Thursday, June 30, 2005

perhaps i should start using spell check...

I think it’s interesting that in my last post, I mentioned how I found it bizarre that strangers read my blog. Get a load of this…
My dear friend invited me to an event at “Bob’s” Comedy Club last night, promising free comedy, free food and free booze. I could even bring a guest. Uh, okay. Idiots that they are, Amanda, Joe, Kate, Andy and Big Chris were all busy. So I took Alex. As we walked in, we realized our amazing luck. Fancy bottles of wine sat on every table, the entire bar and menu were at our disposal, and we were greeting like kings by relative strangers. It was so initially delightful, even Alex leaned over and said, “Thank you so much for brining me.”
Seriously. Even I was impressed.
If you’ll remember, some months back, I saw an amazing comic named Jacob Sirof whom I mentioned on the blog. Turns out, my good friend and comedy guru, Ben, is good friends with this Jacob character. Ben told Jacob of my devotion and forwarded him my blog. As I sipped my wine in “Bob’s” last night, I noticed Jacob in the back of the bar. I had to go up and say hello. Having never met him and being slightly in awe of his amazing talent, I tentatively went up and said, “Hi. Are you Jacob?”
Without missing a beat, he said, “Beth?”
I shit you not.
“I‘m so glad to meet you! You’re friends with Ben. I read your blog.”
The show started and the host introduced the first comic. It was Arthur, Matt’s friend from the Robin Williams night. We actually know him! Alex and I suddenly leapt up. “Holy shit. That’s Arthur!”
Arthur killed. Then Jacob killed. Then we saw some other people, but I don’t know them and only one is worth mentioning- Brent Weintrsomething. After the show, we ran into Jacob and I introduced Alex. On and on he went, how he totally read the blog and is so happy I like his amazing and genius comedy. As we walked away, Alex was like, “Dude. He reads the blog.”
We then spot Arthur.
“Holy shit. It’s Beth and Alex. What’s up. Did I make the blog?”
What is going on???
I write this for Zoe, Bonnie, Jason and Uncle Ted.
I can’t believe you freaks read this nonsense. This is awesome…

Also, check out Jacob Sirof and Arthur Gaus. You'll laugh. I promise....

Wednesday, June 29, 2005


Margot just got an e-mail from a local theater owner, chatting about work stuff. She then quite cleverly mentioned that she had stumbled upon my blog, only to discover a post from months and months ago noting that Alex, Kristin and I got the old five finger discount on some unmanned beer during a performance. Her tone was light, but none the less, I flipped.
How did she find my blog!!!
And who else has???
I assume that those that read this are my nearest and dearest, perhaps an occasional blogger who stumbles upon it. Even my folks check in to see what's up. I don't have much to hide, even on here. But local people I actually encounter professionally? Fuck! What’s worse, I’ve always relied on the fact that my coworkers read my blog very rarely, and only when I forward them something. Kristin and Margot dove in, wildly reading all afternoon, occasionally aloud to one another.
“I didn’t realize how much you wrote about us, Bethy! Jesus H. Christ.”
I talk about the stupid blog all the time. They’ve seen me writing it. For crying out loud, I forward it to them with relative frequency. But NOW they’re interested. Suddenly, it’s the greatest thing Margot’s encountered. She’s planning my book tour.
I’m planning on making this much, much more anonymous…

don't leave me this way...

My fellow blogger, Laura, recently posted news of Gavin Newsom getting back together with his half woman/half horse estranged wife. Apparently, they were spotted dining with several local social butterflies, including my former employer! Gavin was overheard introducing it as “my wife.”
I know. I know. I’m really upset too.
I would rather Gavin get highlights and announce that he’s gay than remarry that freak. I would rather Gavin wear elastic waist khakis and Member’s Only jackets. I would rather Gavin turned Republican and denounce art. I would rather Gavin be caught with European child porn. Anything, and I mean anything, is better than his reunion with Kimberly, the visually and verbally offensive creature from the cheap lagoon...

thank fucking god...

It's fixed. It's fixed. My blog is fixed!
I'll celebrate by redecorating. It's time for a change, anyway.
New name. New look.
Huzzah for some guy named Biz Sone at blogger. I stalked him down and he actually fixed it!
So I proposed...

Friday, June 24, 2005

miss andy's so old...

You haven’t lived until you’ve put on choir robes and afro wigs wildly danced around the apartment lip syncing gospel music. You haven’t lived until you’ve driven around San Francisco on Valentine’s Day, screaming “Whore!” at women proudly carrying their roses. You haven’t lived until you’ve spent a weekend at a beach house in Sea Ranch, wrapped in huge blankets dancing on the deck chairs to the sounds of sea lions on the beach rocks below.
You haven’t lived until you’ve been best friends with Andy Jay Jolley. You simply haven’t lived…

happy birthday, randy johnson...

oh girl, happy birthday... Posted by Hello

a little fashion advice...

Wednesday, June 22, 2005


We’re all smart people. We know that when you live in close proximity to someone, occasionally you’ll get each other’s mail. Especially when one’s address is 916 and the other is 916A. Smart people simple shuffle through their mail, and drop the occasional rogue letter in the other’s mailbox, a mere 2” away (I measured) and go on with their hopefully full lives. Common sense dictates that this small inconvenience is simply a part of sharing a building and while mildly annoying at best, it’s not a big deal.
So you can imagine my frustration, when upon retrieving my mail today I found an envelope addressed to me at 916 and not 916A. The 916 was circled IN RED and an arrow pointing away from it read, “We are still getting your mail.”
These are the people, who when they moved in, alerted us to the fact that we needed to keep it down at night because “Julian is a stockbroker. Julian keeps East Coast hours.”
Oh really?
Well, Julian is a pretentious British snob with an affected accent and we now keep Hawaiian hours. What do you think of that? Or how about, Julian does his laundry at 6am, rattling the windows and shaking the walls. Why not, Julian and Sabrina have gross and loud sex when they’re not having gross and loud arguments, involving throwing things and stomping on the floor to make some sort of intellectual fancy pants point. Perhaps, Julian waters the garden he never uses whilst (that one’s for you, Julian) wearing an appalling bright tank top and elastic waist shorts.

And here I am, owner of 916A, writing a letter to renters of 916, which reads:

Hello upstairs! I received your note written ON my mail alerting me to the fact that a few businesses have my address as 916 and not 916A. I’ve alerted both the businesses and the post office to this fact and apologize for any inconvenience. Having lived here for the past four years, I’ve found that I occasionally get your mail and you occasionally get mine. I’ve discovered that the easiest course of action is to simply drop your mail in your mailbox and so appreciate your doing the same for me. I get that’s its a tad tiresome and a bit annoying, but I’m afraid that’s simply part of splitting a building. Should you ever need a package signed for, a cup of sugar or a roll of toilet paper, I’d be delighted to be neighborly. I’d appreciate the same in return. Thanks! Beth…

first pet and the street you grew up on...

Kudos to Andy for securing his dream job in the gay porn industry. In an exciting career twist, Andy must come up with a faux name for his mention in the porn credits. Now, while dear Andy does not act in said adult films, he is responsible for verifying the age of the actors, filling out insurance forms and alphabetizing the huge catalog of films, among other things, he does indeed get listed in the credits. Apparently, it’s standard practice for everyone involved in the film to have fake names, not just the stars.
He refused to go by the old standby of selecting your first pet’s name and adding the street you grew up on, making me Toby Magee. He wanted something catchy. After hemming and hawing, calling me at all hours with new considerations and a variety of options, he has finally settled on Randy Johnson.
This cracks him up to no end…

Monday, June 20, 2005

and i thought i was high maintenance...

You never know who you’ll meet at a party. Kristin’s roommate Jack, a 40 something bachelor with too much money and not enough self esteem, throws a huge house party every summer. After seeing their massive, sprawling Mill Valley pad, I readily agreed to co-organize this year’s shindig. Jack gave us a budget to hire caterers and bartenders, to rent chairs and heaters, and to find a DJ. We were told to invite anyone we wanted, and promised to set up and clean up accordingly. I then promptly got caught up in work and didn’t really organize that much. Ah well.
So Saturday afternoon, I throw on some outfit and head over to Jack and Kristin’s, bringing no friends and fully aware I wouldn’t know a soul. Arriving late and pissing off Jack, I immediately befriended Gintau, Kristin’s hilarious and flaming gay friend from the city. Gintau and I were fast friends, of course, and proceeded to stand around making up names for the bizarre array of characters filling the backyard. “Oh, that’s a Gordon. Yeah, definitely a Gordon.” “Oh my god, she’s Briana. I know it!” And then, “He is Troy. I’m telling you guys. That’s guy is Troy.”
Troy (real name Doug, but who cares) is a late 30’s cross between Harry Hamlin and a younger George Hamilton. Clad in flip flops, distressed jeans and a brown, suede shirt, Troy took painstaking measures to maintain his overdone tan, his perfectly styled chest hair and his flawless little tuft of head hair which fell in a very precise fashion upon his forehead. Troy spent a good two hours trying to look like he didn’t care. Immediately, we became fascinated with Troy.
Following him around the party with brazen obviousness, Gin and I would eavesdrop on Troy’s conversations with women. Troy really made the rounds, charming each desperate suburban singleton with his appalling tan and his chest hair, re-telling the same obnoxious joke to each of them, moving in for the craned neck whisper at the exact same moment every single fucking time. Then, with a callousness we couldn’t understand, he’d depart just as rapidly as he’d swooped in, moving on to another chick, in another section of the party. Same joke, same whisper, same moves…over and over.
And we were 2 steps away, every single time. We even tried to capture him on film, but Troy proved elusive to the camera, and we soon found out why. Jack, now drunk and no longer pissed that I didn’t help organize the party and showed late, came over and hugged me, screaming a loud and unnecessary, “I love you, Beth!”
I took the opportunity to inquire about Troy.
In a twist none of us should find shocking, Troy is married.
Needing no further information, Gin and I rushed out onto the deck to find Troy and gaze upon him with new eyes, expecting to see him naked in the hot tub or pretending to enjoy the half hearted volleyball game. But he was gone, having disappeared into the mist with any one of the gals so desperate to entwine themselves in his mane of styled chest hair.
Gin and I attempted to enjoy the party without the glorious entertainment of Troy, married lady killer, but it just wasn’t the same. We sipped our mojitos and chatted with the locals. I found myself engrossed in a conversation with the DJ, thrilled to tell me about his friend who moonwalked from Detroit to Denver to raise awareness about alternative energy. I met a girl, one of the thousands so casually rejected by Troy, who’s parents somehow know my parents. As she chatted on and on about some cocktail party from 1992, I could see that underneath her faux enthusiasm, she was devastated to be one of the many thrown aside by Troy, possessor of more toiletries than all of us combined. I considered telling her to count herself lucky, but part of me almost applauds Troy’s blatant sleaziness.
Finally, I took myself home, after exchanging hugs with my new best friends and attempting to guiltily clean Jack’s bathroom. At 6am the following morning, I awoke for work, sluggishly dressed, and swung by Peet’s Coffee on my way up the mountain. Peet’s in Mill Valley is the weekend hot spot for the 30-something early morning crowd, those that are too sporty to drive themselves downtown in their clean air vehicles and choose instead to ride designer mountain bikes or drop by before yoga. I pushed my way past cashmere sweat suits to grab my latte and low fat muffin. As I walked back outside, I almost dropped my breakfast upon the pristine sidewalk. Who should be sitting under a tree across the street, legs crossed in their typical artsy Euro-man fashion?
He and “the woman who apparently made the cut” were having the uncomfortable morning after cup of coffee. Same outfit, same chest hair, same sleazy joke. I couldn’t believe it.
Troy spied me across the street, obviously recognizing me from somewhere, but too tired, too hung over, too engrossed in making sure his bangs maintained their twirl to put two and two together.
I stifled my immense laughter and with a new spring in my step, hopped in my car. For a second, one brief moment, I considered running up to them and screaming, “Troy. I thought you were going to call!”
And then he’d look up at me, squint through his tan and his hair and his suede slutty shirt and say, “Who the fuck is Troy?”

Friday, June 17, 2005

what's Oprah think?

I realize that I’ve written about Tom Cruise being nuts before. Apparently, it was only the tip of the iceberg. It seems, Tom Cruise proposed to Katie Holmes THIS MORNING atop the Eiffel Tower. Then, they held a press conference and announced it. Dakota Fanning was on hand to congratulate them.
Is it just me, or is this fucking insane?
Also, Katie is converting to Scientology which, I believe, is a religion based on dinosaurs. I wonder how my mother would react if I got engaged to a major celebrity who I’ve been dating for 2 months, announced it to her and the world via Parisian press conference and simultaneously left Catholicism for a faith founded upon a paperback. Sadly, I think her only problem would be whether to have the invitations engraved or embossed…

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

exasperated sigh...

As I returned home from the play last weekend, I stopped at Whole Foods to pick up something for dinner. Exhausted, dirty and in no mood, I was of course trapped in line behind the woman who needed $100 cash back and the cashier who found this incredibly complicated. The cashier, entirely flustered and highly incompetent, ran around the store madly in some incomprehensible attempt to procure 5 $20 bills. I simply stood there, loudly exhaling and wondering if Whole Foods was a grocery store or a fucking bank. I became even angrier that the $100 cash back lady refused to make eye contact with me, shrugging no shoulders or offering no rolling of the eyes in annoyed solidarity. Hours later, the transaction was finally completed. But my god.
Today, Kristin and I decided to head to Whole Foods for lunch and I was delighted to discover that the appallingly expensive water I’m obsessed with (Penta Water…mmmmm) was on sale. A case was selling for a mere $29.99. This is a huge bargain, as it’s normally $45. So I make my little salad, grab my little falafel sandwich, and hoist a case of water up to the cashier stand. The water rings up for $45. Shit.
I have now become $100 cash back lady, as my cashier wildly runs around the store in an attempt to verify my insistence of sale. The line of people behind me, in the express lane at that, begin loudly exhaling and wondering what’s so fucking great about $30 water. I debated apologizing to my line but, like it always does, karma has arrived to bite me in the ass, and I chicken out. I now know exactly how the $100 cash back lady felt, simply needing to complete some stupid errand and finding herself the unwitting victim of an angry mob.
As I stood there, avoiding eye contact and wishing myself invisible, I wondered if $100 cash back lady had been annoyed by something similar immediately prior to her holding up me and my line last weekend. I wondered if somehow this is a perpetual cycle of inconvenience and if the woman who was currently so painfully breathing down my neck would soon find herself trying to buy some porchini mushrooms and hold up the line because the cashier just can’t find the code to ring them up. I wonder if when that happens, she’ll stand there, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the line, and she’ll think of me and my Penta water.
My cashier finally returned, rang up my salad, falafel sandwich and $29.99 water, and I was on my way. The sandwich sucked, but that water...well, that water was well worth it…

boom goes the dynamite...

My brother sent me this, and I've attempted to actually link to it. Just clink on the title. This, sadly, is the only way the four gals in the office will watch sports coverage. Poor fella...

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

secret hiding spot...

Early this morning, I stopped at the extremely ghetto gas station near my house to fill my desperately empty gas tank. This gas station possesses a dilapidated, dusty and disgusting convenience store, packed with a collection of hot dogs from the Nixon Administration and locals admiring them.
As someone had inserted chewing gum into the pay station at the actual pump, I was forced to go inside the dreaded convenience store, wading through a sea of people simply standing there, chatting away or reading Mexican porn. As I waited in the appallingly long line, avoiding eye contact and trying not to touch anything, the man in line directly in front of me crouched down on the ground and began rolling up his pant leg.
From within his left sock, he pulled a roll of one dollar bills, carefully counted out three of them, and returned the remaining cash to its secure spot deep inside his “wallet.” Unable to stop myself, I was caught staring.
“I see you found my secret hiding spot.”
Nervous laughter.
“Don’t you tell nobody, now.”
With my friend now at the register, I watched him spend those three dollars on a taquito and a Big Gulp of hot chocolate. The time was 8:07am.

The next time you’re given change at a ghetto gas station, know that the bills you are holding could very well have come from someone’s “secret hiding spot”…

Friday, June 10, 2005

barely functioning...

I can’t write a good blog today. I tried, but I just can’t. I’m too tired and spent and decidedly uncoordinated. I have tons to complain about, I’ve certainly seem some wacky shit go down, and I’m rarely at a loss for something to say. But maneuvering my fingers to accurately type these few sentences has frustrated me to no end.

Today is one of those horrible days when I can’t seem to stop hitting the Caps Lock button. I keep unintentionally unplugging my computer. I’ve spilled the same file folder 8 times. I put my car in reverse when I meant to put it in drive. I’m wearing a flowy skirt that is constantly caught in the wheels of my chair. And I just knocked over my Snapple.

If you could find some way of rescuing me, distracting me so I’m not a danger to myself or others or simply bring me a Sugar Free Frappuchino, I might just make it…

Thursday, June 09, 2005

i'm single, let's mingle...

Several of us attended Margot and Marc’s baby shower last weekend. Margot was quite excited to introduce me to a frightening collection of single men she knows. At one point, I found myself in a rather heated discussion with one of them over the films of Wes Anderson, which he knew absolutely nothing about. I casually informed Margot that these single men she was so excited about setting me up with were single for a very good reason and I would rather die cold and alone, a spinster with a million cats, than share a cocktail much less a lifetime with any of her freakish friends. The above photo captures her response…
margot's a little whoremonal... Posted by Hello

guess who's coming to dinner...

so, my parent's had this dinner party, and i invited big chris... Posted by Hello

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

back that shit up...

There are very few things I am an expert at. But one of them is parallel parking. I require absolutely no help when parking and quite frankly, resent it. Trust me. I’m a better parker than you.
Which is why it is highly frustrating to me when I park in my neighborhood and dozens of elderly Mexican men emerge from their homes to somehow assist me in this simple act. Every single time I maneuver Rhonda the Honda into a parallel spot, I’ve got 3 or 4 guys who’ve taken this opportunity to remove themselves from their spot on the doorstep, put down their Coronas and with dramatic hand signals, attempt to guide me safely into this spot.
I might be a woman. I might wear skirts and hold purses and posses a uterus. But I don’t need the help of an entire Mariachi band to park my fucking car. I’ve got this one covered fellas…

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

magic milk...

Because I couldn’t find a radio station playing any music this morning, I listened to the news. It seems, everyone’s talking about medical marijuana, and while I don’t talk politics on the blog, I’ve got a good government weed story.
I used to live with a wonderful man named Pip who is HIV positive. Pip, residing in the city and county of San Francisco, enjoyed prescriptions for a variety of marijuana infused items. One evening, Andy came over, the three of us popped in some old movies, made some snacks, sat on the floor of our living room and sampled Pip’s array. Here’s what I can report:
Pip pulled out these little plastic bottles of milk. “Milk?” we screamed, shocked and surprised not to see cookies or brownies.
“Girls, you just wait. It doesn’t even taste like milk. I call it my magic milk.”
“Magic milk!” yelled Andy, grabbing for the plastic bottle. “Bitch, pass me that shit.”
Andy took a chug of the milk and instantly gagged. Not wanting to waste good drugs, he choked it down. But I could tell from the look on his face, it wasn’t pleasant.
“Pip, you ass. That was fucking foul.” Said Andy, wiping away tears as he took another sip.
“You just wait 2 minutes, girl. Pass my milk to Miss Beth.”
“Oh no.” I cringed. “I don’t think I want any of your magic milk.”
Pip rolled his eyes. “Oh relax. It’s not that bad. It’ll be worth it, honey. I just love my magic milk, and you know I’m a picky old queen.”
Andy, one of the more experienced stoners alive, suddenly piped up. “Uh, I think it’s starting to work.”
I looked at Andy. He appeared fine. I mean, he certainly wasn’t clutching his stomach in agony, writhing on the ground or foaming at the mouth. He was giggling and laughing, offering me that tiny plastic container of “milk” with a very official looking prescription stuck to it. I took a tiny sip. You know what? It tastes like Milk of Magnesia. I took another sip. It really wasn’t so bad.
Thirty minutes later, we were clad in wigs and feather boas, in full Kabuki make-up and drag queen shoes. As we swung from the chandeliers and slid along the linoleum, it occurred to me that I was feeling the effects of highly controversial medicinal marijuana products for AIDS patients. And it was awesome…

Monday, June 06, 2005

happy birthday, zoe...

As has become tradition, all of those near and dear to me get a blog on their birthday. Zoe, this one’s going out to you…
2 years ago, my dear friend Judy was far too swamped to during the holidays to select, shop, wrap and distribute her annual barrage of Christmas gifts and employed Zoe and I to do it for her. “You mean she wants us to be professional shoppers, throwing around cash and picking out fabulous presents for strangers. Fuck yes, I’ll do it.”
We really went to town, purchasing all of San Francisco, fantastically wrapping it all, and then sending it all over the country. It was so much fun, we refused to accept any money from dear Judy. “Fine.” She said. “I’ll just send you two to my favorite spa.”
She then promptly booked us a room in Calistoga, we borrowed my mom’s convertible, and headed up to the wine country for a girl’s weekend. Feeling too fabulous for words, we stopped at Dean and DeLuca on the way up and purchased wine and fancy cheese and things. We pulled up to the spa with our mouths open, in awe of how perfect and pristine it all was. Snapping photos like mad, we dropped our bags, lit a fire, opened the wine and burst into hysterics. Toasting Judy, we had facials and pedicures, and then got dressed and went to dinner. Judy, of course, had included a gift certificate to her favorite restaurant and we took the opportunity to get ridiculously overdressed and pretend we were famous.
At the restaurant, in between flirting with waiter and sipping wine, we noticed 2 lesbians sitting rather near us and being amazingly loud. Zoe leaned in, “They’re in the room next to us. I bet they think we’re lesbians, too.”
Ooooh. That makes us much more interesting.
We promptly forgot about them and stumbled back to the hotel close to midnight. The huge pool, filled with 100 degree water from Calistoga Springs is open 24 hours a day and we decided it would be a good idea to throw on bathing suits and swim in the middle of the night. After all, we figured we’d have the whole pool to ourselves.
Indeed we did, and at 1am, Zoe and I dove into the steaming water and floated around endlessly, laughing and telling secrets and having an absolutely marvelous and non-controversial time.
All of a sudden, we’re no longer alone. It’s the lesbians!
And the lesbians felt chatty.
Practically naked, they slid into the pool with us, and in between wildly making out and doing god knows what underwater, they reminded us that they were staying right next door, peppered us with questions and dropped sexual innuendo. Zoe and I shot each other looks across the pool as we patiently explained that we were simply friends, spending a weekend at a spa and implied that we were certainly not the kind of girls who would be having a foursome with 2 hair-covered middle-aged lesbians.
As we left the pool, the more aggressive of the two screamed at us, “I hope we don’t keep you guys awake tonight. Those are pretty thin walls!”
Oh my god.
In fact, we heard not a peep and slept beautifully through the night, awaking to croissants and lattes and a lovely drive home. As we threw our bags in the car, the lesbians packed up as well. To our great horror, they actually came over to hug us goodbye, offering a phone number scribbled on a room service menu. As we drove past vineyards and wineries, listening to the Spice Girls and recounting our night, we took that number and offered it up to the gods, letting it fly out the window to be found by ladies less inhibited than the likes of us….

Friday, June 03, 2005

stamp me!

On most mornings, I stop by the ghetto ass gas station for really, really bad coffee, because I refuse to wait in line at Starbucks. I’m drinking for the caffeine anyway, and after the first few sips, it’s not that bad.
The same staff of 3 work at “Java Mart” and every morning, they nervously ask me if I’m going to work (obviously), how my morning is (better after you give me my fucking coffee) and remind me to get my coffee card stamped.
The coffee card is a little piece of paper which one gets stamped every time they buy a cup of coffee. After you buy 8, you get your 9th cup free, or something along those lines. This morning, without being reminded, I pull out my little coffee card and hand it to Lodovico, who takes it, squints his eyes and shiftilly looks around, and then double stamps my card, raising his eyebrows at me as he hands it back.
Clearly pleased with his ability to hook me up, Lodovico beams with pride as he attempts to draw my attention to the fact that I’m now that much closer to that free cup of coffee. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that throwing extra coffee stamps around is nothing. My good friend Big Chris gets to announce the arrival of the Roach Coach over a loudspeaker. That’s a tad more impressive…

In related news, Alex came over the other morning and was made to run down to Atlas CafĂ© and get coffee. As he walked back holding 2 lattes, a homeless man stopped him and said, “Hey. Can I have a sip?”

Thursday, June 02, 2005

new meaning to the term, flaming...

A few months ago, I spent an afternoon hanging out on Andy’s roof, laying in the sun all day and gossiping about gay things. I finally dragged my burnt ass home and starving, found an old leftover quesadilla. Not wanting the quesadilla soggy and microwaved, I threw it on the stove and then promptly forgot about it. Covered in suntan oil and urban smog residue, I decided to take a shower.
I emerged from the shower, delightfully clean and oblivious when I suddenly noticed smoke. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.
With that, my fire alarm proceeded to begin screaming. I threw the flaming pan of quesadilla in the sink, turned the water on, and clad in nothing but a towel, began wildly fanning smoke around the house with a Vanity Fair.
It is at this point that Bonnie calls.
“Oh my god! What’s going ?”
“Oh nothing. I’m a huge idiot and I left something on the stove and now the house is filled with smoke and I can’t get this stupid fire alarm to shut up.”
“Well, it’s nice to know our big fancy alarm system works. I hope it won’t call the fire department.”
“Oh, relax.” I said, trying to downplay my huge mistake which almost destroyed our home. “I’ve got it under control.”
Because at this point, I was able to make the fire alarm stop periodically, although it would inevitably start up again. I just needed to fan this fucking smoke out of the damn house. Suddenly, I heard sirens in the distance.
“Uh, Bonnie. I hope those aren’t for me.”
“What? Those sirens?”
“Yeah. They sound far away, though.”
“I know. There’s always sirens going off in our ghetto ass neighborhood.”
With that, 4 fire trucks pull up in front of my house.
“Oh shit. I’ve got to go.”
“Call me ba…”
Huge manly knocks pound on my door as I wrap my towel as tight as possible and open the door to an entire fucking ladder company. They stomped into the house, clad in the complete fireman ensemble, rolling their eyes at me as I showed them the burnt quesadilla sitting in the sink, water still falling from my hair onto the smoking pan.
The gorgeous firemen could not have seemed more annoyed and quite frankly, I don’t blame them. After a stern lecture and diverted eyes, they shuffled back out, past the crowd of neighbors who had formed outside. Four fire trucks slowly pulled away as I bowed my head, closed my door and debated whether to laugh or cry…

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

awesome responsibility...

I missed a call from Big Chris last night and I thus called him on my way to work this morning to find out what was up. Big Chris, it seems, is unable to actually leave a voicemail and as much as I remind him that a missed call does not a message make, he refuses.
It seems he had a spare ticket to some concert and after exhausting all of his options, decided to call me. While touched, I remarked that I was pissed I was last on his list. “Well, it’s not the kind of concert you take a girl to. And since my guy friends were all busy, I called you. I regard you as walking the line between chick and buddy.”
I wiped a tear from my eye as Chris put me on hold. I could hear him on another phone in his office, and then I heard him make an announcement over the inter-office loudspeaker. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Roach Coach is here! I repeat, the Roach Coach is here.”
He then casually picked up his cell and resumed chatting with me, as if nothing wonderful had occurred.
“Oh my god, Chris. It’s your job to announce to your entire company that the Roach Coach has arrived? That’s beautiful.”
“Yeah, they won’t start working till the Roach Coach shows.”
What an awesome responsibility, though, to alert the workers that breakfast burritos are minutes away, decade old muffins sit right at the curbside and doughnuts already touched by thousands sit in pink boxes, ready to be man-handled again…

poor jeff garcia...

Have you seen is the 49ers training video that’s apparently appearing on the internet? It seems that the 49er’s publicist made a tremendously racist and sexist video in the hopes of giving the team some diversity training in terms of dealing with the press. People are shocked and dismayed, up in arms over the fact that some frat boy public relations flunkie resorted to adolescent hijinks as a means on entertaining the team while attempting to make them more understanding towards minorities and women. I am neither shocked nor dismayed.
After seeing what are apparently the most offensive clips from the video, I’ll point out that the video merely mocks the fact that diversity training even exists, rolling its eyes at the notion that steroid packed goons who don specific colors while rolling around on grass are capable of sensitivity. These guys don’t care nor are they paid to, and I maintain that these players could find dirty jokes and raunchy racial humor in a Nora Ephron film. They live in locker rooms. What do you expect?
What I found most offensive, more so than the stereotypical bucktoothed Asian stumbling over words or the naked 18 year old girls obliviously standing around applying make-up, which I will point out, was completely ripped off from Revenge of the Nerds, was that this video wasn’t even funny. It was stupid.
I know lots of sporty boys who delight in offensive humor. And they can be pretty fucking hilarious. One would think, or at least hope, that if a major national sports organization was to produce a highly offensive mockumentary training video with the intention of entertaining a football team in between strip clubs and steroids, that they could come up with something slightly amusing…