm gonna give this drunk a call. Is she allowed back to your events?"
Uh, did you read the fucking letters, officer? As far as I'm concerned, she's not allowed within 100 yards of me...


Every last Thursday of the month, I have this networking cocktail event I have to go to, where basically one stands around desperately looking for people to talk to. I always end up experiencing an eclectic blend of local business folks, from funky old weirdos to new single gal pals. Last night, I got both.
Jerry runs the Crystal Fair and spoke at length for his desire to read my aura. Apparently, he has some camera that photographs one’s aura and then, one can have it analyzed or “read” by a trained aura professional.
Finding a graceful exit strategy for polite small talk is challenging. I find in these situations, I always seem to end the conversation with the highly annoying “Enjoy.” Why I do this is beyond me. Somehow, after business card exchanges and the appropriate “Nice to meet you”, I feel the need to raise my Chardonnay to the skies and through gritted teeth, say “Enjoy.” I’m so annoyed by my own dreadful habit, I find that I remind myself as I’m talking, “Don’t say enjoy, don’t say enjoy. God, it’s so lame. Don’t say enjoy.”
It never works. I simply can’t stop myself. I saw it in a movie once (Living Out Loud) and I no longer have control over it.
Soon after my escape from Jerry, I befriended Carrie and Kristin. They are hilarious, charming and tons of fun. Kristin owns a children’s store in Mill Valley and Carrie is the coach of my former swim team. She also teaches an aqua cardio class in the morning at my old club, and invited me to join gratis. I regaled them with tales of bar fights and they dished townie gossip. We have plans to hit the local hotspots next Friday. In fact, I just received the following e-mail:

Hey Beth,
It was so fun meeting you last night. Truly the funniest part of the event. So as I told you feel free to come on down to the club and we'll get you going in the water workout. Hope you day is going well and your event goes well tomorrow. We will have to think of a good plan to hunt down and destroy the man with a foul mouth from the duece you encountered.
We are behind you sister.

Love her! These girls are fabulous. I wound up the night by stashing free egg rolls in my handbag for the ride home while entertaining someone’s bored child with a tap dance routine I learned in 1989. I downed my shitty wine, patted my egg rolls like Napoleon checking his tots, raised my glass to the kid and said, “Enjoy…”

Thursday, April 28, 2005

fan mail...

Last year, a woman got drunk and passed out at one of our parties. Subsequently, she started calling the office, becoming obsessed with Margot and then with me. Last week, she got Kristin on the phone and started asking her where I lived, what I liked to do, if I hang out with my co-workers… So my boss grabbed the phone and told her to leave us alone. Crazy responded with the following letter received today:

“You dumb shit mother f’er. You look like a kindergarten teacher in your stupid f’ing office. You think you’re some big executive running a company. You make no money at all- you dumb F head. Grow up – stupid housewife and act like a dummy. I am an attorney and a registered nurse. EAT MY SHIT. I will go to the mayor and everything if I’m not put on the mailing list. This is just a truthful letter, you dumb F. Get with it, idiot- go home, sew, cook or learn how to deal with all types of people. Real professionals. I will report you all over-you son of a bitch, mother f’er. You have a zero IQ.”

The best part is that she refuses to spell out “Fuck.”
The second best part is that she still expects to be put back on the mailing list...

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

maaaaaargot, i feel gross...

I don’t know why, but my disgusting Lean Cuisine isn’t sitting so well with me today. It’s making me feel funky and mischievous. So I went over to Margot’s corner of the office and lay down on her floor.
“Oh my God, Bethy. That’s so disgusting. You don’t know what’s been on the floor. Ben probably does things there.”
“Whatever, Margot. You just vacuumed.”
I continued to lie on the floor and Margot went back to work. I couldn’t move. I was feeling sick, yet punchy.
“Hey Margot.”
“What if your water breaks right now? I’d be covered in your amniotic fluid and have to kill myself, I’d be so grossed out.”
“Ewww, that would suck.” Margot screamed. “Don’t say that. You’re freaking me out!”
Margot’s phone rings, and while she’s on the phone, I decide to annoy her placing crumpled Post-its in her socks. I couldn't help myself. She wears these weird little socks.
“May I please put you on hold?...Bethy! Stop making me laugh! Jeez, you're such a freak show!...I'm sorry. Thank you for holding.”

As if rewarding a dog for performing a simple trick, Margot’s hand shoots down to me with a pretzel. Perhaps in preparation for her impending motherhood, Margot seems to think rewarding me with small snacks or rubber toys will get me to behave. I will admit it worked. I ate the pretzel, got up from her floor, went back to my desk and sent her a dirty e-mail…

bring me back something french...

Apparently, with age comes some need to help the impoverished and infirm. As my parents have enjoyed the rewards of hard work and relative health, they feel it’s time to get their hands dirty. Literally.
My mother is celebrating a milestone birthday this year (I won’t shock you with her age, I’ll just mention that she looks fabulous) and instead of doing something normal like go to a spa or spend a weekend in Vegas, she’s booking it down to Mexico to dig ditches, build bathrooms and construct one-room school houses.
My father, in turn, has recently decided to squander what’s left of my inheritance on joining some religious cult and has flown off to France to help bathe the untouchables in Lourdes. Apparently, he and his cronies throw the invalids in vintage wheelbarrows, roll them down to the Holy water, and wait for miracles.
Itty is convinced that my father will catch leprosy and we’ll have to send him off, fingerless, to Molokai with Fr. Damien. I’m convinced my father will take one look at third world cripples and book himself a room at the Paris Ritz.
When I am old and feeling guilty about my good fortune, I wonder how I will choose to give back? Perhaps, with my recent foray into Prison Pen Pals, I’ll volunteer at a woman’s correctional facility, teaching literacy and eyebrow maintenance. Maybe, I’ll break into sweatshops and free child workers from their leg shackles, allowing them much needed bathroom breaks. Or I could hike into darkest Appalachia and inform the in-breeders about the wonders of contraception.
I will say this: as per the office memo yesterday announcing forced recycling, I will not spend my golden years saving redwoods and harvesting compost piles. Ewww…

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

save it for burning man...

This is all because Ben found a plastic yogurt container in MY trash…

Greetings All~

I started a mini-recycling bin in our office for all plastic, aluminum and glass containers. Next time you think about pitching one of these items in your trashcan just think how easy it would be to walk a few paces in the comfort of our own office and deposit the item in said bin. Not only that but you won’t have to deal with the hassling from Enviro-friendly co-workers when they find any recyclable item in your trashcan.


Fuckin’ Hippies! Jesus Christ. There are 5 of us in this office and I am being villified merely because I threw out old yogurt. I keep these people in hysterics all day long. So what if I make a point of destroying our planet? We are now at war, you clay eating vegan! Stay out of my garbage…

city slickers...

While I am horrified that someone broke Rhonda the Honda’s window and assaulted her with random ghetto garbage, I reminded myself that it could be worse. My cousin Jessica lives in the Haight and apparently, drives a bright red SUV with broken door locks. Over the course of a week, she would approach her car in the morning to find that someone was systematically using her front passenger seat as a toilet.
Every other day, there’d be a huge shit waiting there for her, a violation far more scathing that simply breaking a window and filling the car with trash. Some creature was treating Jessica’s car as a leather-interiored, port-o-potty.
She called the cops. She (gasp) cleaned that car. Jessica even got up early, holding a stake-out in the hopes of catching “The Shitter.” Her tenacity paid off. The next morning, Jessica spied her car from across the street and saw a bag lady approaching it. In the bag lady’s hand was…wait for it….a roll of toilet paper!
I bitch about the suburbs. I claim I would never again lower myself to bridge and tunnel status. But, my god. The day someone takes a shit in Rhonda the Honda is the day I pack my bags and move to Novato…

Monday, April 25, 2005

sean, where have you been all my life...

When I wasn’t busy watching the draft, I was busy obsessing about my new love, Mr. Sean Penn. I’ve been familiar with his work since Jeff Spicoli and cannot explain to you why suddenly, I am completely overwhelmed by the immense talent and smoldering genius of this Oscar winner. It might have something to do with The Interpreter.
I want Sean Penn to put surveillance on my house. I want him to anonymously watch me leave my front door every morning, slowing falling in love with me as I obliviously walk to my car and drive away. I want him to give his subordinates specific instructions to take special care of me when he can’t be there to personally protect me. And I want him to rescue me from genocidal maniacs at the very last minute, whereupon I fall into his ripped and experienced arms to live happily ever after with a former Diplomatic Security Service agent.
Who knew Sean Penn was such a fox? I’m completely obsessed, downloading information and affixing photos of him about my desk. I think of little else, dreaming of what it would be like to see him squint at me across a bar and beat up some Hell’s Angel or paparazzo for violating my space. I want him to tell me wild Hollywood stories of hookers and eight-balls, broken noses and on-set antics. I want to dress him in tuxedos at Cannes and weathered flack jackets at Sundance. And I want to play with his hair.
In a convenient twist, I know where he lives. I’ve actually seen him around, dining everywhere from fancy French joints to scummy burger places. In fact, after my grandfather’s funeral, our family went out to dinner at Marche Aux Fleures and who was seated at the next table? Yep. SP.
It appeared he was engaging in some sort of business dinner and he and another man waited patiently for their third party to arrive. When their guest, a woman, approached the table, Sean stood up and scooted her chair out for her. Cuz that’s just the kinda guy he is. He’s the kinda of guy that hits the roof of a taxi after he puts you in the backseat, just to let the driver know that the precious cargo is in safe. He’s the kinda guy that apologizes after swearing in front of a lady. He’s the kind of guy that hard living and life experience has turned into a wise and settled character, with more worry lines than laugh lines, more scars than tattoos and more unbridled intense sensuality than I would know what to do with…

Sunday, April 24, 2005

four stories and a review...

Story Number 1: Rhonda the Honda has been raped! My car, which I treat like shit and completely abuse, was assaulted by masked assailants yesterday under the cover of darkness. I discovered her violation as I approached her this morning on my way to Andy’s. I am pissed.

Story Number 2: Andy and I went to Subway for lunch. I remarked to Andy that I didn’t have any idea what to order and I really just wanted to get behind that counter and make it myself. “Oh, Miss Beth you know my first job was at Subway. And I invented all kinds of incredible sandwiches unavailable on the menu. For every 4 hours you work, you get a free 6”. And I took advantage of that! I love me some Subway. That is until I quit…”

Story Number 3: Apparently, Andy has racked himself up quite a little SubClub card, a piece of paper on which one gets it stamped 10 times and then redeems it for a free sandwich. Some time ago, Andy had purchased his 10th and final sandwich. The official stamp, however, was unavailable. A hapless manager initialed the SubClub card and Andy went on his way. Upon his next visit to Subway, Andy attempted to redeem his filled card, and it was refused. According to Subway policy, an initial in no way bears the weight of the stamp. Andy had to pay for that 11th sandwich. “Ugh,” he sighed, “it sucks because Subway is the only good fast food. I mean, the other day, I got in this fight at Burger King…”

Story Number 4: It would appear Andy frequents the Burger King down his block with some frequency and has come to rely on Burger King’s “have it your way” motto. Thus, he requested his typical 99 cent double cheeseburger with 2 bottom buns and no top bun. Andy, I’m afraid, is allergic to sesame seeds. The woman behind the counter was unfamiliar with Andy’s request and thus ensued an argument I can only imagine would have embarrassed me to witness. “Isn’t that the whole point of Burger King?” Andy screamed at the hair-net clad staff. “I want my burger! My way! And I cannot consume sesame seeds!”

I’d been reading about this new Moroccan restaurant and bar on Haight Street, Maroc. As Joe and Amanda live three blocks from there, I’d heard it had a cool vibe and was itching to try it. Alex, Amanda and I headed over and settled into a cozy bamboo table. We ordered beer, wine and a fabulous assortment of Moroccan cuisine. Our waiter was gorgeous…and gay. Immediately, we began to flirt.
Maroc is cool inside and incredibly colorful, with bright hanging glass lanterns over the bar and multicolored silk covering the ceiling and walls.
Our food took forever to come, although when it did, it was fantastic. Other than the beets of course, which we didn‘t order. Sadly, gorgeous gay waiter is also retarded. We ordered beans.
Nope. Beans. We dove into our phyllo covered spiced chicken and lamb meatballs on jasmine rice while waiting for Pretty Boy to come and switch us out. Amanda and Alex don’t like beets. But in the interest of giving you a complete review and finding it necessary to take advantage of the fact that the retarded supermodel was taking his time, I tried the beets. They weren’t so good.
The beans finally arrived, as did some grilled flatbread, and that was spectacular. We were stuffed and scooted our chairs back as we sipped our drinks and listened to the same song over and over, apparently entitled, “Welcome to My Spaceship.” Finally, the childlike love of my life comes over and brings the check, wiping the table before he leaves. In his haste to scrub that table which I had apparently made filthy, he slides the knife right into my lap, no doubt sterilizing me.
Done with Morocco and ready to head home, we said goodbye and thank you to our idiot waiter, got lost on the way back to the car, and sang “Gloria” all the way home…

Saturday, April 23, 2005

thank god it's friday...

After a harrowing day at work, I returned home to find Zoë standing at the front door. “The toilet’s broken and I don’t know what to do.”
Ugh. In our main bathroom, the one that divides the two bedrooms, the old Godfather-esque toilet has been nothing but a pain in the ass. While the whole “Pulling a chain to flush” is cool and old school, this goddamn commode hasn’t worked properly since prohibition.
I am not handy. I can barely screw in a light bulb. But let me tell you something, folks. We pulled out a ladder, I climbed up there, and with nothing but bare hands and common sense, I fixed that toilet.
Even I couldn’t believe it. We stood in the bathroom watching that toilet work, shocked into silence by the improbability of me actually fixing something, much less a very broken major household appliance. That called for wine, which I had the little lady run and open.
Delighted that Zoë didn’t have to work and was merely “on call”, we decided on having “Roommate Night”, which, translated, means dinner and a movie. Both craving Indian food, we headed over to Zoë’s old neighborhood for the fabulous Star India buffet. I don’t mind telling you, we were seated next to the hottest British guy this side of David Bell.
“We need to find him.” smirked Zoë in a sassy British accent, referring to the love of my life currently jumping out of Blackhawks in Baghdad. “I bet he’s about.”
“Oy, what I wouldn’t give for a little DB.”
We dove into naan and lamb and chutney while wildly fantasizing about British paratroopers coming to sweep us away. Stuffed with the culinary wonders of Indian delights, we headed over to AMC1000, having pre-bought our tickets to the opening night of The Interpreter.
The theater was packed to the gills and needles to say, we were seated next to the most annoying people ever conceived. We made it all the way to the opening credits, past the commercials, past the previews. I mean, the movie had started, people. Then, Zoë’s cell goes off. We nervously look at each other as she listens to the message.
Zoë leans in and whispers, “Oh my god. I just got called in to do costumes.”
Having “done costumes” for nearly 4 years, I know what this means. Zoë must leave immediately and go straight to work. You’d think she was a obstetric surgeon. You’d think she was an anesthesiologist. Nope. She’s a theater technician.
“Well, you should stay.” she said, as the opening credits began to roll. “Can you take a cab?”
“Yeah. Totally. God, this sucks. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, me too.” she said, as she shimmied past the highly annoying people next to me, already confused by the plot line which had yet to start.
I watched the rest of the movie alone, occasionally distracted by the clueless retards to my left, constantly discussing just who the body found in the bathtub was or announcing loudly a cameo by Sydney Pollack.
Oh my God, I hate you so much. Please have a heart attack and die before I have to hear you speak again.
The movie ended. (You’re going to want a review, now. It was okay. Sean Penn was surprisingly hot, Nicole Kidman was surprisingly unkempt. It was worth it, really only because I’ve decided to revamp my bangs as a result.)
Thousands of us poured out of the theater, fighting for elevator space and shoving each other through doorways. Solo, I walked out onto Van Ness Avenue, looking way too cute to go home. But I had no choice. I hailed a cab. Sitting low in the huge backseat, I watched the city lights whiz past me as I turned in before midnight.
“This blows.” I thought to myself. “I’m so wasted on a Friday night. I pulled out the good lip gloss, I’ve blow dried this hair, I’ve got nothing but witty remarks to make. How am I stranded and alone? My god. I can even fix a toilet…”

Friday, April 22, 2005

office bonding...

Sometimes, it takes an office field trip to induce real and true bonding. Last night, Kristin, Ben and I planned to check out a play in Marin, starring some people we kinda work with. We weren’t going so much to see these folks we know. We just wanted to have an adventure together.
As the play didn’t start till 7:30, we headed over to Kristin’s house for wine and snacks after work. As we sat around her huge and fabulous backyard, discussing our personal lives and drinking bottle(s) of wine, we suddenly didn’t want to go to the play anymore. It didn’t take long to justify the fact that our time would be better spent heading over the hill and having drinks at The Pelican Inn.
Ben grabbed my keys, threw them at me and said, “Let’s go before we change our minds!”
Listening to music and laughing all the way, we headed to Muir Beach and into the tiny and cozy pub of the PI. A hippy named Van played guitar in the corner as we ordered drinks and settled into a table with our wine and beer.
After a while, the hot Irish bartender grabbed the guitar and started singing U2, Ben laughing as Kristin and I were suddenly entranced and in love. We were having a great time, ordering drinks and gossiping about work. Soon, Van started eyeing Kristin and began to chat her up. The next thing I knew, the two of them were speaking in German to each other.
This is when it got weird.
Ben and I got up to throw some darts and soon, a funky, pony-tailed friend of Van comes over, introduces himself as Rex and asks how we all know each other.
“We all work together.” says Ben, inching away from him.
We tell him where we work, which send Rex into a tizzy. “I want to work there! You guys should hire me. I’m fucking awesome!”
Ben rolls his eyes, “Well, send over a resume, dude. I’m Ben. This is Beth. We’ll totally check it out.”
“Cool. Ken and Beth.”
“No, Ben and Beth.”
“Right. I’m sorry. Ben and Keth.”
“No, dude. Ben and Beth.”
“Oh shit, buddy. What’s wrong with me?” And with that, Rex drops his glass onto the floor of the pub, where it shatters it a million pieces.
Kristin stops speaking in German and comes over, grabs my hand and says, “Time to go.”
No shit, K. But Van and Rex won’t leave us alone, insisting on kissing us all goodbye. Kristin, having had a bottle of wine, actually gives Van her number before the three of us head out into the night. We grab on to each other as we stumble to the car, unable to believe the bizarre cast of characters packed into that tiny pub.
“Oh my god, you guys. That was so much better than some boring old play.”
“Fuck, yes.” says Ben. “If this is what it’s like going out with you guys, count me in…”

Thursday, April 21, 2005

how big chris met his wife...

Have you ever stumbled across a website that is somehow so wonderful, it takes up your whole day? Well, my co-worker, Ben, and I have come across our new favorite obsession.
We are now unable to do anything else, screaming prisoner poetry across the office at each other and howling at the bizarre collection of personal ads. Each personal ad contains a chart of information at the bottom, with such nuggets of background such as type of crime(s), date of earliest parole, and astrological sign. You can do a search by state, by death row status, by hobbies…it’s amazing!
Here are some highlights:
“Tired of not knowing where your woman is at night? I’m here!” –Jill
“Greetings, I’m in search of a big bones goddess who’s seeking a strong black male.” –Fitzroy
And our favorite poem by a convicted murderer:

“Sometimes I’m happy; sometimes I’m sad;
Sometimes I’m right in the middle.
Usually I’m healthy; every once in a while I’m sick.
Sometimes I love smart comedy; sometimes I’m not in the mood.
Sometimes I feel boringly sane; sometimes dangerously crazy.”

All of a sudden, Ben goes, “It sounds like that guy gets raped a lot.”

Now, of course, I’m past the point of finding this highly entertaining, which it is, and at the point of wanting to write one of them. I figure if I write to someone on death row, they can’t get paroled and come kill me. Although, I bet they have friends on the outside that could. I can just see a tiny little jail cell filled with pictures of my friends and I out at bars, my letters on the engraved stationary my grandmother gave me pinned to the wall and a small framed Polaroid of us together taken during my first visit to the “Friends and Family” room.
Immediately, I e-mailed Big Chris with my discovery.

“that website was totally awesome. second of all you've lost your
fucking mind. I am not writing to a prisoner. I hate to say this
but again a double standard exists with women not getting
the same kind of street cred that men get after doing a stretch
in the pen. also I'm going to have to say that convicted felons
aren't my type…”

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

preach it!

I think we all know I am devoted to the gay community. After all, were it not for homos, I would never have survived high school. I would never have gone to the prom. I would never have learned how to drink.
So it is with disgust and anger that I learn our new pope is a huge outspoken homophobe. One of the main reasons that I no longer practice Catholicism, other than how amazingly boring mass is, is because so many of my friends aren’t welcome in the house of the Lord. If they’re not good enough for church, neither am I.
The thing is, think of how much more interesting and fabulous church would be if gay people were welcomed with open arms. The music would kick ass, vestments would involve magenta sequins and coffee and doughnuts after mass would become mimosas and croissants. Church would be packed. You’d need reservations.
Gay people make everything better, including faith. In fact, and you won’t believe this, gay people even make sports better. This morning, on my way to work, I was listening to 92.7. Nothing wakes me up like coffee and gay disco. And one of Energy 92.7’s new features is “Greg, the Gay Sportscaster.”
Greg fills us in on the weeks sporting events. He’s hilarious and informative. Apparently, there’s some baseball steroid scandal. Baseball players use steroids? Who knew? Suddenly, sports have become interesting and entertaining, thanks to my new pal, Greg. I’d even hasten to say I’d be willing to venture into an actual sports bar with Greg in tow, explaining touchdowns and trades to me over Sauvignon Blanc and unshelled peanuts.
I’ve found that those who seem to hate gay people the most always wind up caught blowing a boy scout under the bleachers. Thus, I can only assume that Pope Benedict XVI is a big flaming queen, so terrified that we’ll all learn of his shocking secret that he’s willing to condemn 10% of God’s children. Well, fuck that.
When PBXVI is ready to come out of his gilded closet, embrace humanity and all of its color, and admit that perhaps there’s room for all of us in heaven, then I’ll be in the front pew flanked by Andy and Elton John, sayin' the Rosary and sippin' that wine.
Until then, I’ll be spending my Sunday mornings at brunch with a bunch of queens praying to Bloody Mary, who, let me assure you, is no virgin…

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

quit bugging me...

I’m wiping tears away from my eyes, I’ve been laughing so hard. Kristin and I were over in Ben’s office, which everyone calls “Seattle” because it’s dark and grungy, hanging out and listening to the John Butler Trio. Yes, we do work, and very hard at that, but it’s so pretty out and we’re very caught up and I’m too exhausted to continue staring at my computer. We’ve been dodging this huge bug all day, ducking so as to miss its huge wingspan which knocks over coke cans and sideswipes our faces.
Anyway, the three of us are chatting away and I begin to bitch about this sponsor I hate. Every time Kristin tells me they’re on the phone, I cringe with the knot in my stomach and the knowledge that I’m about to get blamed for something. I’m going on and on, doing impressions of these dreadful people, warning of an on-coming tantrum and hatching plans to get them back. All of a sudden, the dreaded bug flies right up in my face. Simultaneously, my arms fly in the air, I let out a scream, I fall on my ass, and Ben throws himself out of his chair he’s laughing so hard...

event hopping...

I had 2 events last night. The first was a lunch party for a new newspaper, which, with a jazz band, open bar and hot employed boys, was great. The second was a theater expo, basically consisting of a huge auditorium filled with tables representing every theater company around. So I could attend party number one, my boss manned the table until I could get there. I arrived a tad buzzed from the launch party, and found my boss deep in conversation with the appalling cute guys at the next table. Score!
Boss lady left, winking at me as cute guys rapidly introduced themselves and I took over the table. Turns out, the adorable gentlemen next to me are from a sketch comedy group I’d actually heard of. And they were funny. Noticeably funny. Nothing gets me like funny. I couldn’t believe my luck, as the room was packed with hundreds of theater freaks and weirdos. I mean, they could’ve sat us next to anyone. But cute comedy boys. I was in heaven.
Chatting and flirting away, I was kicking out the sassy one-liners like a pro. I was really on my game, charming even myself. They were both cute and both funny, although one of them was really working the intense eye contact, leaning in to whisper hilarious gossip. Hmmmm. Fabulous! After 2 solid hours of witty banter, it was time to go. Zoe had wine and snacks waiting for me at home and I always like to leave ‘em wanting more. I gave funny boys my business card and we did the obligatory “Well, golly. Let’s run into each other again.”
I’m delighted with myself and quite pleased with my evening. And to think, I so didn’t want to go to this stupid expo.
It’s at this point that I notice it. Eye contact guy’s shoes. Call me bitchy. Call me petty. Call me way, way, way too picky. But knit socks and Tevas?
Knit socks and Tevas, people.
Some things are fixable. And some are not. Knit socks and Tevas? Date over…

Monday, April 18, 2005

if only i had valet...

When living in San Francisco, one’s life is consumed by the task of parking one’s car. My late grandfather, a life long San Franciscan, would drive into Marin across the Golden Gate Bridge, stare at all the opposing traffic coming into the city and wonder, “Where are they all going to park?”
I now understand his concern. Parking has become a daily chore, worse than taking out the garbage, worse than stepping over hobos, worse than putting up with Big Chris changing the channel to SportsCenter. I will plan evenings around parking places, bargain for rides so as not to lose a choice spot and even pay for a cab rather than endure the headache that comes with no garage.
Sometimes, I’ll see a spot a couple of blocks away and grab it, only to walk up to my flat to find a beautifully empty space right in front. On several occasions, I’ve run back to get my car, only to find the spot gone. When I return to the previous space blocks away, it too is now taken up by a primer covered piece of shit, the maniacal thief still struggling to remove themselves from their monstrosity.
Other times, I’ll circle my neighborhood for hours, frightening walkers by slowly following them, hoping they’ll hop in a car and speed away. On those nights, I end up parking miles away, risking life and limb to make it to my door in one piece.
My father contends, and I agree, the greatest crime one can commit in the city is to take up two parking places with one car. I’ve been known to leave an informational note, alerting said jackass to the fact that their Geo is taking up a place big enough to hold two Suburbans.
I could draw you a map of every parking place in my neighborhood where Rhonda the Honda can fit, detailing the street cleaning days and persnickety garage owners who flip if your bumper peeks an inch into their driveway. Last night, after circling for 20 minutes, I discovered a perfect, Rhonda-sized space. At 11pm, a cell phone in one hand and an Evian in the other, I had her in the space in two moves. The space was so tiny, I left the keys in the ignition as I checked my bumpers. Rhonda could not have been more perfectly parked. No additional maneuvers were required. I stood back, admired my work, threw my hands in the air and looked around to see if there was anyone to admire my handiwork. And old Mexican man looked up from working in his garage and said, “That’s some fine ass parking, girl.”
Well said, my good man. Well said…

Sunday, April 17, 2005

oh my god. is that zoe? out on a saturday?

guess who's coming to cocktails...

In a freakish occurance, Zoe didn’t have to work last night. Thus, we wanted to party like grownups. I have several favorite hotspots around town, but Le Colonial is clearly at the top of my list. And now, Zoe works with the owner! We’re so in. Alex, Amanda, Zoe and I put on our finest and headed down there, our friends Gia and Maureen already waiting and Joe on his way. Greeted at the door by my old pal, Sandor the bouncer, we walked into the old LC like a bunch of rockstars. Normally at this time, Zoe is in sweats running around backstage putting up with the ridiculous whims of thespians. Not last night. Last night, she was clad in gold sequins and gold stilettos, pouty lipgloss and fabulous hair. This, Ms. Stagg, is how regular people spend a Saturday night. Isn’t it marvelous?
Yep. It is.
Securing a table on the patio, we sipped cocktails and disturbed those around us with our hysterical laughter. Joe and I, hating to waste a good outfit on those that had already seen us, made lap after lap around the entire bar, winking at cute boys and dancing with strangers. It was so good to see Zoe lounging on the wonderful wicker, arms intwined with her wonderful new friends, howling at Joe’s ridiculous tales of gay bars and stolen men swear, checking out the scene and working that gold.
We’ll be at LC every night from now on. Cute guys, fabulous ambiance, good drinks, and a fedora clad bouncer who always tells us how fabulous we look. Beat that…

Friday, April 15, 2005

affluence and nature...

Every time I housesit, I throw little dinner parties. It’s kinda like practice for when I have my own fabulous estate with an abundance of counter space and outdoor dining options. This past house sitting gig, we made dinner twice. The first time was with Zoe, Alex and New Chris sitting on the deck reading newspapers and discussing current affairs over wine and pasta. Then last night Big Chris, Alex, Amanda, Kelsey and Warren came over and we made a fabulous feast enjoyed in the dining room. Both were terribly fun times and I’m so sorry you weren’t there.
As is customary, we took loads of pictures, posted here for your enjoyment. The first one of Zoe is when she walked out onto the deck for the first time, glass of Chardonnay in hand, and proclaimed throughout the valley, “Ah, the perfect blend of affluence and nature!”
The second photo is from last night when we slid into the hot tub, exhausted and well fed, and soaked in the last few hours of big house bliss. Plus, it’s just plain adorable.
And the third photo represents what it’s like to have dinner with Big Chris. He actually tucked a (paper) napkin into his collar. You’re probably thinking we had ribs. Lobster, perhaps. Nope. Barbequed sausage and tortellini, a little salad and bread. What are ya so afraid of, Christopher Michael? Are you that unconfident in your lack of dining skills that you’d rather risk looking like an idiot than soiling your t-shirt clearly sold in packs of 3?
Irregardless, thanks for keeping me company in the big house, kids. Good times…

"ah, the perfect blend of nature and affluence"...zoe Posted by Hello

big pimpin' in the HT... Posted by Hello

it's not the middle finger i have a problem with, it's the bib... Posted by Hello

i find this all very taxing...

I hate tax day. I hate it because I waited till the last minute. I hate it because I had to drive to Stonestown to meet my tax guy. I hate it because when I got there, I found that I had “subconsciously” forgotten my checkbook.
I then drove myself back to my house, across town in the ghetto, grabbed my checkbook and some coffee, and then back to Marin for a 10am meeting, the entire drive spent listening to a myriad of talentless DJ’s speaking of, what else? Tax Day.
All of this serves to highly stress me out, reminding me that I’m appallingly poor, and what little money I do have will be used by Republicans to stop abortions and reinstitute school prayer. Perhaps they’ll take my money and expand border control or maybe they’ll use it to perpetuate a pointless war. If history is any indication, they’ll find a way to use my money to make Europeans hate us even more or approve plans for a strip mall atop some plot of flawless nature. If I’m lucky, my money will be used to cover up an oil spill or prosecute a Democratic adulterer. But in a sad twist, my money will not be used where it’s most needed: promoting our struggling economy by being spent at Neiman’s…

Thursday, April 14, 2005

maintenance problems...

My new addition to means that I get random e-mails from frightening gentleman located throughout this wonderful country of ours. Just now, I received an e-mail from a maintenance man at an amusement park who has listed as his heroes; “Bob from Maintenance, Cleetis from Maintenance, Strugis from Maintenance…” He’s also old, married, and has a handlebar moustache. His photo shows him uncomfortably sitting at a desk in the cluttered maintenance office and his “About Me” section discusses the various rides that frequently breakdown and drive him nuts.
He apparently came across my page for unknown reasons and was moved enough to send me the difficult to resist, “Hi.”
Is it standard to respond to this? What kind of frenzy would the return “Hi” send him into? Would we then move on to mono-syllabic sentences? Would free amusement park passes be involved? Would I have to wait in line to go on a roller coaster?
When meeting a married, moustached maintenance man off the internet, does one shake hands? Hug? High five?
A lot of questions arise with this new community and I don’t know the rules. I think I’ll just cut my losses and let this gem slip through the cracks. Oh, who am I kidding? I’m writing back right now…

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

why i love animals...

I take it back. I don’t hate animals. In fact, there’s only one animal I’ve ever really loved. And her name was Emma. Judy’s had Emma for ages. And I’ve taken care of Emma for ages. Emma has snuggled with me when no one else would, protected me when I was scared shitless, and listened to my problems when everyone else was tired of my whining. In fact, I’ve always maintained Emma is half human, having a deeper understanding of people than most shrinks.
Emma’s been sick. Apparently going through cancer with both Judy’s late husband AND Judy took its toll on poor Emma. She passed away on Sunday.
I’ve never cried over an animal before, not even my dead cat Toby, whom I put to sleep while attempting to calm my distraught father. But Emma? I am now overwhelmed with emotion, devastated for Judy and Pete, and indeed for me, who will never again have the unbridled devotion of the greatest animal ever to live…

why i hate animals...

I love house sitting. And conveniently enough, I know some people with pretty fabulous houses who just happen to travel constantly. Currently, I’m back in Mill Valley in what my brother calls, “The Big House.” It’s pretty substantial, with lots of hidden nooks and crannies: a hot tub here, a ping pong table there, and random bedroom I never knew existed…It’s great. In fact, Zoe, Alex, New Chris and I had a lovely little dinner on the deck, over looking Mt. Tam while we drank wine and ate amazing food.
But then of course, everyone leaves and here I am, alone in a big old creaky house, with a thousand possible points of entry, surrounded by spooky trees and shifty eyed day laborers. The very gorgeous and very mellow dog and cat do nothing but saunter and sleep, although they have a tendency to wander the house late at night, creating mysterious sounds and freaking me the fuck out. And the seemingly hundreds of random rooms with random closets do nothing but provide hiding space for serial killers and Satanists.
Last night, I sat in the den curled up on the couch, drinking Chardonnay and doing my nails while enjoying a West Wing marathon. The dog, Marilyn, had been asleep in the corner for ages and I’ve come to rely on the fact that she’s rarely far away. All of a sudden, I hear footsteps upstairs. Honest to God footsteps.
My heart races, I feel suddenly nauseous and reach for my cell. Oh god, my cell is upstairs, no doubtedly being ripped apart by drugged out gypsies or survivalist mountain hermits, come down to kidnap a spouse.
The footsteps continue. Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. I’m completely paralyzed on the couch at this point, hand in mid-manicure, West Wing on terrifying mute. Why even grab for the house phone, I’m so sure the wires have been cut.
The footsteps continue, wandering from room to room, across the kitchen, through the living room, around the foyer. I can almost see my attacker; ski mask, kitchen knife, needlessly uncomfortable twine, duct tape, various torture devices…Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
I put down my nail polish and crept off the couch. Tiptoeing down the hallway to the bottom of the stairs, I cautiously say, “Hello?”
Nothing. “Hello?”
Nothing. But something’s moving around up there. My heart is in my throat and I’m mentally preparing myself to fight to the death. I will not be taken alive, I will not subject my body to the sadistic whims of a smelly ex-con with mother issues, I will not wind up chained to a radiator in some dilapidated basement.
I have worked myself into such a frenzy at this point, I actually begin to cry. I’m 27 years old, I’ve had 2 glasses of Chardonnay, my nails aren’t even dry, and I’ll be found by my boss tomorrow when I don’t show up for work. Someone will have to break it to my family. Someone will have to plan my memorial service. Someone will have to produce my video montage.
Finally, it occurs to me. Where’s Marilyn? I sneak back to the den, assuming she’d been there the whole time, curled up beneath the fireplace as usual. She’s not. She’s not on my floor at all.
“Marilyn?” I yell. Nothing. “Marilyn!”
The footsteps start up again, and then move faster. They’re coming towards the stairs, and then they stop.
Down she comes, looking oblivious and unconcerned.
I could’ve laughed. I could’ve cried. Instead, I chose to release the most offensive and appalling expletives upon this poor creature, shocking even myself.
I fell asleep hours later, lulled into slumber by the reassurance that I was now emotionally prepared to handle anything. That, and the fact that I had a baseball bat, a cell phone, and hairspray which I planned to use as mace sitting at the ready on my bedside table…

Sunday, April 10, 2005

i never thought i'd say this, but mill valley's a dump... Posted by Hello
Recently, my father forwarded me an invitation he’d received from old family friends of ours. Apparently, this couple had recently purchased and renovated a huge mansion in Atherton and were selling it. For 10.9 million dollars. In the interest of creating buzz about this house, they’ve been throwing lavish parties there, entertaining anyone who might possibly be able to come up that kind of scratch. In addition, these very fancy friends of my folks are also Consul Generals of the Czech and Slovak Republic respectively. Thus, last night, they threw a fabulous party welcoming the Ambassador of the Slovak Republic on his first official state visit. The invitation said business attire or Military uniform. The invitation said to allow time for security detail. The invitation was fabulous. And I wanted to go.
Obviously, they only invited my parents, but we figured, fuck it. This was way too “Beth.” We came up with some long song and dance about why the 3 of us were down in the Peninsula on Saturday anyway, and turns out, no one really cared. I could’ve taken all of you. And you would have died.
We arrived amid official cars and women clad in pashminas, attempting to pick our jaws off the ground as we walked up the driveway. Greeted with champagne, we mingled with dignitaries and diplomats, and then began our tour. This mansion was the Decorator’s Showcase, each room designed by a different interior decorator. As we wandered aimlessly, room after room, floor after floor, my father leaned over.
“So Bethy. Do you like this?”
“Yes. Daddy. I like this.”
“You don’t think it’s a little much? A little over the top?”
“Uh. Yeah. It is. That’s why I like it. It’s so offensive, it’s fabulous.”
My father, teased by my mother an I the entire time about buying the place, will most likely end up spending a fortune anyway on all of the changes we decided have to be made to my parent’s place immediately. Each time our little server came around, magically finding my mother’s empty glass of Chardonnay, she’d say, “I have to have recessed lighting.” “We’re getting drapes for the living room.” “Oh, Beth. Look at these chairs for the TV room.”
At some point, we all congregated in the foyer and the Ambassador gave a charming little speech, mentioning that he was just at the White House last week, introducing his family to the President. He seemed pretty laid back and quite funny, taking swigs of wine after every sentence. This was my kind of ambassador.
Having seen the entire house, we rubbed elbows with the crowd, collecting piles of business cards from people who claim to be fixing me up with their billionaire sons or have really fabulous apartments in Prague they want us to stay in. At some point, I found myself standing next to the Ambassador who had just finished speaking with some dignitary sporting a huge medal on a ribbon around his neck. The Ambassador and I kinda looked at each other and smiled, so I introduced myself. Apparently, I curtseyed a little, which is entirely unnecessary, but it seemed appropriate, and I figured this was the only chance I’d get.
“So, tell me all the gossip on the President.”
The Ambassador then dove in to the most marvelous, charming story I’ve ever heard about his 8 year old son being terrified of meeting the Bushes.
“’Sam, don’t worry.’ I tell him. ‘You have four words to say and that is all. Good. Morning. Mister. President.’”
We chatted on and on, a huge smile plastered to my face. Suddenly, I feel a nudge behind me. My father wanted ME to introduce HIM to the ambassador. Oh, this was too good.
“Ambassador, may I present my father, Former Mayor Spotswood.”
I think my dad curtseyed a little too. The Ambassador chatted with us for ages, ignoring the line of far more important people to dish the First Family with me. I could see my mother out of the corner of my eye, pretending to talk to some foreign banker while getting a huge kick out of the fact that the Ambassador and I were fast friends. We finally excused ourselves, now suddenly popular for having charmed the guest of honor. Even our hosts wanted the scoop, shocked that I had gotten so much Presidential dirt out of a diplomat. I spent the rest of the evening inhaling the mini-Beef Wellington’s and sipping fabulous wine, schmoozing with a Palestinian who owns half of Burlingame.
“You want to buy this house?” he asked me.
“Oh, she does indeed.” screams my dad, throwing his arm around me. “In fact, Beth’s looking to buy a new place. We’ve been bidding on houses in the city.”
I smile, “Yeah. I’m looking for places about half as big as this foyer.”
“I find you place. You don’t worry, Beth. I find you nice, big place.”
The three of us eventually depart, my mother pausing in the driveway unable to stifle her laughter.
“Wait till we get to the car, mom.”
“You and the Ambassador. You and the Ambassador. Oh Beth. I can’t wait to read the blog about this one…”

um, katherine? can i borrow 11 million dollars... Posted by Hello

Saturday, April 09, 2005

jason goes on a date, part 4...

I’ll admit it. I’m happy for Charles and Camilla. Sure she’s horsy, hideous, and in-bred. Yep, he’s uptight, ugly, and a mama’s boy. But those two seem to make each other happy and god bless ‘em, it’s about time. I certainly hope that I don’t have to wait 30 years to marry the love of my life. But maybe I’m too picky. I mean, I would never wait 2 hours at the Bar of Le Colonial for some tweed encrusted Eva Braun with a visible thong to grace me with her non-controversial presence. I’m speaking, of course, of Jason.
Jason, it seems, will go out with anyone, under any circumstances, at least twice. He will even allow himself to be fixed up by ex-girlfriends (of which there are hundreds) which is what led him to sip water for 2 hours in the middle of MY fabulous bar recommendation. Eva Braun (I call her that because she has some long German name with 17 vowels in it) appeared 2 hours late. Apparently, she got caught up at work, then called to say she had to go home first and freshen up. Excuse me? I didn’t quite catch that. You’re already appallingly late, so you’re going to swing by home first and reapply mascara?
Thus, there he sat, bored out of his mind, bitching to me via the ever popular text message.
Beth: Why don’t you just reschedule?
Jason: I do not reschedule.
Beth: Oh. Pardon me. Well, I do not wait 2 hours for any man.
Jason: Touche. By the way, she better be hot.
Beth: She better put out!
Hours later, my phone rings. Apparently, she’s “too nice”, had the thong coming out of the back of the jeans, and was wearing last season’s blazer. As far as I’m concerned, none of that even matters. The girl was 120 minutes late! She could’ve had Downs Syndrome, she could’ve been a skinhead, she could’ve brought her illegitimate children with her. All of that- combined -would be better than making someone wait alone at a bar for 2 hours. I pity the man that tries to make me wait at Le Colonial for hours, watching the clock and feeling like an idiot. I’d politely stick around till he showed up, order the most expensive glass of wine imaginable, and casually throw it in his face. Then, I would thank him for a lovely evening, wink at the bartender, and sashay my stunning self out of there. Call me Camilla, but I’d rather wait 30 years for my prince than wait 2 hours for some schmuck, who, when he finally does show, isn’t that great AND has his underwear sticking out of clothes…

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

to dare but to dream...

i call this picture, "gavin getting a kick out of beth, who is apparently standing to his right..." Posted by Hello

she's cured!

There’s a lot of current events to discuss, but I think my new favorite topic is the fact that Janeal Lee, Ms. Wheelchair Wisconsin has been dethroned for standing up. First of all, she wasn’t even in a wheelchair. She was in a scooter. (Fabulous.) Second of all, apparently, she’d made it perfectly clear that she’s always been able to walk about 50 feet “on a good day.” (Again, fabulous.)
None the less, when Janeal showed up in the newspaper standing, the Ms. Wheelchair Wisconsin administration went nuts. This is a huge controversy, with even the runner up refusing to accept the crown. So it went to the second runner up, Kim Jerman, who gladly grabbed it and threw it on her head. Thank God she did, as only 5 people competed for the title.
Kim will get to compete in the Ms Wheelchair America contest, held this July 19-24 in Albany. Apparently, it takes 5 days to judge these gals. I’m just hoping Janeal shows up and finds a way to sabotage Kim, perhaps entangling her evening gown in the spokes of her wheelchair or greasing the runway so she slides right off, crashing into the crowd of wheelchair enthusiasts.
I think I smell screenplay…

get out of my space...

I have so much work in front of me, yet my new co-worker Kristin has me on a new website. Apparently, is the new Friendster and while slightly sad and pathetic, I am now fascinated by it. Most of my time on MySpace is spent hashing out my favorite films or detailing my “About Me” section, which I regard as highly embarrassing. The pressure to be clever makes writing a brilliant Evite response seem unchallenging. I simply have no idea what to say “About Me.” This has obviously never been a problem before. And then I find myself sitting at my desk working on the goddamn play program, and suddenly, I need to change a sentence in my “About Me” section because I’m somehow convinced it’s a complete misrepresentation of my essence.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

message sent...

In yet another one of my late night conversations with Ben last night, I applauded his marvelous texting ability, noting that I often re-read his “greatest hits” when I need a chuckle. He encouraged me to post them on the blog, as a means of sharing his talent with the world. Should you have the pleasure of meeting my dear friend, steal his phone and program your number into it. You’ll be delighted to find, days, weeks, months later, that all of a sudden, at 2am, your phone will glow with the wonderful words of Benji…
“Welcome to Trashedville. Population: Ben.”
I tend to use texting for more practical purposes, announcing my lateness or secretly gossiping from across the room. But Ben has elevated texting to a whole new poetic level. To Ben, the text message is an art form.
“Even more wonderous than being high on meth, nothing compares to the fantabulous Beth.”
After our chat, I actually dreamt about texting and in my dream, one could make a wish via text message and it would miraculously come true. People were going nuts with the texting, rarely looking up from their cell phones in which they’d pound wish after wish into the keyboard. This morning, I awoke recalling my dream and decided to test it…
“Flava Flav for Pope” “Bring Mitch back from the dead.” And the highly likely, “Beth Newsom. Make it happen.”…

Monday, April 04, 2005

rainy days and sundays always get me down...

Sunday evenings, Joe and I have taken to celebrating “Gay Day”, wherein we meet at 5pm at a local watering hole for cocktails and weekly bonding sessions. Last night, we began with mojitos at Lime, which was fine save for the DEAD ambiance. No one vaguely interesting was there, and I was all dressed up in experimental attire. In fact, having physically altered the majority of my clothing myself, I was convinced I’d arrive at Lime and Joe would immediately make me go home and change. However, as I nervously walked through the main door to the bar, Joe leapt from his seat and screamed, “Fabulous!”
Bored with Lime and feeling that said outfit was entirely wasted on the bored staff and clientele, we headed over to The Lion Pub, where I’m always delighted to go. I had to force Joe to agree to the Lion Pub, as he was desperate to dance and drink at the Bar on Castro. While my outfit would be decidedly NOT wasted there, I was more in the mood for the low lit, fireplace in the corner vibe of something less orgy-based. Lion Pub, here we come.
I went inside as Joe ran across the street to get cigarettes. To my dismay, not one soul was enjoying a libation in the LP. Not one. Joe would be horrified and have none of this, so I immediately cut him off at the pass. We then agreed on infused booze at Madrone.
Madrone is perfectly acceptable, specializing in an array of flavor infused vodkas and trendy art. Joe and I braved the rain, slipping and sliding into the dark bar ready to be admired by the masses. Alas, as Joe put it, “It’s just us and the gays out today. Just us and the gays…”
Much like the Pope, Madrone was dead. With a couple of excess DJs and bartenders in attendance, Joe and I were crestfallen. We sipped our cucumber and pomegranate cocktails, wasted our gorgeousness on only each other, and collapsed into a couch. “Well, my love.” Joe sadly said. “We’ll always have Sundays…”

Saturday, April 02, 2005

how spots got excommunicated...

Will the Pope just fucking die already? Jesus!
I’m sick of hearing about how close to death he is, how any minute he’s flying right up to heaven, how they’re going to make him a saint the second he dies. Forget that. You don’t just get to be a saint because a bunch of right wing extremists think it‘s time for a new saint. I’ve got over a decade of Catholic school under my belt, and I’m pretty sure you need 3 tried and true miracles to even be considered for sainthood. I’m talking moving rivers and turning water into beer. (St. Brigid- look it up.) What’s the Pope ever done? As far as I’m concerned, he’s right up there with the lady that found the image of the Blessed Mother on a tortilla.
In the interest of having accurate data on my blog bitching about the Pope and sainthood, I searched around the internet and through the little books people gave me for my First Communion. Did you know that St. Christopher never existed. He’s fictitious. I mean, he’s a big saint to us Catholics. He’s got his own medal and everything. St. Christopher is the patron saint of bachelors, so the fact that he never actually existed explains a lot. St. Christopher is also the patron saint of truck drivers and travel safety. Hmmm. Worrisome. St. James is the patron saint of arthritis and St. Fiacre is the patron saint of cab drivers. Who decided that one?
“Um, your holiness? The cab drivers want a patron saint.”
“Cab drivers? Fuck. Well, give ‘em Fiacre.”
St. Hubert is the patron saint of dog bites and St. Sebastian is the patron saint of gay people. That makes sense as St. Sebastian is one of my favorite saints. He’s really easy to recognize in artwork because he’s always depicted dying by bow and arrow. And now that I think about it, he’s always depicted kinda fem.
In a sad twist, St. Dymphna is the patron saint of both incest and family harmony. Think about that one. Appropriately, she‘s also the patron saint of insanity. St. Martin de Porres is the patron saint of race relations, whatever that means, and St. Joseph is the patron saint of real estate agents.
In my search of holy internet facts, I’ve come across my new favorite website, Sadly, it’s too late for me to join, but oh how I wish I could. They have t-shirts and “promise cards”, on which one actually signs a contract with God promising to save one’s self till what we can only assume is the inevitable heterosexual marriage.
You know that part of the date where you eventually go through each other’s wallets? What would you do if you found a promise card in there, signed and dated. Well, I think I know what I would do.
“Hey. Nice Pure Love card. Speaking of which, when do you think the pontiff’s going to pull the old Terri Schiavo?”
Date over…

Friday, April 01, 2005

hail to the chief...

My darling and well connected roommate took me to a private party at Tosca last night. Apparently, 2 people she works with were leaving their jobs and their boss, THE grande dame of San Francisco society, threw them a going away shindig to rival any party I’ve ever been to. It was fabulous, packed with gorgeous people and San Francisco’s elite. As Zoe and I sat at the bar with our new friend, Debra the publicist, through the doors come the Green Street Mortuary band, with horns and drums and everything. It was amazing and quite impressive. Zoe knew anyone who was anyone, from the head of City Hall’s security to supervisors and national political icons. (think former Secretary of States and the like…)
In an attempt to wrangle a bartender over to our section, Zoe winks at one of them, who promptly runs over to us and refills our glasses.
“You keep winking at me like that, you can have all the Chardonnay in town.”
Zoe and I are delighted and shocked, as we now (and by we, I mean Zoe) have the undivided attention of the bartender for the remainder of the evening. He’d constantly refill her glass, and Zoe would have to lean over, re-wink and say, “Uh, could my friend get another vodka tonic, lots of lime?”
We mingle and schmooze, rubbing elbows with people I’ve only read about. The only downside was that my future spouse was apparently otherwise engaged, probably still at work toiling over hobos and litter.
As we left Tosca, delighted with our evening, Zoe grabs the bartender’s hand and says goodbye.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Zoe.”
“Well, I’m Chief. (I swear to God.) I really hope to see you again.”
I bet!
Chief? Are you kidding me? His name is Chief.
The next time you’re at Tosca, drop Zoe’s name. You’ll be well taken care of…