Friday, December 30, 2005

rock is my life...

It’s always when you have the most mundane plans that the craziest shit goes down. Ben Number One is in town and so worn out with his own family, has chosen to move in with mine for a few days. Thus, after work I picked up the boys and headed over the mountain to my favorite place on earth, The Pelican Inn. We got there around 6, joined at 7:30 by my folks who bought us drinks, played some darts and then announced we were heading to the dining room for dinner. Fabulous. Dinner was spectacular and like all great dinners, went on for hours. As we left, my mother inquired, “You guys aren’t going out, are you?”
After much hemming and hawing, I joined the boys at The Sweetwater, which we were alarmed to find packed with the middle aged and poorly dressed dancing awkwardly to the blues band. As we sat, sipping beer and laughing at the dancers, I suddenly looked over at Ben. “Hey, Benji. This band, it’s…”
“”Fucking awesome?”
“I know. I can’t believe how much this band rocks.”
I mean it, folks. Johnny Smith and Friends (performing tonight and all next week at the Beach Chalet) are seriously incredible. They’ve got kind of a Commitments vibe, but are slightly Blues-ier. As I sat at the bar wishing everyone I know could hear Johnny Smith and his ponytail rock the mike, I was approached by an elderly man in a Raiders jacket and baseball hat with what appeared to be a catheter attached to a satchel slung around his shoulder.
“I make guitars out of toilet seats.”
“Excuse me.”
“I make guitars out of toilet seats. I’m famous. I was on German television. But my lady, she don’t want me to get crazy no more.”
Alex and Ben eyed me protectively from a few seats over as I chatted with my new friend, Charlie. Upon further questioning, Charlie motioned to the memorabilia wall behind the stage, where, lo and behold, there was a guitar made from a toilet seat. Turns out, Charlie is something of a local rock legend, and if you’re sure to ask questions directly into his good ear (with toilet paper stuffed in it), he’s got some amazing stories. I invited him to sit with me, and as we listened to music together, I was delighted to find that every few minutes, another regular would approach us and warmly greet Charlie.
So moved by the music, Ben and I got up to dance and found ourselves mere inches for a guitar riff which can only be described as intoxicating. I literally stood a foot in front of the guitar player with my arms stretched up in the air screaming, “Yeah!”
Their set ended and the lights came up. We bid Charlie adieu and were informed (I believe by members of the band) that “everyone’s going to the Deuce.” For those of you that aren’t townies, The Deuce is the local slang for the 2am Club, which in addition to being a dive bar filled with black sheep and date rapers, is also featured on the cover of the Huey Lewis and the News album, Sports. The Deuce is for people who are the only members of their family not to go to college.
After being carded by the charming bouncer, we enter the Deuce and order drinks, mine, I’m pretty sure, coming out of a box or a ZipLoc. After sharing a longer than necessary conversation with the poor-man’s Tara Reid, we settled into a table and looked around.
“This place is fucking ghetto, boys.”
“I’m digging the jukebox, though.”
“Oh, god. I went to kindergarten with that guy’s sister.”
“Do you want to say hi?”
“What do you think? This place gives me the creeps.”
“Alright. It’s 1am. Let’s go home.”
“Thank fucking god, dude.”
Exhausted and over it, we gather our belongings and head for the door. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but Ben, Alex and I were stopped dead in our tracks.
Guess who waltzed into the Deuce at 1am?
That’s right. Charlie…

Thursday, December 29, 2005

and, you get free ice cream...

I don’t eat sushi, but I love Sushi Rock and let me tell you why.
Before heading to Spielberg’s surprisingly not boring Munich, Chris and I hit Sushi Rock on Polk Street, where I was promised there would be chicken. After dinner, as we sat around eating gratis ice cream out of Styrofoam containers, I noticed that on one of the dozens of flat screens throughout the restaurant, there was a photo of an uncomfortable looking elderly inter-racial couple sitting at a Sushi Rock table.
“You know, that picture hasn’t changed the entire time we’ve been here.”
“What picture?”
“The one on the flat screen right behind you. It’s been driving me nuts.”
“It’s just been them the whole time?”
“Yeah. I wonder who they are.”
“That’s weird. Wait. There’s another one over there.”
Lo and behold, the same couple graced a flat screen behind me.
“I have to know who they are.”
“Why wouldn’t it be a montage of people photos? Maybe it’s the owner.”
“Beats me. I’m going to ask.”
I flagged down our Lilliputian Japanese waitress and inquired. “Excuse me. Who are these people gracing the flat screens surrounding us?”
“Oh, they just people who eat."
"You mean, they're just diners here?"
"Yeah. You want me take picture?”
We both practically leapt out of our bamboo seats. “YES!”
She shuffled off behind the bar somewhere as we rapidly fixed our hair and stifled laughter. A mohawked Harajuku boy returned with a digital camera.
“You take, yes?”
“Oh yeah. We totally want to be on the flat screens.”
He took our picture, seemed disappointed with the results and shoved the camera at us. “You look.”
So delighted to even be considered for the illustrious Sushi Rock flat screen, I didn’t push my luck by requesting a re-shoot. Sushi Rock’s brilliant marketing ploy will surely pay off, as I plan on enjoying chicken teriyaki at least once a week until I am able to experience what I can only assume is the indescribably pleasure of gracing the many flat screens in this mecca of Japanese cuisine…

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

before and after dinner...

christmas eve, before we tapped the kegs...

You know you’re in a classy joint when your digital camera runs out of batteries and the waiter gets you more. He then not only presents them to you on some sort of silver tray, but takes a fabulous photo just to make sure it’s working. God, I love the magic of Christmas...

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

otis. like the elevator...

If you’ve been reading, you’ll know that I’ve been wildly obsessed with the apparently very fabulous and very exclusive club, Otis, a club I had yet to get invited to and was thus, desperate to go. Thanks to Jackson at SFist, my name found it’s way onto some holiday soiree list and the security at Otis was alerted that for once, I was allowed inside.
Let me just, folks, I was excited. I mean, I was going to Otis.
Otis, the private, members-only club. Otis, on swanky Maiden Lane. Otis, where Chandler Bing washed down his “Tylenol” with “club soda.” Otis!
Berkeleyist and I dolled it up and took ourselves out to dinner beforehand.
“I can’t believe we’re going to Otis. This is fabulous.”
“I’ve said a Christmas prayer that it’ll be packed with wall to wall celebrities.”
“Or at least just fabulously interesting people who think we’re genius.”
“Oh my god, I’m nervous. We need more wine.”
We made our way to Maiden Lane and found the non-descript front door blocked by an array of suited beefcakes. Shocked to discover my name was indeed on the coveted list, we walked through the door and into the foyer, emerging into the low lit bar area. My eyes adjusted and I looked around.
This is Otis?
Otis is about the size of my dining room table, and while modern and trendy and San Francisco Magazine-esque, not exactly what I had imagined. I don’t know what I was expecting, perhaps Lindsey Lohan spinning Euro-records or Jeremy Piven having sex with the Pan-Asian coatgirl, maybe some ornate furniture with Benetton models posing upon it or candle covered chandeliers dripping with diamonds.
Nope. Just a lot of hipsters in trendy t-shirts and peacocks on the walls.
“What do we do now?”
“Um, we get drinks, I guess. And then we mingle.”
While Chardonnay was wildly and unnecessary expensive at the not-so-open bar, I think we were really paying for the hottest bartender in the free world, which, you know, made it worth it. Conveniently, Otis was packed with a bunch of people who didn’t really know each other, so we had no problem finding folks to chat with.
After a while, though, the thrill wore off.
“Okay, we’ve seen Otis. And we can get better wine and more of it at Hotel Biron.”
“Agreed. But first we have to find this Jackson character and say thanks.”
After hearing buzz that he might be upstairs, we shimmied up the tiny stairway to the second floor lounge, smaller than the bar downstairs, believe it or not, and attempted to find the legendary and mysterious Jackson West. We finally discovered him standing next to a bizarre lighting fixture, deep in conversation with people cooler than us. I don’t know why, but when I meet people who only know me from my blog, I tend to feel some need to be hilarious and off-color and wildly obnoxious. So, Jackson didn’t really meet me. He met my impression of Kathy Griffin.
Having made the rounds, thanked our host, and fully experienced the much anticipated Otis, we headed to the car and to the way better, less exclusive, more ambient Hotel Biron.
“So that was Otis.”
“Yeah, that was Otis.”
I spend an awful lot of time bemoaning the fact that other more interesting and better looking people get invited to appallingly exclusive and sophisticated locales, always one step ahead of me in the unattainable cool department. And no matter how many clubs I talk my way into or skinny sequined scarves I throw around my neck, I always end up feeling like a very tall dork and wishing I was sitting at a low key, mildly swanky bar with people I already know or gays…

Monday, December 26, 2005


Everyone thinks their family is weird, right?
Well, mine’s weirder and here’s my favorite quote of the weekend. Its Christmas morning and my parents, brother and I are opening presents around the tree along with my uncles, Bill and Ted.
Yep. Bill and Ted.
Bill’s in town from Savannah and had shipped all of his presents in advance, one of them to my mother with the following card attached:

To Joanne, Merry Christmas! Love Chris and Martin.

My mother sits with the gift on her lap, looking slightly confused and innocently asks, “Who are Chris and Martin?”

With utter seriousness and mildly annoyed, my Uncle Bill sighs, “They’re my birds, Joanne.”

happy holidays, bitches...

I know, I know. Since Thursday. I got it.
If I weren't so goddamn hungover, I'd tell you my holiday stories. But I'll get back to you on those. In the meantime, I'll simply say Happy Birthday Jesus!

Top 5 stories to blog about when the sound of typing doesn't hurt my soul:

5. Martin and Chris
4. Otis
3. Puttin' on the Ritz
2. Champagne on the Third Floor
1. The House of the Lord...

Thursday, December 22, 2005

i've always relied on the kindness of strangers...

After crazy Chinese lunch at Hunan with the boys, dad threw his big Christmas shopping scheme into action. His big plan? For Alex to drive circles around Union Square while he and I run from store to jam packed store in the rain. By the time we were done, I was soaked to the bone and kicked out of the car so dad and Alex could run off to meet someone else somewhere better.
I hightailed it back to my car back at the Hunan. Desperate to get home and in no mood to wait for the defrost to kick in, I turned on Rhonda the Honda and backed her up.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck.
I get out of Rhonda to find that I’ve knocked over a Vespa, illegally parked right behind me. Amidst cats and dogs, I discover just how appallingly heavy Vespas are. I can only imagine how I looked, hair pasted to my face, grunting obscenities while attempting to lift some metro motorcycle I crashed into. I finally got the damn thing upright, although I had no idea how to get that kick stand thing to work. I was just balancing it while trying to figure out just how badly I’d fucked up my day. I couldn’t very well stand there holding it up in the rain for god knows how long, so I started asking random people to help me. The streets were surprisingly and disappointingly empty. My first request resulted in a shrug, my second in a look for fear. By the time I saw a third person on the opposite side of the street, I was starting to panic.
“HEY! Can you help me?” I scream at a cameraman getting out of a news van.
He comes running over. “Hi.”
“Hi. I just knocked over this Vespa and now, of course, can’t figure out the kick stand thing.”
“Oh, sure. I think you just pull it back.”
Together, we rolled it back and the kickstand clicked.
“You are a god.” I gushed, thrilled to at least let go of the damn thing.
“Is there any damage?”
“I don’t know. But I feel like I should leave a note.”
“Well, they parked illegally. I’m pretty sure this isn’t a parking place.”
“Are you suggesting I leave it?” I asked with hope in my voice.
“I don’t know.” He laughed. “Um, yeah. Leave a note.”
“Yeah, I feel like I should. I don’t want to be the asshole who doesn’t leave a note. But I wish I had a camera to prove that this was parked illegally. I mean, I really only scratched the helmet case thing.”
“I have a camera!” he said, and ran over to the news van, coming back with a digital camera. He proceeded to take photos of the Vespa and of Rhonda as a man emerged from a nearby building carrying a Vespa helmet.
“Hi! Is this your bike? I totally just knocked it over. I’m so sorry. I completely didn’t see it. I think I scratched your helmet holder thing.”
“That’s all? Oh, that’s okay.”
“Are you sure? I feel horrible.”
He looked the Vespa over. “I was just dropping something off. I parked illegally. Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you serious? Yes! Thank you so much. I’m so sorry.”
And then I turned to the cameraman. “And thank you, Good Samaritan!”
“Oh, no problem.”
“You’re tremendously nice. I really appreciate it.”
He reached in his wallet and pulled out a business card.
“Well, if you, uh, need anything else. Just in case.”
This is fabulous.
I shall now proceed to spend the next hour composing a charming, thankful and mildly flirty e-mail while congratulating myself on my refusal to wait for my windows to defrost…

god save the queens...

There a thousands of fabulous events happening all the time that I’d gladly give my first born to attend, but yesterday, I missed the shindig of a lifetime and I’ve got to say, if I could go back in time and attend any party is the history of parties, this one’s high on the list: The Wedding of Elton John and David Furnish.
Ugh, how fucking fabulous is that! The only downside is that my nemesis, Elizabeth Hurley was there and she probably complained about the flowers and the food and the fat people the entire time. I really don’t understand what her problem is, but I can say with utmost confidence, Elton would know to put us at different tables because after a couple of mojitos, she’d start calling me a big, loud, tacky American and I’d start calling her the answer to Divine Brown’s prayers.
Elton and I, on the other hand, would be fast friends. And not just because he’s a huge, over the top, emotional-wreck, flaming gay. I’ve always felt a kinship with Ms. John, ever since we were little girls. And for the rest of my life, I will lament the fact I was not a bridesmaid on the happiest day of his life.

Top 5 Parties I Wish I Attended:
5. Any Post-Oscar Vanity Fair Party, preferably 1998’s soiree with winners Ben and Matt
4. Anything involving The Rat Pack, The Sands Hotel, Don Rickels and me in vintage Dior
3. Hef’s Midsummer Night’s Dream Party at the Playboy Mansion
2. The Fabulously Homo Wedding of Elton John and David Furnish
1. Gavin’s Super Secret Divorce Soiree I’m sure he had

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

i hate being tall...

There are 2 kinds of gas stations. There’s GhettoGas, where one purchases things with safety seals on them, such as 32 oz. Diet Snapple. And then there’s SuburbaGas, with an array of fresh fruit and organic coffee.
Okay. I still wouldn’t touch that fruit. But when there’s a line at Starbuck’s, I’ll willingly hit SuburbaGas for caffeine. Mornings at SuburbaGas are usually packed with a collection of cops and armored van drives, and at least once a week, I engage in conversation with Mohammed the cashier who asks me the same question every single time.
“Going to work?”
This morning, however, as I approached the counter with my bucket of coffee, I found myself blocked by the gigantic lottery ticket man and his boxes of lottery tickets. He turned around and loudly screamed, “Hi honey! You’re tall! Are you six feet tall?”
Oh my god. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate being tall. It’s not my fault. When you’re 13 years old and 5’11”, the damage done cannot be reversed.
“Um…” I nervously stammered. “In my bare feet I’m 5’11”, thank you very much.”
“Well I’ve got three daughters!” He yelled. “All of ‘em over 6 feet!”
It was as if he were bragging about his prize cattle.
“You must be very proud.”
“They all play sports. You play volleyball? Basketball?”
“I used to. But I don’t anymore. I lack both skill and grace. I merely hunch.”
“Ha! You should be proud of your height! Look at those legs! You’re gorgeous!”
“Thank you. I hate being tall.”
“Well, you’re stupid.”
Like an 80 year old with osteoporosis, I scrunched down and bought my coffee, passing lottery giant popping his medication at the front door. Lamenting my freakishness, I walked into work and vented to my co-workers, pointing out that in addition to my being a complete medical oddity and constantly forced to pretend to like it, I’m often asked to reach things for the elderly in supermarkets.
"Oh, me too." Laughted Ben. "That happens all the time."
"Yeah, Ben. But you didn't spend 2 years in therapy just to muster the courage to wear heels..."

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

so long, clogs...

An open letter to the dreadful, no doubt poorly dressed imbecile who let their dog shit all over my office parking lot:

Dear idiot,
When I stepped in the disgusting waste of your dog on my way into work this morning, crouched over a recycling bin wiping my $12 Payless clogs with yesterday’s newspaper, I merely disliked you. But when I ducked out to hit the Whole Foods salad bar and stepped in that shit again, I decided to curse you and generations of your spawn, not to mention your obnoxious and apparently little mutt.
Maybe it’s my karma for being a renowned dog sitter for years and never once picking up poo. Maybe it’s my karma for wearing these shoes. But I at least have the sense of consideration to guide the dog I’m walking into the bushes or potted tree area, an area where people probably don’t walk, even in crappy shoes.
My god. I haven’t stepped in dog shit for a good decade. Thanks for killing my streak, asshole.
Coal would be too kind. I hope you find dogshit in your cheap, RiteAid stocking.
I hate you. And I hate your dog.
With utmost sincerity,

Monday, December 19, 2005

sip on this...

Once again, I ventured into GhettoGas because amidst the dusty shelves of antacid and Mexican pastries, they stock the incredibly hard to find Diet Snapple Lemon Iced Tea 32 ouncer. Believe it or not, most places, Safeway included, only sell this hot commodity in Peach flavor. While, I’m pretty much happy with most Diet Snapple Iced Tea, ever since Mint got discontinued I’ve been pretty loyal to the traditional Lemon.
I know. I’m really into Diet Snapple.
Anyway, I pulled into the GhettoGas to make my all important purchase. And because I simply can’t help myself, I spent 10 minutes in the “Sip Shop” watching myself walk around the “shop” on the security televisions up in the corner. Sadly, I always imagine that this is the footage the police will use if I suddenly turn up missing. It’s all the scarier because GhettoGas has those cameras that capture your image every other second, so the video is this really grainy footage of everyone doing the robot.
I then take my two 32 ounce Diet Snapple Lemon Iced Teas up to the counter and decide to broach the security video subject with the cashier gal, who apparently doesn’t speak a ton of English and more importantly, doesn’t give a shit.
“I’m way too into watching myself on these cameras.”
“Is it just me or does everyone look horrible on these?”
“You’ve got to have some crazy footage in the archives. Do you ever re-watch it?”
Suddenly, she begrudgingly responds. “No. Not morning time. But the night guys rewind and watch the people and laugh at them.”

That’s great. That’s just fantastic.
This evening, should you stop by GhettoGas, you will no doubt find 4-6 gas attendants chuckling their asses off at the gringo girl wandering around the Sip Shop tripping over Duraflames while watching herself on the security monitors, ensuring that if she’s ever kidnapped, she’ll have given the news editors some hot “last known whereabouts” footage…

alex is coming home today...

...and it's probably about time...

Sunday, December 18, 2005

the cliffs of insanity...

Have you ever been to John’s Grill on Ellis Street?
Wait, let me rephrase that. Have you ever been to John’s Grill on Ellis Street in the middle of a rainstorm in December, shoved up against a Christmas tree and an autographed photo of Willie Brown while a giant woman in a fur coat tries to squeeze past you?
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
I met my parents for dinner before Billy Crystal’s closing night show at the Golden Gate Theater, shocked to find the restaurant I’d passed a million times and deemed shady and geriatric instead, a hopping, old time fantastic find. I could drag my folks to Town Hall and Frisson in my pathetic and desperate need to be cooler than everyone else, but when I have the sense of mind to leave it up to my dad, he drags me to some prohibition era joint that’s significantly more fabulous than anything my crowd could come up with.
We hightailed it to the theater, stomping in the pouring rain for three blocks while huddled under one solitary umbrella. It was actually kind of fun, hanging out with my folks on a Saturday night. They’re funny and loud and have gossip and credit cards. And even though I’m 27 years old, they’d still let themselves get soaked so I could have the lone umbrella. Now that’s love.
Although, screw them. They were in matching Burberry trench coats, I was in an Old Navy military jacket and twelve dollar shoes.
The show was great, although having purchased tickets so late, we were in the second to last row. My father, who refuses to fly coach much less sit in a balcony, was horrified and apologetic. I think they forget that I’m poor. I was just happy to eat free food and sit in a warm theater. Although, at intermission, my folks departed for the bar and I stayed in our seats, forced to listen to the following conversation between several couples directly behind me:
“What movies was Billy Crystal in?”
“City Slickers 1 and 2.”
“Oh, and that Harry Met Sally.”
“City Slickers came first.”
“No it didn’t.”
“What about the Princess Bride?”
“Oh, that’s a fantastic movie.”
“Wasn’t it a book, first?”
“I’m pretty sure it was.”
“It was definitely not. It would never work as a book. It only works as a movie.”
“Didn’t Kojack do the voiceover?”
“I think it was a book.”
“There’s no way it was a book.”
“I really am positive it was a book.”
“I’ll bet you money it was never a book.”
About to explode, I had no choice but to intercede. I turned around:
“Actually it was a book first.”
“Thank you!”
“What does she know?”
“Oh, ignore him. He’s a lawyer. He thinks he knows everything.”
“Yeah. What does she do?”
“I’m a theater producer.” (This is technically true. I’m really an Associate Producer, but he doesn’t need to know that.)
“If you’re a producer, why don’t you have better seats? Where do you work?”
I told them.
“Oh, that’s a big job. That’s a really impressive operation. But we never go. Too many people. No one we know goes, really.”
Nice. “Oh, okay. Anyway, The Princess Bride was a book.”
“No it wasn’t.”
I couldn't stand this guy. “Yes it was. It is! It’s a book by S. Morgenstern re-written by William Goldman. And Peter Falk kind of did a voiceover. He played the grandfather reading his sick grandson THE BOOK.”
“See? I told you.”
“I still don’t believe her.”
Oh my god, I hate this guy. I hate this guy more than I’ve ever hated anyone in my life. All I could think of was the scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen is standing in line, forced to overhear someone incorrectly pontificating on the meaning of a book, so he imagines the author of said book suddenly emerging and sternly correcting the guy.
Thus, I sat in my seat and imaged Billy Crystal bounding up the stairs to the second to last row, coming all the way up here to say hi to me, his close personal friend, the theater producer. And he’d make a huge deal about me, congratulating me on my many successes and telling me how fabulous I am. Finally, before he had to run backstage and continue the show, he’d turn to the folks behind me and say, “Okay. When Harry Met Sally was way before City Slickers, The Princess Bride was most definitely a book, and you, sir, have no idea what you’re talking about.“ Then, he’d turn back to me. “And you, dahling, you look marvelous” before disappearing back into the crowd.
Sadly, that didn’t happen.
I willed the lights to dim, and spent the rest of the show thinking of bitchy comebacks to say to the jackass sitting behind us, lamenting the fact that Rob Reiner wasn’t somewhere in the vicinity to come to my rescue or better, Wallace Shawn to lean over and scream, “Inconceivable!”
The show ended, I ignored the folks behind us and we headed out into the pouring rain, hiking up to Grand Café for a drink. We piled into the bar to find the very good looking, very well dressed and very drunk after-party of a fancy pants wedding. There were a million groomsmen, all of whom relatively gorgeous and in various stages of tuxedo removal; jackets off, bow ties untied, martinis in hand. I’ve got to say, that’s a great look for a guy, that whole "end of a black tie evening" look, throwing credit cards on the bar and screaming, “Just leave it open” at the bartender. But these guys were too good looking, too cocky, too well-dressed. It was like the entire bar was filled with lesser Kennedy cousins.
My mother leaned over. “There are lots of guys in here, Beth.”
“Yeah mom. But these are date rape guys.”
“These are the kind of guys that put roofies in your Belini. These are the kind of guys that tell you how great and wonderful and funny you are, and then rip you apart to their friends. These are the kind of guys that screw hotel maids in supply closets and bitch out busboys. Sure, they’re cute and well dressed. But they’re assholes.”
She looked around again, noting the overwhelming air of entitlement and unwarranted façade of confidence.
“You’re right.”
Mom and I stood by the door, waiting for my chivalrous father to get the car and pick us up.
"That was fun tonight."
"Yeah. It totally was. Thanks for taking me."
"You're very welcome. Oh, there's dad. Let's go."
I took one last look around the bar, thinking about the jackass behind me in the theater and the tuxedoed date rapers and it suddenly occurred to me.
Rodents of Unusual Size? Apparently, they DO exist…

Saturday, December 17, 2005

Friday, December 16, 2005

thumbs down...

I am the biggest West Wing nerd ever. The only reason I exist is for Josh and Donna. I’ve seen every episode. Twice. So it is with great distress that I inform you that life has imitated art, and John Spencer died of a heart attack today, presumably not in the middle of a forest at Camp David like he did on the West Wing, but dead none the less.
In addition to the great sorrow I feel, I’m tremendously concerned that this will prompt producers to put a fucking Republican in the White House, electing Hawkeye Pierce to President. I mean, the West Wing serves to provide idiots like myself with informed tidbits of leftist propaganda to drop at cocktail parties. Also, what the hell is going to happen to the staff I’ve come to know and obsess over? And most importantly, what does this mean for Josh and Donna?
I propose an episode entitled Four Weddings and a Funeral, in which we mourn Leo, who died in some very exciting, international incident and then we have some folks get hitched. Now, I know we just had a wedding, with Ellie marrying Skipper from Sex in the City, but weddings equal ratings, so why not three more. Thus, we’ll go the fabulously inter-racial route with Charlie and Zoey, the wonderfully unexpected lesbian pairing of CJ and that butch blonde chick with the bangs who knows all about wars and Arabs, and end in a glorious Josh and Donna Wedding Extravaganza finale…

a christmas miracle...

Last night was Roommate Christmas. Roommate Christmas involves lots of Indian food and lots of wine. We sat around drinking and giving each other presents, said goodbye for the holidays and passed out. Zoe left this morning at 4am, tiptoeing out the door with her 47 suitcases.
At 7, I rolled out of bed, head pounding, called Zoe at the airport to say goodbye one more time and for reasons unknown, looked out the front door window.
There, like a big Christmas present, was a hobo sitting on my front stairs, apparently asleep. I’ve lived in the ghetto for almost 5 years, and this has never happened before.
You’ve got to love this magical season. Mere hours after my beloved roommate leaves for the holidays, another one miraculously appears on my doorstep…

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

number 34...

Apparently, I possess a talent I didn’t realize was a talent: being able to discern the number system at the deli. Horrifyingly, I just found myself preventing fisticuffs over marinated golden beets and asian slaw because a deli full of soccer moms and illegal construction workers couldn’t take a goddamn number.
First of all, I wouldn’t have even had to stay in line had my co-worker not requested cranberry sauce on her turkey sandwich. I mean, I got a bagel dog. That takes 2 seconds. Anyway, like a fully formed human, I took Number 34 and silently waited for my turn. Suddenly, I hear a commotion.
“I was next!”
“No, I believe I was next.”
“No way, lady. It ain’t your turn. I been here for 10 minutes.”
“Well, I left my dog in the car.”
“Like I give a shit.”
Oh god. Don't make eye contact. Thankfully, a fellow numbers genius piped in. “Well, what number are you?”
“Yeah. You’ve got to take a number.”
“No one told me that!”
One would think that the huge, glowing and ever-changing number on the wall would be the first clue. The second? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the guy behind the counter screaming out numbers in ascending order every time it’s someone else’s turn?
Worse, a good four people had no idea they needed a number. Mayhem ensued.
“I knew nothing about a number!”
“I’ve been here for ages?”
“What does this mean? Everyone without a number goes to the back of the line?”
“That’s not fair!”
“Wait. We need a number?”
Ugh. For reasons unknown, this is when I decide to snidely announce, “I’m Number 34.”
Now, why I did this is beyond me. I can only justify my stupidity by stating that there was no way I was going to let anyone stupid enough not to take a number cut in front of me, no matter how many dogs were in their car.
The crowd did not react well.
“She just walked in!”
“I’ve been here for 20 minutes!”
“My dog is in my car!”
“I HAVE to go to work!”
“Wait. We need a number?”
To my credit, I recovered. “Listen. This isn’t a big deal. This is deli sandwiches. I’ll go last. Okay?”
Slowly, the melee died down and civility took over. Sometimes, people need to be reminded of reality. We don’t need to throw down over Dutch crunch rolls and organic potato salad. Indeed, I went last. And when it was finally my turn, I leaned on the counter and ordered the stupid sandwich. As I was waiting, a 12lb. trophy wife walked in, in full “I don’t acknowledge the winter” tennis outfit and stood behind me, staring into oblivion. All of a sudden she said it.
“Um, excuse me. Do I need a number?”
Cue Dutch crunch roll flying through air…

ohhhh. trains...

While they raised me with a love of art, my folks have never really been ones to, how shall I put this, cultivate a collection. Other than a painting of downtown Mill Valley purchased at an art festival which my brother and I fight over, the art on the walls at my folks house doesn’t exactly scream Sotheby's. There are lots of vintage maps of San Francisco, folk arty family portraits of dead people and paintings by my very talented Uncle Bill.
Oddly enough, if you venture to my folks house these days and walk in the front door, you’ll find empty wall space with a little sign that says, “On loan.”
They find this very funny.
Apparently, some random watercolor of a train (that’s right. a train) is of such high interest to train/art nerds that it’s been borrowed by a museum for a special exhibit on, what else? Train art.
Now, I know you’re asking yourself, “What museum? The Frick? The Whitney? The Guggenheim?”
Shockingly, no.
However, should you find yourself in gorgeous Milwaukee, Wisconsin, your concierge at the Radisson might direct you to The Spotswood Collection at the Haggerty Museum of Art…

Tuesday, December 13, 2005

yee haw...

Obviously, nothing could keep me from gay, gay cowboy lovin’. Thus, Zoe and I went to see Brokeback Mountain last night. Richard and Liam were invited to join us, but decided Brokeback was a chick’s movie and wanted to have a boys night out. Fair enough. They went and saw the testosterone packed, shoot ‘em up, action flick Memoirs of a Geisha. Nice choice, queens.
Anyway, my brilliant living companion got tickets online early, thinking rightly so that the movie would sell out. We arrived at Embarcadero by 7:15, thinking we had plenty of time to get snacks and seats. Turns out, every single showing last night was sold out, and we arrived to find the entire complex overflowing with gays. Shimmying into the middle two seats of the second row, we looked around.
“What percentage of the people in here are incredibly gay, do you think?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Zoe replied. “75%”
“That’s exactly what I was going to say!”
As if the squeals of friend recognition and scent of designer men’s fragrance didn’t give it away, to glace behind us you’d think you were at a Cher concert or Liza Minelli book signing. It was the gayest crowd of leather motorcycle jacket wearers I’ve ever seen. Someone actually brought a puppy, it was that gay.
The lights dimmed and we scooched back in our seats, craning our necks to see the entire screen looming overhead. I’ve got to say, the movie isn’t at all what I expected. Brokeback Mountain is this epic love story with sweeping views and impassioned man love. Conveniently, Zoe’s a big Heath Ledger fan and I’m developing an obsession with Jake Gyllenhaal, so we were both delighted to see them bathing in streams and wrestling in fields.
Clearly, forbidden love makes for terrific tearjerking, but it’s rather disconcerting to hear 200 grown men sobbing like 12 year old girls. I’ll admit, however, there’s a shirt smelling scene that had Zoe and me crying like a bunch of drag queens, and we were by far the butchest bitches in there. The credits rolled, we wiped our eyes and shuffled out amidst the Prada trainers and man pashminas, heading home to Safeway salad and Chardonnay.
I enjoyed my time on Brokeback Mountain, although unlike Michelle Williams, if I walked outside my dilapidated trailer to find my husband making out with Jake Gyllenhaal, I’d be pissed not because he and his “fishing buddy” were obviously gay. I’d be pissed because he wasn’t sharing. Hello? Community property…

Monday, December 12, 2005

it's in the mail...

Whenever I hit my folks house around the holidays, the first thing I do is go through their pile of Christmas cards and judge everyone. Last night, after a lovely dinner at Vasco with my mother, I sat in the kitchen and shuffled through the stack of photo cards and update letters.
We’ve never been big ones for Christmas cards. I think my father sends out some highly religious propaganda to a select few, but the rest of us have nothing to do with it. A couple of years ago, Bonnie and I sent out a roommate photo card, although it retrospect, it looked like we were announcing our lesbian union or the fact that we both had fabulous hair. I also recall the highly cheesy move of one of us signing in red, the other in green. I tried to talk Zoe into something similar and she looked at me like I was nuts.
Anyway, as I dug through the array, I marveled at how one can tell so much by looking at a stupid holiday card. From disgruntled 20 something’s forcing smiles to an entire law firm captured cuddling their pets, my folks get some crazy shit.
As I read some rambling diatribe about kids I grew up with who were never really that nice to begin with, I was horrified to learn that for all intensive purposes, their lives are flawless. They’re either becoming doctors and lawyers or marrying them, buying houses and cars and popping out kids with trendy names or impacting policy reform and global change. They might as well be saving the earth from a meteor, these people are all so much better than I am.
So, in my never-ending need to win, I figured I might as well make a letter up and send it in response to all of the cards my folks get. It’s not like anyone would actually check the facts. Here’s what I’ve got so far:

“Not that you asked, but Beth and Alex are fabulous. So fabulous, in fact, they’re considering launching their own, self-titled magazine. Alex is currently negotiating with a major sports franchise to manage their front office, and is looking forward to his annual month volunteering in the Middle East. Currently fluent in Farsi and Arabic, Alex hopes to spend the holidays finalizing an independent peace treaty and promoting alternative energy to oil rich countries. Beth has finally recovered from the devastating moral blow she experienced by unwittingly ending the Newsom union and is taking a short break from her column at Vanity Fair while she and Gavin house hunt on the Upper West Side and begin fundraising for a presidential campaign (shhhhh.) After the Pulitzer whirlwind, Beth is relaxing by spending the holidays rebuilding New Orleans and hosting her annual Paris Fashion Week Beth Ball in celebration of her own fabulousness, co-hosted this year by the charming George Clooney. We could not be more pleased that our children flawless, wonderful perfect humans, not to mention fantastically attractive and interesting and look forward to nothing but immense happiness, disgusting wealth and unparalleled fame”

Saturday, December 10, 2005

can't live with 'em, can't shoot 'em...

It’s amazing how the world works. I woke up this morning with a profound distaste for the opposite sex and my self confidence at an all time low. I dragged myself to a 10am showing of Syriana, covering my eyes through most of it and lamenting the fact that of course, men would feel the need for a 20 minute torture scene. I hit Safeway on the way home and the misery continued. I not only found myself cut off from MY parking space by a goddamn man, but some dude cut me in the 15 items or less line, forcing me to count his 18 items and silently stew.
I returned home, wanting nothing more than to shower off the filth, eat my noodles and watch the 1989 Civil War epic, Glory. Of course, I returned home to a screaming alarm system and all electricity working, except for the fucking TV. Positive that my upstairs neighbor and his team of home renovators obviously had something to do with this, I opened my door to find “Brad” lugging 2 by 4s down the stairs.
“Uh, Hi. I’m Beth. I live right here.”
“Hi. I’m Brad. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Uh, okay. Anyway, all of my electricity is working except for my TV and my alarm.”
“Oh. Wow. Well, we could have cut a wire. Sometimes, wires get cut.”
“Oh, of course. Wires get cut. And I have no problem with any work going on upstairs. I totally don’t want to be a bitch. I just, you know, need my alarm and TV to work.”
“Okay, well let me put this in my truck and I look into it.”
“Um, okay.”
“No, I mean I’ll look into it immediately.”
The next thing I know, there’s a knock at my door.
“Is there an electrical box in here?”
“I doubt it.”
“I’m pretty sure there is.”
It is at this point that 2 things happen. Number One: I notice that Brad is the appropriate age, height and level of attractiveness for yours truly. And Number Two: I begin to giggle like an idiot woman, announcing how I know nothing about anything and am clearly the stupidest person in the world, who is obviously hung-over, un-showered and better looking with ambient lighting. The entire time I’m thinking, “Shut up. Just shut the fuck up.” But I don’t.
Anyway, he finds the electrical box behind all of our suitcases and fur coats (don’t ask), flicks a switch and voila! Everything works again. Standing in my foyer (that’s using the term very loosely), he checks to make sure the battery in my alarm is okay and we then proceed to share a very awkward 3 minutes of me profusely thanking him and him smiling and saying no problem. He instructed me to come on upstairs if I needed anything else, I told him to have a lovely weekend... end scene.
Now, aside from the fact that I’m going to spend the rest of the afternoon scheming all kinds of intros into further communication with Brad, which I think we all know will never come to fruition, there’s a larger point to this story. Men can suck. Men can tremendously, tremendously suck. But on occasion, one small act can reinstate my faith in testosterone. Brad could’ve dicked me around and told me to call the electric company and prohibited my much anticipated watching of Glory. But he didn’t. He rescued me.
Gentleman, I salute you.
Oh shit, that’s my doorbell…

Friday, December 09, 2005

will is no longer hunting...

Oh, and finally one last tidbit of gossip. Matt Damon got married about 15 minutes ago. I guess my mailman fucked up again, because my invite to their city hall nuptials didn’t arrive on time. Maybe they just didn’t want some girl in cheap shoes coughing the word, “shotgun.”
Actually, I’m embarrassed to admit I rode the Affleck bandwagon until Ben went and screwed me by drinking J-Lo’s voodoo potions.
And then I saw The Bourne Identity. Ding dong, Damon. Nice guns.
Anyway, he’s hitched and after her 7am rant on the subject, Zoe is currently banging her head against her computer…

lighten up...

God, I hate Anderson Cooper. I can’t explain it, but he’s just so goddamn over the top. If I see him in one more giant, fur trimmed parka, I’m going to beat his ass for stealing my look. First of all, his mother is Gloria Vanderbilt, who was clearly destined to have a pompous, gay, gay son that she’d strong arm her friends into hiring. But shouldn’t he be a Broadway choreographer or gallery owner or something. I mean, he’s an anchor on CNN AND the host of The Mole? That’s like writing for The New Yorker but moonlighting as the advice columnist for Miss Cosmo. Anderson Cooper is such a label-whoring queen that he’s heading today’s Top 5:

Top 5 People Who Take Themselves Far Too Seriously:

5. Tim Robbins
4. Gwyneth Paltrow
3. Tom Cruise
2. Matt Gonzalez
1. Anderson Cooper


This morning, sitting at a traffic light on my way to work, I saw some guy in a brand new beamer nonchalantly smoking a joint. His window was down and he was pinching this tiny roach without a care in the world. Until of course, he saw me staring at him.
Being an open minded, former reefer myself, I smiled and nodded, as if to show not only approval, but an understanding for the desire to get stoned on one’s way to work. I mean, if this guy can actually maintain productivity while high, more power to him. I prefer to sit around watching Swing Kids and eating peanut butter from the jar, but I guess that’s just me.
You’d think this guy would respond with a return smile and nod. Mais non. He looks over, takes another hit of his joint and THROWS IT AT MY CAR, a la Reality Bites. I have no idea what to make of this and quite frankly, feel that if this is his attitude, he, in the great words of Huey Lewis, needs to find a new drug…

Thursday, December 08, 2005

all that's missing is the midget..

I’ve seen some pretty shitty theater in my day. So when Zoe asked Big Chris and me to attend some show her San Francisco State Masters Class was putting on, we shrugged and agreed. I mean, how bad could it be?
Uh, let me tell you.
Chris and I entered the Marsh Theater, and I shuddered at the memory of my last experience there, known internationally as “The Worst Date of all Time.” Forced to pool our cash and cough up $14, we found seats in the last row and settled in with the other 15 audience members, all of whom appeared breathless with anticipation.
“How long’s this thing supposed to last?”
“Beats me. Zoe said it wouldn’t be more than an hour. She’s buying us drinks after. Relax.”
Waiting for the show to start, we perused the program and realized the show consisted of 5 pairs of students, each pair presenting a “Personal Narrative Exploring Relationships, Obsessions, and How We Live With or Without Them.”
Oh shit. This is going to be a long hour.
The lights dim, and the first pair entered. Consisting of 2 young twenty-something girls, they began a Def Poetry Slam along the lines of, “This is me being real! This is me being a woman! This is me in my tank top and toenails and tears I cry when you don’t return my fucking phone calls!”
Sometimes, when laughter isn’t appropriate, everything becomes funnier. As I sat in the middle of the Mission, in a tiny theater filled with 15 people watching 2 girls pretending to write in faux diaries and cook imaginary food while rhyming about how much men suck, I got the giggles. So much so, Big Chris actually looked over and ‘Shhh-ed’ me. I simply couldn’t help it. It was so ridiculous, I thought I was being Punk’d.
Worse, I looked across the theater and found Richard who looked right back at me, shrugged and nodded. I mean, seriously. Pair Number One actually chose to butcher the timeless Bonnie Raitt classic, “I Can’t Make You Love Me” while rapping about gender based societal pressure.
Pair Number Two was only slightly better, creating some skit in which 2 people meet in, what else, a coffee shop and fall in love via MySpace, but can’t give up their addictions to cocaine and diet pills. This skit also involved an original song, which prompted Big Chris to lean over and whisper, “I’m missing Sports Center for this crap?”
Zoe and her partner came on third and while I’m totally biased, they were hilarious. And wonderfully brief. That’s the kicker. Some of these folks went on for decades, particularly the woman who felt the need to fully and profoundly express his distaste for men who share her skin color but not her struggle.
This is when Chris announces, “I can’t sit any more!” and actually stands up, justifying this by pointing out that we’re in the last row.
Just kill me now.
Oh, and lest I forget, we had two leotard clad women performing individual monologues about lesbianism and alcohol abuse. Just when I thought it was finally over, European house music starts and one of the leotard-clad woman begins to perform an bizarre interpretive dance (complete with the clichéd rolling around on the ground) while the other dramatically reads from Rapunzel.
Don’t ask. I have no idea.
Hell froze over and the show ended. Chris and I attended the “reception” afterwards, enjoying the Two Buck Chuck and Gummi Bears while we waited for Zoe and Richard. As we wandered around trying not to make eye contact with anyone that was noticeably bothered by my giggles, Chris discovered his highlight of the evening.
“Sweet!” He screamed. “Mini Sprite!”
You know, you’ve got to love Big Chris. Not only will he miss Sports Center to attend Zoe’s bizarre and incomprehensible final project performance, it takes so little to make him happy. In fact, if Big Chris had to perform a personal narrative on relationships, obsession and how he lives with or without them, it would be entitled “Tail, Sports and Miniature Cans of Soda. A Man Defined.”

Wednesday, December 07, 2005


Work life has been a little hectic. We’ve gotten a new database, which basically means that we have to take every single piece of information we have and convert it in another format. This also means that a man from the new East Coast database company has spent the past 8 consecutive days training us. I’m territorial to begin with, and our offices are tiny. So I don’t exactly welcome some moustached man in golf polos with various communication devices attached to his belt into my 9-5 world. Worse, Golf polo began antagonizing me on Day 1.
Okay, that’s not fair.
But by Day 2, it was on.
He started on Tuesday. On Wednesday, I walked into work and was presented with the following:
(Literally, in flawless Rev. Lovejoy voice) “There she is. It’s about time!”
Oh god. First of all, when we say we start at 9am, that means I aim to park by 9:05. On average, I walk in at 9:15. I fully understand that in some work environments, this is frowned upon. In my work environment, where I work a good 60 hours a week anyway, not to mention many a Saturday and Sunday, if I roll in at 9:15, I’m having a good day. I get my shit done, pal. You worry about you, I’ll worry about me.
But that was the tip of the offensive iceberg.
“I’ve got to say, Beth. I like today’s outfit much better than yesterday’s. The green shoes with the black dress wasn’t doing it for me.”
I have three responses to this:
1. The last thing I want is to do “it” for you.
2. You’re wearing a patterned golf polo with communication devices attached to your belt. The last time I checked, Palo Alto circa 1997 was about 60 miles south.
3. In my unnecessary defense, I was wearing a black skirt, black sweater and white shirt, with chunky green jewelry, a green bag, and quite frankly, fucking adorable green shoes, all of which corresponded perfectly.
Later on in the day, Golf polo made a sports reference that, needless to say, went over my head.
“You know, you’ve got to stay away from the sports references with me. I’ll never have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“Well, what references should I use?”
“Oh, that’s easy.” Ben pipes up. “Fashion.”
“That’s true. I’ll admit it. I was a fashion design major.”
Golf polo couldn’t find this funnier. He found it so funny, in fact, he was laughing too hard to hear me point out that his straight, frat boy pal Ben was a goddamn art history major. For the past week, I’ve suffered through the most appalling and off-mark fashion parallels ever. I believe the word chenille was involved.
Ben and I escaped to lunch everyday, and I vented the entire time.
“Golf polo is driving me fucking nuts.”
“That always happens with you. Seriously. People always feel the need to tease you. You inspire wacky banter.”
“Well, screw that. This is my job, Ben. Ugh, have you heard him? Did I tell you he hated my outfit? And said so????”
“Yeah. You told me. You know, he gives the women a hard time, but never me.”
“Oh no. Don’t give me another reason to despise him.”
“I’m just saying.”
So basically, just to re-cap, Golf polo is a sexist, judgmental, moustached time cruncher with bad taste. Oh, and also, he described the walnuts we have lying around as “meaty.” Ga-ross. So it makes it all the more upsetting that I’m the one that has to acquire his lunch. This involves me standing the middle of Whole Foods reading off the sandwich/burrito/soup/salad menu like a goddamn asshole, when I think everyone would be a lot happier if I just swung by 7/11 and got Golf polo the heat-lamped chimichanga we all know he really wants.
The thing is, there are moments when I love Golf polo. He sings out loud all day long. You’ve gotta respect that. I’m sure one of my co-workers is writing a blog about how much they hate his constant Christmas caroling, but truth be told, I like it. While I was at first wildly offended by the unsolicited back massages, they’re pretty good. And lord knows I could use a serious shiatsu. Finally, after lots of highly unwarranted teasing about the “fashionista” trying to comprehend code, he has finally acknowledged what I have known all along. I’m good at this shit.
It’s been a long 8 days. And I’m both relieved and saddened that my time with Golf polo has come to and end. At one point, he went around the offices taking photos of us, so when we inevitably call the tech emergency help line, a photo of us would pop up on the techie’s computer so they’d have some idea who they were talking too. Not a lot of moustached guys with communication devices attached to their belt would let me take a wacky, “I’m looking confused and angry at my computer” photo. But Golf shirt did.
And Golf shirt liked it…

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

courtesy flush...

Unfortunately, I don’t work in a big, fancy office building. My office is in this bizarre ancient shack, much like an old Lion’s Club or Rotary Hall. In addition to our offices shoved in the front few rooms of the building, the remainder of the structure consists of a big wood paneled hall with the requisite stage, a rodent infested kitchen and of course, boys and girls potties. We spend much of our time lamenting the grossness of the bathrooms (my boss just walked in with, “It’s like going to the bathroom in an outhouse!”) and I can categorically list for you the Top 5 reasons my work restroom is worse than yours:

5. There is no soap in the dispenser. There is an oddly shaped, 5 year old bar of turquoise on a summer camp plastic salad plate, but there is no soap in the dispenser.
4. It is freezing. Literally. We are currently discussing keeping a unisex down parka at our front door for the mad dash one must make to the bathroom. But now that I think about it, the only thing grosser than our bathrooms is the concept of a jacket worn for the sole purpose of using said bathroom.
3. The toilet paper roll does not rotate. Thus, to access anything beyond a single square, one must manually un-wrap the paper, much like flipping a bitch in a car without power steering.
2. This bathroom isn’t just utilized by us. If it was, we’d actually put some effort into making it acceptable. But this bathroom is used by everyone from the weekend driving school class to the annual pancake breakfast crowd, meaning that often, we arrive on Monday to an array of indescribably infractions. Just thinking about some of them make my eyes water.
1. The only thing worse than the ladies room is the men’s. As I was discussing this with my coworker, Ben yesterday evening, he offered me a tour of the men’s room. Each of my senses was bombarded simultaneously and as I ran out the door and into the fresh air, I concluded that the only thing more disgusting than women is men.
For whatever reason, the sink is approximately 4 inches from the urinal. Worse, within the lone handicapped stall is, in addition to the requisite toilet, a bizarre hole in the ground surrounded by less than a foot of white plastic. Had I to guess, I’d suspect this is where the scent of fecal death emanates from. As we stood in the hallway mocking the facilities, Ben mentioned that the bizarre design of our work restroom has created some uncomfortable conundrums of men’s room etiquette.
Men’s room etiquette?
Yeah, apparently, there are all sorts of rules surrounding the men's use of the urinal/trough. In asking my brother about this, he leapt at the chance to describe for me, in detail, all of the very specific rules involved in using a men’s room.
My favorite of Alex’s do and don’t list?
The very Ghostbusters-esque, “Oh, and obviously, don’t cross streams…”

Saturday, December 03, 2005

misery loves company...

I am a sick, disgusting, tainted person, but I totally check out other women in the locker room at my gym. I’m not looking at them to admire or mock their bodies. You could present me with a limbless, morbidly obese woman with that South American hairy face disease and I’d still think she was hotter than me. Truth be told, I really just marvel at other women’s comfort with public nudity.
I’m never naked. I hate it more than anything. Seriously. I’ve been naked maybe twice in my entire life. Blame society.
Anyway, I’m in the locker room this afternoon, stashing my shit in a cubby hole and I can’t stop myself from eyeing this 80 year old mass of blue and white flesh attempting to towel dry every fucking nook and cranny of her naked, naked self. Unable to look away, I totally stare as she nonchalantly wanders around her bench, piled, mind you, with tons of perfectly wearable elastic waist polyester pants and collared sweatshirts. But no. She performs every post-workout locker room task 100% nude. Scraping her sparse scalp with an afro-pick? Nude. Smacking Walgreen’s lotion upon the few sections of her back she could reach? Nude. Walking THE ENTIRETY of the locker room to the sink so as to wash said lotion from her hands? You guessed it. Totally goddamn naked.
It is at this point that I see a like-minded gawker blinded by the same sight, also unable to stop herself from observing this unnerving image. My fellow voyeur and I make uncomfortable eye contact as the octogenarian shimmies by and for a moment, I’m convinced I’m about to be forcibly removed from GhettoGym. Thankfully, we were both so simultaneously grossed out by the scene and horrified to be caught that we started laughing, the naked mass of varicose veins totally oblivious to our shared horror.
While I’m embarrassed, frightened and most likely, irrevocably scarred from today’s locker room peep show, I feel much better about myself knowing that I’m not the only pervert checking out the elderly in the ladies room of GhettoGym…

Friday, December 02, 2005

i am a venti-sized dork...

There’s only one thing more humiliating than knocking over your $4 latte at Starbucks, and that’s knocking over someone else’s. It’s been said before and no doubt, it’ll be said again. I lack grace. It’s the one thing I aspire to above all else and sadly, the one thing I’m sure I’ll never possess. So it was certainly no surprise to me when my huge handbag swiped across the counter and toppled “Jen’s” holiday-themed caffeinated beverage. As far as I’m concerned, that’s what you get for ordering something eggnog, gingerbread or pine cone flavored, but Jen wasn’t seeing the humor in this morning’s mishap.
My barista pal, Evan, giggled and clapped his hands, whipping up Jen another cup of crap in minutes, and I couldn’t apologize enough, but neither of us were able appease her decidedly unhappy holiday attitude. She dumped an extra pile of Slenda into her cup and left, shooting me dirty looks the entire time. As the door slammed, Evan looked at me and said, “I think you just totally ruined her day. Fabulous!”

Thursday, December 01, 2005

pathetically, this is the kind of shit i live for...

Okay, I have three things to say about this article:

1. It made my night. I can’t explain why nor can I justify my loser-dom, but it’s the truth.
2. ‘Splain me the white van or truck. If I wouldn’t be caught dead in it, why would Rachel Green. When I read van, I think A-Team. When I read truck, I think faux-low-maintenance poser. No? Come on. Vince Vaughn pretends he drives a truck so as to seem legit. He wouldn’t really. No matter how blue collar the roots, you become a huge movie star and still buy a truck? In the great words of Big Chris, I call bullshit.
3. Finally, and this is a very specific reference for basically, one reader, but this article begs the line, “Get arrested for what? Bein’ awesome?”

PS. This doesn't count as a real blog. I just had to vent...

hot for teacher...

KJ and I went to Patterson’s for cocktails after work last night. Sitting at the bar full of aging longshoremen and sad, sad women, we were approached by a disheveled, long haired 30-something in a sweat-suit with her keys around her neck.
“Hey, girls.”
“Uh, hi.”
“Ladies, I’m like super buzzed and I’ve got all these damn fucking papers to grade.”
She struggled to balance on her barstool and slammed a huge binder down. “I’m a 5th grade teacher and I’ve got 45 fucking book reports to go through. I’m like, trashed, and I can’t decide if I’m in a good mood or bad mood. They’re all getting A’s or F’s.”
KJ and I looked at each other. “Um, what book?”
“They’re all different books.” She screamed across the bar, taking another swig of her hot brandy. “God, I hate this shit.”
“Have you read all the books?”
“I’ve read most of this shit, and if the book report sucks and I haven’t read it, I’ve got to go find the crappy paperback and figure out where the kid went wrong. Like this kid.” She digs through her binder and pulls out a double spaced, 2 page report, smacking in on the bar.
“I’ve been teaching this kid since he was four and I am positive about one thing. He hates women.”
“He’s a complete psychopath. He hates all women. Has absolutely no respect. He makes me sick. He rips the legs off spiders.”
“Oh, my cousin’s like that.” KJ pipes in. “He used to take live frogs and rip them apart by their legs. It’s like this big family drama.”
It is at this point that I can’t decide who the bigger freak show is: the alcoholic, jaded grade school teacher to my right or my friend sitting on my left.
The two of them continue, comparing the 12 signs of a serial killer and the most masochistic children they’ve come across. The best I could do was Cyril, the smelly kid from 4th grade that tried to hang himself with a jump rope.
Boozy, leathery teacher finally left, only after doing her impression of the woman-hating 5th grader for the entire bar, and KJ and I watched her stumble out into the rain, spilling book reports on the sidewalk as she walked past the bar.
I took a sip of my Chardonnay. “That was bizarre and frightening.”
“Call me crazy.” KJ sighed. “I kinda like her.”

easilly confused...

I've got a wacky story for you later, but in the meantime, am I the only one confusing Stanley Tucci with Stanley "Tookie" Williams?

rainbow flags at half mast...

Oh my god. I’m totally crying at my desk. Wendy Jo Sperber died. Seriously. I’m incredibly upset. Thank god it’s pouring rain, because I’m sobbing hysterically…