Tuesday, January 31, 2006

my baloney has a first name...

You’ve obviously turned your computer on. So you’re well aware that Oscar nominations were announced this morning. I read them off to my co-workers, feeling like I was some drunk has-been presenting an award.
“Joaquin Phoenix for Walk the Line. He’s a complete loon. Seriously, you guys. He’s insane. Phillip Seymore Hoffman for Capote. He must win. I’m still not over Bill Murray being robbed. Heath Ledger for Brokeback Mountain. Ugh, the mumbling. Over it. David Strathairn for Good Night and Good Luck. I hate him because he takes himself too seriously to do red carpet interviews. And Terrance Howard for Hustle and Flow. That’s the pimp movie.”
Apparently, Terrance Howard can’t stop crying. I don’t blame him. To think that anyone from The Best Man would ever get nominated for an Oscar is absurd. Also, the fact that lovebirds Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams are nominated makes me want to stab someone. I know I will be bombarded with images of them gazing at each other, so desperately in love that we’ll all act shocked when they arrive at next year’s Oscars with other people.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give to win an Oscar. The glory. The gown. The giftbag. Not to mention the speech!
“And the winner is…Beth Spotswood for Shotgun Revenge, the Kimberly Guilfoyle Newsom Story.
Camera cuts to me, overwhelmed in my Narcisco Rodriguez gown and Harry Winston diamonds. Billions of eyes watch for my reaction.
Internally, I’m relieved and vindicated. Externally, I’m shocked and humble. I rise, making sure every inch of that dress is where it’s supposed to be, and hug my brother who attended with me. The controversial nature of my winning role meant Gavin had to stay at home and avoid the media frenzy. I make my way to the stage, ignoring the brown-nosing skanks trying to act like they know me and graciously hugging select and wildly important people with whom I wish to appear close. A tuxedoed male supermodel escorts me up the stairs, where George Clooney hands me my Oscar and slips me a mysterious personal note.
Still feigning shock and humility, I step to the microphone and scan the star-studded audience, shooting Angelina Jolie a dirty look. Composing myself, I take a deep breath and begin my prepared speech.

“Anyone who says it’s an honor just to be nominated is full of shit. It’s an honor to win, folks. And for the rest of my life, I’ll have ‘Oscar-winning’ as a pre-fix. Yes! Deal with that, bitches. Uh, there are so many people to thank. I’d like to thank Jennifer Lopez for her crappy taste, making the rest of us look better. I’d like to thank my supporting cast for staying the hell away from my trailer as I requested. I’d like to thank my agent for getting me far more money than anyone deserves. And I’d like to thank Clooney for last night…”

Monday, January 30, 2006

the language of film is apparently not universal...

I’d never even heard of the new French film, Cache before, so when Chris said he was going to a late showing last night, I didn’t agree to tag along until I’d read about it online. Here’s what I found:

“Georges, who hosts a TV literary review, receives packages containing videos of himself with his family -- shot secretly from the street -- and alarming drawings whose meaning is obscure. He has no idea who may be sending them. Gradually, the footage on the tapes becomes more personal, suggesting that the sender has known Georges for some time. Georges feels a sense of menace hanging over him and his family but, as no direct threat has been made, the police refuse to help.”

I called Chris back. “This looks awesome. I’m in.”
We headed over to the Clay on Fillmore and wandered into the theater. Within five minutes, I was hooked. It’s shot beautifully, it’s got a very stylized, Euro look to it, and you’re sucked into this great mystery immediately. Parts are funny, parts are terrifying and the whole time, you’re trying to figure out who’s sending these goddamn videos.
It’s clever, not just in the story but in how it’s told. And it becomes clear that you have to pay close attention, that every detail might be subtle clue.
After a while, it starts to drag, but I sat there waiting for the big payoff. Is it the orphan? The orphan’s son? Georges’ son? The wrist-kissing friend?
Come on, Frenchies. It’s midnight. I’m falling asleep.

~SPOILER ALERT (kind of)~

The credits roll. That’s it. Chris and I looked at each other.
“What the fuck?”
“Who sent the tapes?”
“I have no idea.”
We walked into the lobby scratching our heads and I headed to the ladies. Needless to say, I found a frenzy of bathroom discussion. “So who sent the tapes?”
“I can’t figure it out.”
“I read, in lots of places actually, that you’re supposed to look in the lower left hand corner during the final shots. The answer is somewhere in the lower left hand corner.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t see it.”
Ugh.
We went home and searched online, desperate for some internet nerd to gleefully give away the secret. All we could find was intense discussion and theorizing, with lots of mention of the lower left hand corner but nothing definitive.
Apparently, half the people who see it get it, and half don’t. I can’t decide if there’s really one solid answer, or if it’s some big, European, existential, no-one-will-ever-really-know kind of thing.
Well, let me just say for the record. I’m American. I named my blog after Usual Suspects. I like my big surprise endings. I need closure.
And of course, if anyone wants to go, I’ll be heading back to Cache. You can find me in the front row with both eyes glued to that goddamn lower left hand corner…

Sunday, January 29, 2006

what the hell is a quince...

My parents were booked on my actual birthday, which was Saturday, so they took Andy and I to dinner at Frisson on Friday. I’d been desperate to get to Frisson (pronounced, of course, free-Zon) for some time, having read about it constantly and watched my hippest friends drool when discussing it. I’d religiously peruse the website at work and obsess over every aspect, (particularly loving the incredible free web soundtrack) I found the place the place THAT cool.
They asked one more time. Where did I want my folks to take me for my birthday.
Duh.
Frisson. Definitely Frisson.
We picked up Andy and headed to the financial district, finding a traffic jam building on the 200 block of Jackson. Like out of a movie, luxury cars and well dressed pedestrians came to a halt in front of a low lit, modern doorway.
“What’s all this?” my mother asked from the front seat.
“What do you think it is? This is Frisson!”
Andy and I leapt out of the car like overly excited unsophisticates as mom switched handbags and dad dealt with valet. I walked down the hallway and up to the hostess. “Hi. We have an 8:15 reservation for four. I’m Beth.”
She looked at her little computer.
“Happy Birthday! You’re table will be ready shortly. Would you like to hang out in the bar? I’ll come find you.”
“Fabulous! Thank you!”
We walked along the circular orange and pink colored dining room, past the DJ and into the bar, marveling at the famous and giant Catherine Wagner photograph of champagne bubbles. Getting the stunning bartender’s attention amidst perfect San Franciscans was challenging, but it didn’t matter. Everyone just stood around acting cooler than the next person. With drinks finally in hand, my mother sipped her Chardonnay and looked around. “My god. I’m the oldest person in here by 30 years.”
She had a point. Even in the dining room, where your stock portfolio dictates your table location, it was the 30-something, perfectly dressed, rich people area. Everyone was way cooler than us and of course, acted like they didn't care. I was so excited, I was practically jumping up and down. I tried to play it cool.
I spotted a woman with gray hair. “Over there, mom! She’s old.”
Mom sighed over the music. “I can’t see that far.”
The hostess found me in the bar. I watched her flawless figure walk towards us, marveling at the drape of her strapless black cocktail dress, the sparkle from her chic vintage rhinestone earrings, even the perfect bounce of her perfect blonde hair. “Hey Beth. I know it’s your birthday and I know you want a fabulous table. So, I’ve saved you the best table in the room, but they’re taking their time leaving. I can seat you right now at a lesser table or you can wait for the perfect table. It’s up to you.”
I looked at my family. “It’s your birthday, Bethy. Let’s wait for the table.”
Ah, my family knows me so well.
We ended up waiting an hour for the table and we couldn’t have cared less. They made us feel good about it, like they were doing us some big favor. And apparently they were. When you go to Frisson, you wait, darling.
Lo and behold, when perfect hair hostess came and got us, we were ushered to THE table, a swank booth with a view of everything and everyone. As we walked into the dining room, mom passed a Prada-suited, serious looking, trendy haired man. He nodded at her. She nodded back. She then looked at me and burst into laughter. “This place is a trip.”
Well, it couldn’t be that much of a trip. Jet-set Joanne follows that with, “It kind of reminds me of the Hudson.”
Oh really? Does it remind you of the Hudson, Manhattan’s fabulous roof-top bar at the fabulous Hudson Hotel?
Dad ordered wine as we perused the menus. “What are you having, Andy?”
“Hmmm. I don’t know. Maybe the mixed field greens and the chicken?”
His dining companions flipped.
“What!”
“You can’t order that!”
“Look at this menu!”
“Go crazy, Andy! Seriously. You can‘t get field greens.”
He looked at me. “Well, what are you starting with?”
I couldn’t help myself. “The fois gras pb&j.”
“What?”
“It comes with quince marmalade, dahling.”
The wine arrived, and with it, an adorable wine man. He looked at me and subtly smiled. “Happy Birthday.”
God, I love my birthday.
Dad tested the wine, and deemed it fine. Wine man poured. We sipped.
“Oh my god, this wine is fantastic!”
“Jesus, Dick. This is great wine.”
“Seriously. This is spectacular. What a difference from the Chardonnay at the bar. This is great.”
Suddenly experts, we couldn’t stop talking about this fantastic wine, feeling hip and sophisticated, like we knew what we were talking about. Then, my father made his toasts. As I retold this tale to Alex in Denver today, he responded, “That’s so dad. When dad has something he really wants to say, he’s got to say it in his grandiose way. I dig that.”
We sat in the circular dining room and I watched my father from across the table. He raised his glass. “To Beth. I have been blessed with the best daughter I could ever ask for. Happy Birthday, Bethy. I love you.”
Click glasses. Sip wine.
But he continued.
“And to Andy.” Raise of glasses again. “Andy, I always enjoy myself with you. Whenever Andy comes over, I know we’re going to have a great time. You’re really part of this family. It’s a pleasure, Andy.”
“Thanks, Dick.”
Clink glasses. Sip wine.
Dad spoke up again. “I’m going to the restroom.”
We perused the menu until he returned and saddled into the booth. “So, everyone MUST go to the bathroom.”
“Why?”
“Just trust me. Everyone must go to the bathroom.”
Okay.
We ordered.
Andy still got his chicken, but started with a complex cheese plate instead of field greens. “They’ve got quince butter. I must have my quince buttah, dahling.”
The food was tiny but spectacular. I actually adored my fois gras pb&j. Andy got up to go the bathroom, as my mother noticed an older gay couple walking in. “Oh, they’re older than me! Thank god!”
We watched them sit down.
“See, see? They’re older than us, Dick.”
“Uh, Joanne. Not only does he have a cane, he’s missing an arm.”
My biggest problem was their outfits, but I kept my mouth shut. Andy returned.
“My god. You girls have to go to the bathroom.”
Uh, Okay.
Our entrees arrived, and they were so appallingly little, my butternut squash risotto looked like Barbie food. But who cares? Every bite was heaven. Mom got up to go to the bathroom.
“God." I whined. "Everyone’s obsessed with the bathroom. Why?”
“We’re not telling you. You have to go.”
Mom returned. “That was really strange. I can’t believe this place! God, that was so weird.”
Dessert came ages later, in the form of huge plates full of apples and chocolate and streudel-y things. Dad sipped his brandy and paid the bill. It was finally my turn to explore this mysterious bathroom. I excused myself. “Just go to the elevator.” They said. “You’ll figure it out.”
I wandered through the dining room, finding an elevator behind a panel of opaque champagne colored glass. My only choice was down, and I rode the single story ride is breathless anticipation. This had better be good, what with my entire table in a frenzy over the magical facilities.
The elevator doors opened.
I emerged into a darkly lit room, a slim, wine colored hallway to my right, and another Prada-suited man to my left. He looked at me. “I believe there’s a free stall right over there.”
What?
It appears the elevator at Frisson goes directly into the bathroom, folks.
The unisex bathroom.
I walked into the stall as directed, closed the door, looked at myself in the door mirror now facing me and laughed. This is insane. An elevator to the unisex bathroom.
Fabulous.
I emerged and was guided to the candle-lit, communal washing trough. House music filled the room as an array of us, men and women, stood confused around the sick.
How the hell do you turn the water on?
They’ve got a guy for that, too.
“Just push this lever, ma’am. Right here, sir.”
Oh my god.
I took the huge bathroom elevator back up, and emerged again into the main room of Frisson. A gorgeous man stopped me and inquired, “Is this the elevator to the restroom?”
“Yes it is. And it’s bizarre.”
He looked excited. “Fantastic.”
We gathered our coats and pushed out way past the hordes of people still waiting to get in. Valet had the car ready and we slipped inside, feeling fabulously cool and stuffed. “That was marvelous." I sighed. "Thanks, guys.”
Andy giggled in the backseat and fell onto my shoulder.
“God, that was fabulous. Nothing goes with quince buttah like a unisex bathroom, dahling…”

Friday, January 27, 2006

matthew in the man robe...

Zoe, being a flawless friend, celebrated my birthday early yesterday by taking me for an afternoon of spa treatments and then to a spectacular dinner. She’d kept this a fabulous secret for ages, giving me subtle hints and finally, yesterday, revealing it’s glory. I was to leave work early and meet her at ReFresh Day Spa at 3:15, for a massage, a facial and a manicure. I was also to bring all kinds of fancy clothes, all my toiletries I could possibly need for a night out and fabulous, ethnic jewels.
I love Zoe.
Of course, as I raced home from work and gathered my clothes, I couldn’t decide what to wear. I glanced at the clock. It was 3:15. Fuck. I threw off my cute and flattering work clothes, threw on an unflattering huge sweater and gigantic baggy sweatpants, grabbed my outfits, toiletries and jewels and raced over to ReFresh. Late, I walked in the front door and was greeted by an oddly unattractive woman.
“You must be Beth.”
“Yes!”
“I can tell. You look stressed out. Zoe’s waiting in the Women’s Dressing Room for you. You’ve got locker Number 12. I’ll bring you back.”
She led me and my belongs back behind the front desk, into a huge, Asian themed spa. “Over here is the relaxation cocoon. This is where you’ll meet your therapist after you change.”
We then walked in the locker room, passing a robed Zoe along the way.
“Oh my god, hi!”
“Hi! I’m going to get my massage. I’ll see you in the cocoon.”
“Fabulous.”
Unattractive front desk lady that called me stressed then brought me to locker 12.
“This is your locker. Here are slippers and a robe, as well as hangers to hang up your fancy clothes. I know you and Zoe are getting dressed up after your treatments. What shoe size are you?”
“Ugh, I have monstrous feet.”
“Well, you’re so tall! In fact, is that robe too short for you? It’ll only hit your knees. I can get you a much longer robe.”
“Um, whatever you think.”
She slipped away and returned with enormous slippers and a gigantic terrycloth sheet, sewn into a robe. Oh my god. This is the fat people robe.
I undressed from my admittedly frumpy and unflattering sweats and put on the robe, so huge that it practically dragged behind me on the ground. Huge sleeves covered my hands and the belt was about 10 feet long. I looked like Yoda. Oh my god. This is totally the fat people robe.
I went to meet Zoe in the relaxation cocoon.
“Zoe. They made me wear the fat people robe.”
“Oh my god. Shut up. I bet she gave it to you because it’s so much longer. I am your best friend. I would tell you. That is not the fat people robe.”
“Seriously. I’m pretty sure it’s the fat people robe.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s the tall people robe.”
“I bet it’s both, actually.”
“Well, you’re getting it because you’re tall.”
I tried to relax, as Zoe was led away to her massage. Soon, I was met by Louise, a rather alternative but very cool looking masseuse. She guided me into a candle lit massage room, and left me to disrobe and get on the table. Louise is spectacular, and is so gifted at the art of massage, I was almost able to forget about me and my fat people robe. After she was done, she led me back to the relaxation cocoon to wait for my facial.
I sat and sipped my tea, while reading an article about Jake Gyllenhaal in Details Magazine. Soon, a robe-clad man walked in and picked up a magazine as well, sitting across from me waiting for his treatment. I looked at his robe and looked at my robe.
I wasn’t in the fat people robe. I wasn’t in the tall people robe. I was in the man robe.
Oh my god.
He was soon ushered off to a massage and I sat alone once again, now feeling huge, tall and butch. I then noticed a small and gorgeous therapist who kept walking past, looking into the cocoon. She finally popped her head in.
“This is going to sound bizarre, but you’re not Matthew, are you?”
OH MY GOD.
“Do I look like Matthew?”
“Well, no. Of course not. But you’d be surprised. We have clients who use last names, have weird first names…”
“Oh my god. Is it because I’m in the man robe?”
She laughed. “No, no. I’m so sorry. Ugh, I’m so sorry. I’m Monica.”
“I’m BETH.”
“Ugh, I’m so sorry. You totally don’t look like a man.”
“Okay. Great. Thanks.”
Louise came by again. “You know, Beth, you’ve got about 20 minutes until your next treatment. You can go relax in the sauna and steam room if you want. I’ll get you some cucumber water and bring you back.”
“Oh, thank you Louise. That’s perfect.”
Me and my man robe walked back to the dressing room and found the sauna. As I took off my robe and grabbed a towel, unattractive front desk lady brought a newly arrived woman back, a woman who was incredibly, incredibly fat. Unattractive woman immediately ran off to the robe closet and gave incredibly fat woman the Fat/Tall/Masculine people robe.
At this point, I was ready to kill myself. I was seriously ready to commit suicide, I was so convinced that I was a huge, obese man. In my emotional state, my eyes darted about the dressing room in a frantic search for a means of death. While I didn’t see a noose, a gun or some razor blades, I did see a huge basket full of discarded robes.
I think we all know what happened next.
I slipped off my man robe and grabbed a used “One Size Fits Most” woman robe.
I no longer cared what naked body had been inside that unwashed robe before mine. I HAD to know.
Guess what? I’m MOST. Thank fucking god, that robe fit just fine.
I slipped back into my man robe and finally relaxed. After a steam and a sauna, I enjoyed a spectacular facial and met Zoe in the manicure cocoon. We sipped cucumber water and I regaled her and the Korean manicure lady with my man robe story. Both of them were dying of laughter.
“Oh, I so sorry.” My manicurist giggled. “You no fat. You no look like man. You so funny.”
Zoe rolled here eyes. “I told you so. Jesus Christ, Beth.”
“Well, that Matthew shit really put me over the edge.”
“I bet. I can’t believe that. What timing.”
We relaxed in our manicure thrones, which were about 10 feet off the ground, and finally retreated back to the ladies room to steam, sauna, shower and get ready.
Hell bent on looking like the thinnest, womanliest woman to ever exit the ReFresh Day Spa, I slipped into the gold stilettos and skinny jeans, with make-up and flouncy hair and a beaded, gold kimono.
I stood in the full length mirror and examined myself for any trace of obesity or manliness. “I will never be thin, Zoe. It’s that 25% Italian-ness.”
Zoe watched me in the mirror. “You look beautiful, Beth. You look beautiful and healthy and fit. And while you are mildly psychotic and incredibly neurotic and not waif-like, you are not fat.”
Zoe is my best friend not because she takes me to an afternoon of spa treatments for my birthday, spending on fortune on extravagant pampering, following that by stuffing me with booze and foreign food. Zoe is my best friend because when I find myself in a fat person man robe being asked if my name is “Matthew,” she not only knows exactly how I feel, she knows exactly what to say…

Thursday, January 26, 2006

yes!

THIS is pretty much the greatest video I have ever seen in my life...

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

you keep talking like a bitch...

I’ve always held a soft spot for Chris Penn in my heart. Anyone that appears in both Footloose and Reservoir Dogs is alright by me. So I was horrified to read last night that he was found dead yesterday in some crummy Santa Monica condo.
That’s right. Nice Guy Eddie is dead. That just sucks…

Mr. Blonde: Eddie, if I was a butt cowboy, I wouldn't even throw you to the posse.
Nice Guy Eddie: Of course not, you'd keep me for yourself, you sick bastard. Four years of fuckin' punks up the ass you'd appreciate a piece of prime rib when you see one.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

another exciting interview!

While suffering through Richard Lewis’ opening acts, my brother and I were suddenly blown away. While most abhor my taste in music, movies and television, I know comedy. And some tattooed Buddy Holly was killing. “Who is this guy?”
“I have no idea. He’s fucking hilarious.”
“This is like, the greatest act I’ve seen in my life.”
“Holy shit. I hurt from laughter.”
“I ache from the genius.”
“We have to find out who this guy is.”
The guy was Jacob Sirof, and he’s today’s celebrity interview.

Spots: What’s your favorite thing about me?

Jacob: You like ME.

Spots: What’s your favorite thing about Gavin Newsom?

Jacob: The fact that he's a democrat, yet during the mayoral race, he was portrayed as some kind of Neo-Nazzi by the uber-left SF media. All you heard was how heroic Matt Gonzales (Green Party) was, while Gavin was lumped in with W, Ashcroft, Rumsfeld, and the like. I just assumed that he was a Republican, and was shocked to find out that he's actually a liberal! Only in San Francisco.... He also has an AMAZING voice. After his term(s) as mayor, a huge career in cartoon voice-over work awaits him. I guess that's two things....

Spots: If you were a hobo, what would your hobo sign say?

Jacob: I am a Jew, and therefore would NEVER be a hobo. However, I can tell you about my favorite actual hobo sign. In truth, it wasn't really a sign, so much as a catch-phrase. I was standing outside of Cobb's Comedy Club in SF, and a man asked me if I could "make a donation to the United Negro Fried Chicken Fund!" Yesss!!! So rad!!! Now, as a rule, I never give money to panhandlers -- not even change. This guy made me laugh out loud, however, and that's more than I can say for most of the comics I know. After I composed myself, I chased him down the street and gave him a crispy new one dollar bill. What can I say? I'm a Closet Philanthropist!

Spots: Which comedian is the biggest asshole and why?

Jacob: Wow. I'd have to say my wife, fellow comic Sherry Sirof, because she only gives me ANAL during the High Holidays. (You didn't really expect an honest answer, did you? Because I'm not nearly successful enough to give you one.)

Spots: This from someone who’s got a photo of himself with Gilbert Gottfried on his MySpace. What is your favorite joke of all time?

Jacob: See question ..3.

Spots: Describe your perfect celebrity dream date.

Jacob: Natalie Portman shows up at my house with Kung Pao Chicken. We eat. We fuck. She leaves.

Spots: When people heckle you, what do they most often yell?

Jacob: "Hey, Christ-killer, admit the Holocaust never happened, or get off the stage!!!" San Francisco's a rough comedy town, Beth.

Spots: If you had to pick a stage name, what would you pick?

Jacob: L. Ron Hubbard. Name somebody funnier. You can't. (Seriously, I'm kind of obsessed.)

Spots: Which Golden Girl is your favorite and why?

Jacob: Emmy. You know, that winged chick holding the globe from the statuette. Why? Because what I really want to do is be a Hip-Hop Super-Producer. Watch your back, Timbaland!

Spots: That one went over my head. Do you have anything to promote and do I get any of it free?

Jacob: My comedy, and you just did.

You can see Jacob all this weekend at some place called Rooster T. Feathers in Sunnyvale, which sounds to me like the kind of place Scott Peterson hung out…

Monday, January 23, 2006

god, this is a good question...

After 2 years of working together, countless hours of random discussion and many, many trips to get lunch at Whole Foods, I’ve finally stumped BenCoeFreakShow. The question that he is still completely unable to answer?

If you could have one fruit as the one and only fruit you could eat, in additional to all other non-fruit food, for the rest of your life, what would that fruit be?

My god. You’d think I asked him to pick which parent he loved more. Ben is completely flummoxed, spending 10 minutes discussing his love of strawberries, detailing how “refreshing” he finds them. Then, onto bananas and their healthful “heartiness.” Peppering me with questions and desperate for a loophole, Ben needed to know the details of my criteria.
What if the fruit isn’t in season?
Um, it’s always the best version of your fruit.
Year round?
Year round.
Well, what’s your fruit?
Pineapple.
Hmmm. Good choice. But pineapple is very acidic. It’ll ruin the enamel on your teeth. But I like pineapple. It’s a nice choice. God, this is a good question.
Well, what’s in gonna be, freakshow?
Based upon your criteria, I’m going with strawberries. God, I love strawberries. They’re so refreshing…

never get involved in a land war in asia...

By far, the best and worst thing about going out is meeting strangers. On Friday, Zoe, KJ and I headed out to the Beach Chalet. Don’t ask me why. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
KJ walked into the bar with a glass of wine already in her hand and found us sitting by the band.
“I was waiting downstairs at the Park Chalet. And this freakshow kept trying to talk to me. We should go find him later and make him buy us drinks. He claims to be loaded.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Some nut. I’m serious. I told him I was meeting friends and he was like, ‘I’ll buy all of your drinks. I’m rich!’ So I said we might come down.”
“Oh my god. How bizarre.”
Needless to say, after a few drinks, we wandered downstairs to the Park Chalet. 2 seconds later, the nut was upon us. Few people in this world have perfect celebrity equivalents, but the nut WAS Wallace Shawn, only slightly taller.
Seriously. Vizzini from The Princess Bride. Mr. Hall from Clueless. Stuart Best from Murphy Brown. Immediately, he announced his immense wealth and stumbled up to the bar to buy our drinks. Zoe chose to celebrate the occasion by ordering Champagne. Worse than this guy’s advanced age and unattractiveness, worse than his oddly bandaged and filthy hands, worse even than his weirdo friend, whose hands were similarly and mysteriously bandaged, was Vizzini’s insistence on telling KJ she looks just like Natasha from Rocky and Bullwinkle.
“Say moose and squirrel! Say it!”
I could not believe I was sitting through this asshole’s bullshit for a couple of free glasses of Pinot. “So, what exactly do you do that makes you so filthy rich?”
“Ha! Sass! I like it! I’m in precious metals.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
He then proceeded to slur an incomprehensible answer while calling me a pushy broad. Zoe was having none of this and decided we were leaving. We gathered our belongings and said goodbye as politely as possible. As we walked out the door, he screamed one last time, “Say it! Say moose and squirrel!”
When we got home, Zoe sat down in the kitchen.
"He's kinda right."
"Who? The nut?"
"Yeah. Kristin does kind of look like Natasha..."

Friday, January 20, 2006

who's a badass now, greg...

Most of the time, I rip off my celebrity gossip from brilliant sites like Dlisted and Just Jared, but on occasion, I get the scoops myself. I'd like to give a shout out to my devoted reader, Molly, who, in addition to teaching me how to play Flip Cup in the basement of a Bethlehem, PA house of sin, is currently employed by a huge news media conglomerate where she has access to decidedly fabulous gossip.
This morning, I received the following:

hey beth!
got a scoop on your favorite new actor Johnathan Rhys Meyers!
we interviewed him y'day for CNN American Morning. Check it out! it's in the 6am hour on the west coast tho-- doubt you'll be up.
anyway! this morning ...*****************..... (off the record please!) ...but this you can publish... he was seen putting on lipstick before the taping... AND he was wearing gator-skin boots! can anyone say homo?
--yours-in-gossip
molly

What! Lipstick? This is incredible and has, sadly, completely made my day...

Thursday, January 19, 2006

hey eunice, come check out these new releases...

Maybe I’m in a pissy mood because I was forced to cruise by the fabulous socialites and news vans all congregated around the party I’m supposed to be attending with Gavin presently, but as I drove home and listened to KFOG’s New Releases Thursday, I was suddenly livid. How is Sweet Home Alabama a new release? 70's Bowie glam rock? Electric Avenue? These are not new releases, folks.
What’s next? The 1812 Overture?

here comes trouble...

So, uh, guess what I’m going tonight?

What’s that, you say? Discussing abortion with Gavin?

Yep! You guessed it! The stellar and well-connected Zoe has scored two $150 tickets to a VIP reception where we’ll hob-nob with the pro-lifers. I’m not sure that I can sit through an hour and a half of Q & A about terminated pregnancies, but I’m down for passed hors d’oeuvres and an open bar. Also, what does one wear to look appropriately concerned about women’s rights, yet fabulously hot?
I shall be reporting back tomorrow on my proximity to Gav and any hanky panky that I hope to orchestrate in a janitorial closet or similar…

*Post script at 4:35pm: Nevermind. I have too much work to do. I'm sitting in my office alone, everyone else is gone, and I'm still slaving away. Goodbye Gavin, goodbye abortion lecture, goodbye hanky panky in a janitorial closet. Zoe is holding 2 tickets in her hand right now. Want them?

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

if you consider 2003 "vintage"...

Apparently, those bitches over at Chanel forgot to mention to Reese Witherspoon that some skank already wore her "vintage" dress to the same event 3 years ago. Seriously, folks. Nothing takes away the glow of winning a Golden Globe faster than finding out Kristin Dunst already worked the red carpet in that very frock ages ago. Quelle horreur.
But Reese looks better, got the trophy and is married to a god. Plus, she's in good company. The same shit happened to me at the 1989 Father/Daughter Dance...

*I can almost see the bubble over Siguorney's head, "Get your colorless feet off my dress, you talentless whore, before I blacklist your ass back to Jumanji."

gays and goalkeepers...

My never ending fascination with and hatred of Jonathan “Don’t Hyphenate Me Last Name” Rhys Meyers prompted me to e-mail The Lads and inquire as to his sexuality, claims to be Irish and obvious lack of acting ability. Positive I’d get a response along the lines of, “Oh, yah. Me cousin David fucked him in the toilet three years ago” I sent the following e-mail:

Gentlemen,
I have a question regarding one of your countrymen.
Jonathan Rhys-Meyers...gay? He strikes me as a big, flaming queen although Zoe violently disagrees with me. Also, I don't think he's really Irish. I think he's from Detroit or Houston and is faking it. I'd like your thoughts...
Speaking of which, have you seen the Collin Farrell sex tape? I have. It's glorious.

To which I received the following response from Greg:


I dunno if he’s homo, I don’t think so. I reckon he’s bad ass enough! He was permanently expelled from school when he was 16, never went back, I don't think, and now look at him. Compare that to Colin Farrell...he was a pussy growing up and that, Miss Spotswood is FACT! Friend of a friend grew up with him. He used to be the goalkeeper for the local team, his dad was the trainer, and he was supposedly not much fun at all...scoop! He was also a professional line dancer too when that fad hit the island...minus 3 Fonzy cool points again! Oh and Jonathan Rhys-Meyers isn’t his real name, it was Johnny Murphy...common as muck you say?
Indeed. Yes. Quite. Hmmm...
But in conclusion:
Johnny Murphy = badass
Colin Farrell = goalkeeper

There you have it. Directly from one of the Commitments. What I find most interesting, aside from the fact that Jonathan pulled Rhys Meyers out of his ass and is now all prickly about hyphenation, is that apparently, being a goalkeeper makes one a pussy…

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

the town that fudge forgot...

The Green’s picked me up at 9am on Sunday morning with bagels and Snapple. Why? We were driving to Truckee to go sledding. Katherine often comes up with schemes like this, finding some immediate reason to take advantage of a random snowing somewhere 4 hours away. Having nothing better to do, I agreed.
Stopping 4 times to get Starbucks and pee (apparently, no one saw the correlation) we headed up to the snow, spending the last half hour in deadlocked traffic, amidst hundreds of other people who apparently had the same idea as Kat. We finally made it to the sledding place at 1:30, only to find it packed with an array of cranky, pushy, unattractive people and their less charming children.
I’m not outdoorsy. I like the idea of the outdoors, I like the outfits and they way men somehow have much more respect for you and the concept of appreciating trees and hills and shit. But when push comes to shove, I find being cold, wet and uncomfortable while pretending to have fun more trouble than it’s worth.
Shawn waited in line to buy day passes while I entered the “warming hut”, sidestepping the wet Fritos and spilled hot chocolate made from packets of half-stirred powder.
“Katherine, I can’t feel my fingers.”
We looked out the window and examined our options. There were two “runs”, one with big inflated tubes you sit in and a mechanical rope which then pulls you and your tube to the top of a hill. Another run required an awkward plastic disk which you lugged to the top of a hill yourself. Obviously, the tube run looked more fun. But the line for the tube run was a good half hour, and to tube down that hill took about 30 seconds. We looked at Shawn, still in line waiting to get passes.
Agreeing that this was in no way worth it, we pulled Shawn out of line and having driven 4 hours to experience snow, we dove into huge piles of powder and wrestled with each other. “Okay. I’m done. We’ve spent 15 minutes in the snow. Let’s go find some ski lodge and get a goddamn drink.”
Lo and behold, a few miles down the road we found my new favorite place, The Rainbow Lodge. Dragging snow in with us, we wound our way back to the bar and settled in for Snugglers, the perfect peppermint patty blend of Schnapps and hot cocoa. This is the whole point of skiing, if you ask me. Crackling fireplaces, Swiss ski posters, old snowshoes on the wall, loud bar…and I could finally feel my fingers. Deciding the journey is more important than the destination, we headed back on the road in search of food, our only requirement being “ambiance.”
For reasons unknown, we figured the place to find this ambiance was Colfax, California. Colfax is weird, and not just in an old railroad, funky statues, old men unmoving on sidewalks kind of way. Colfax has kind of a creepy, undercurrent of mystery, not to mention a Mexican restaurant featuring “prime rib fajitas.”
We peed and perused a old time candy shoppe, shocked that they didn’t have fudge, and split for beautiful, historic Auburn. It was dark by the time we pulled into Downtown Auburn, and I could not have been more thrilled with the site that greeted us. Bootleggers Old Town Tavern and Grill (friendly fun, food and spirits) glowed with cozy warmth and a huge wine list, candlelit tables and cute servers, all surrounding a fireplace in the middle. “We’re eating here.”
“Yeah, we’re definitely eating here.”
Over wine, fondue, salads and steak, we toasted our find. We spent 8 hours in the car and 15 minutes in the snow, but as far as I’m concerned, our adventure could not have been more successful. I found a fabulous ski lodge with lots of drunks in the bar, a creepy, fudge-less, railroad hovel and Bootleggers Old Town Tavern and Grill, which was both friendly AND fun. Screw sledding and bring me another Snuggler…

Saturday, January 14, 2006

movie review, darling...

Someone’s getting bumped from the Top 5, because while most things about Match Point sucked, especially Jonathan Rhys-Myers and his acting inability, I did discover the greatest British export since Hugh Grant.
Matthew Goode, I love you.
Seriously hot, seriously dressed and seriously hilarious, I am officially in love and thus will not, as discussed on the way home, request my $10.50 back. Match Point disappointed, not so much because we hate anyone appallingly beautiful, ie; Big Boobs Johansson, but because Jonathan “I was mildly attractive in Bend it Like Beckham” Rhys-Myers can barely function, much less act. The only reason I got Zoe to agree to go with me was because of this once-fancied idiot and we suffered through his performance stifling giggles and mocking his robotness.
On the plus side, a far second to the joys of Matthew Goode was the costuming. Match Point contains exceptional clothing. Any man looking for sartorial inspiration should look no further than the flawlessly dressed men in this film. Also, we agreed wholeheartedly, our favorite accessory of the movie was Big Boobs’ leather handbag. Divine.
If you want to see a hot British guy in an under-used supporting role, hear lots of Limeys call each other “darling”, feel immensely poor, lust after other people’s clothes or listen to crackly Opera, by all means, go see Match Point. Otherwise, I’m not seeing what the big deal is. As for the buzz surrounding Jonathan (should just shut up and look pouty) Rhyes-Myers? Well, he was upstaged, darling…

Thursday, January 12, 2006

MY FIRST REAL INTERVIEW...

I know. I know. What you’ve always been waiting for. The First Spots Celebrity Interview. Now, maybe I’m pushing the term “celebrity”, but if you’ve ever seen Scott Capurro’s brilliant stand-up, heard him on 97.3’s Sarah and No-Name Morning Show or watched Mrs. Doubtfire or Star Wars, Episode 1, you’ll admit he’s more famous than say, you or me. And I got him to answer my 5 Celebrity Questions!!!!!!!!

Here goes:

Spots: What is your favorite thing about Gavin Newsom?

Scott: I'm slightly obsessed with him too. I went to high school with his crazy cousin, and I've known of him for a very long time. Favorite Gavin thing? His cousin Jenny. And, of course, his HOT black body guard.

Spots: If you were a hobo, what would your cardboard sign say?

Scott: Dressed by ‘Gavin’

Spots: What is the shittiest bar in San Francisco and why?

Scott: Midnight Sun, because they show Madonna videos. I've just given her enough of my time. Really. Why won't she just go away?

Spots: Celebrities always know other celebrities. Who’s the bitchiest? Explain.

Scott: Madonna. She used to bark at me when I waited tables in LA. But she is a good tipper, I must say. VERY moody though, and, at least years ago, she had a very thick NYC accent. Not an attractive combo: "Hey, waiter, I said Caesar salad, not SEAFOOD salad." Back off bitch. I've been known to spit into salads, either Caesar or otherwise.

Spots: Do you have anything to promote and/or pitch? Do I get any of it free?

Scott: My comedy CD, on sale on Ebay or at Books, Inc on Market Street. Free? Girl, get out of bed and get a job. Daddy don't do free. XX

Scott, I love you and your saucy gay ass. Holy Shit. I can’t believe I got a celebrity interview…

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

i'm going to hell...

Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt are pregnant. How fabulous would it be if they gave the baby up for adoption...

table for six...

Am I alone in delighting that our woman-hating governor looks like he got the shit beat out of him…by a sidewalk. First of all, as someone who trips, falls and plummets down flights of stairs with relative frequency, I would gladly pay a fortune to see Arnold eat concrete, preferably in slow motion while he screamed in his offensive and difficult to discern accent. As I sit here hating him, I came to the conclusion that Arnold Schwartzenasshole is the LAST person I’d want to have at one of my dinner parties. Ever. Which brings me to today’s Top 5:

Top 5 People Who Would Make for a Shitty Dinner Party:

5. Paris Hilton
4. Tom Cruise
3. Ryan Seacrest
2. Mary Kate Olsen (Ashley, however, is more than welcome.)
1. Arnold Sscwartzenshithead

Can you imagine the six of us sitting around, sipping Pinot and discussing world events? Yeah, me neither…

Tuesday, January 10, 2006

i have to get one of those shirts...

Oh my god. I just realized that ANYONE can request an interview with Gavin. Obviously, a request in no way guarantees said interview, but once Gavin’s staff hears my brilliantly prepared questions and reviews my informative blog, there’s no way they can deny me.
Seriously. I’m actually considering this.
The dilemma I’m facing is how to present myself as a legitimate writer as opposed to an unknown, obsessed, boozy celebrity whore who occasionally lacks grace and tact. Also, I imagine they’d want to know what I’d ask. Here are my prepared questions:


1. So, you read my blog, right?
2. Please list 10 things you hate about Kimberly.
3. What is San Francisco doing to celebrate my birthday?
4. How do you emotionally handle the undeniable chemistry between us?
5. What is your cell phone number?
6. Can I smell your clothes?
7. Now that we all agree on the Marina sucking, where do you hang?
8. Settle an argument. Gel or mousse?
9. Can I get a look at your stock portfolio?
10. Will you marry me?


I feel that about wraps up everything my readers and I would like to know. If you have any additional questions you’d like me to ask, please don’t hesitate to contact me, and I’ll include your querries in my pending interview…

i know, i know. i'm gross...

I am sitting at my desk all conflicted and aflutter because I recently received an e-mail alerting me to today’s release of Colin Farrell’s sex tape. Now, if you’ll recall, Colin and I broke up over his height, addiction to heroin and the fact that all the Irish lads convinced me he was bad at “football” which they regard as a grave, woman-like offense. And while I very much enjoy Colin’s accent, leather wristbands and creative use of profanities, I’d moved on to taller and cleaner celebrity obsessions.
Much like spotting an old flame on MySpace or discovering my long lost New Kids on the Block Collector’s Edition trading cards (in the complete, pristine set and laminated), once buried emotions have become unearthed and my passion is now rekindled. So for those wondering what to get me for my birthday…

Monday, January 09, 2006

in case of emergency...

I was raised in a home overflowing with civic responsibility. And while I believe every citizen should impact positive contribution and change, sometimes my dad takes it a little too far. He’s what we’d call a “joiner.” Any club, any organization, any cause that piques his interest - he’ll enthusiastically sign right up.
With my mother in Mexico, celebrating her birthday by slaving away at some orphanage with her girlfriends, dad and Alex invited me over to a dinner of duck and lentils, created from a complicated Wall Street Journal recipe that fascinated them. We stood around the kitchen drinking beer, as Alex hovered over the stove and dad pontificated about his latest community escapades.
“Well, that’s exactly what we were talking about at my N.E.R.T. meeting.”
“What the hell is nert?”
“Neighborhood Emergency Response Team!”
“You and emergencies. You love those natural disasters.”
“Do you want to see my uniform?”
“You have a uniform?”
“Don’t move!” He went running upstairs.
“Dad is losing it.”
“Wait till you get a load of the uniform.”

Friday, January 06, 2006

where's tonya...

If you ever take advantage of any of my bizarre and ridiculous recommendations, this is the one. Tomorrow at noon, on my favorite TV channel, Bravo, is the only rerun of “McCormick Presents Kristi Yamaguchi Friends and Family.”
Listen to me. This is the greatest television special in the history of the world. I’m serious. I could not feel any stronger about this.
Sitting on Andy’s bed last night, eating burritos and flipping through the channels, Andy suddenly screamed.
“Oh, girl, stop! Put down the remote! Figure skating! Look at that man’s ass!”
“Andy, you can’t be serious. This is Kristi Yamaguchi Friends and Family.”
“Just let me watch for a minute. Look at him go!”
“Is he skating to Kenny Rogers?”
“Oh, yes. I love Kenny Rogers. My mom was obsessed with him.”
With that, the skater with the ass spins around the rink as the camera pans over to…Kenny Rogers! Singing “Lady” on a stage adjacent to the rink! As a gay, gay figure skater performs the shittiest choreography I’ve ever seen!
It was wonderful.
But even better, Andy didn’t think it was funny. He thought it was art. And he was singing along. This display was merely the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. The whole concept of Kristi Yamaguchi Friends and Family is parents and kids, so we have to meet the dreadful family of each skater before their big number in some kind of poorly edited up close and personal montage of Scott Hamilton’s den. Worse, it’s sponsored by McCormick, the cheap spice company, so everyone’s got to give their favorite family recipe. The best was the Russian chick who didn’t speak any English.
“I like make meatball. I grind meat. It very family recipe favorite.”
Andy and I were kicking and screaming, it was so fabulous.
If you watch, you have to watch the whole thing. Because at some point, a man dressed in a low-end clown costume comes on and does what can only be described as a horrible, embarrassing, abstract, conceptual children’s medley, in which you can feel the suddenly uncomfortable audience shift in their seats. Kristi took us to commercial as Andy said, “I’m Kristi Yamaguchi, and I had nothing to do with that.”
Some glorious performances follow, including a man with long blonde hair tearing the house down, an adorable mother/daughter routine by the Russian meatball chick and Nancy Kerrigan awkwardly rocking out in her skates to golden oldies. Kristi, who’s super pregnant and not skating, appears every once in awhile in taped segments and joins us at the end to introduce Kenny Rogers and his live medley of hits. Kenny, god bless him, does that fabulous move where he pulls the mike away from his amazing voice, for fear of overpowering his audience with his immense talent. Literally, every belted word from his lips requires him to squint and twist his head away from the microphone.
It’s worth watching just for this, and to see how incredibly old Kenny looks.
Needless to say, people skate to this madness, including one minute of 2 female skaters doing choreographed movies while holding babies up in the air in unison.
Hello? What could be better?
Oh, wait. I know.
Before Kristi and her freak show, we were watching Dr. Phil and one of the guests resembled Andy’s Uncle Jerry. This quote is verbatim. Literally.
“Oh my god, that guy is totally my Uncle Jerry. The same laugh. The same moustache. He’s even missing the same tooth!”
If you do one thing tomorrow, make it McCormick Presents Kristi Yamaguchi Friends and Family at noon on Bravo. After you see Russian meatball chick land that triple axel in the middle of a McCormick spice logo made of ice to the musical stylings of Kenny Rogers, you’ll thank god you’re an American…

Thursday, January 05, 2006

you're out...

I’ve got a rep as a fag hag, but I think the truth of the matter is, I’ve evolved into a metro-hag. The number of “I hate Santino” text messages I received last night from straight men in response to Project Runway’s Nikki Hilton episode is staggering.
Why is it, I wonder, that straight men are so obsessed with this admittedly fabulous show, in which a collection of wanna-be fashion designers compete against each other in bizarre tasks. Judged by Heidi Klum and the glorious Michael Kors, among others, the designers run the gamut from Marla, the 51 year old boutique owner who doesn’t know what bias means, to Santino, the “30” year old talented villain in stilettos and facial hair.
One would expect Zoe and I to sit around, eyes glued to the TV, lips glued to our wineglass, but Man on the Inside? MOI is completely addicted.
For those that watch, let’s agree that the best thing about Runway is Tim Gunn, the uber-gay svengali who wanders around looking at people’s work as they fervently rush to finish it by the obscene deadlines, points to the mannequin and says things like, “Um, I’m not so sure about what’s going on here. You’ve got 16 minutes left. Can you change it?”
Fabulous.
Because it’s reality TV, at the end of each episode, someone is eliminated, along with a corresponding model, who apparently isn’t allowed to speak. At least one gay cries and someone always gets verbally abusive, adding to the excitement and genius of the show. And after the tears, bitch-slaps and tantrums, Heidi turns to the rejected designer and with a divine, German smugness, smiles and says, Auf weidersehen...

oh, and her dad's in jail...

Am I going to hell because I can’t wait to read the new Vanity Fair, where my hero/nemesis Lindsey Lohan reveals ALL about her fabulous battle with coke and bulimia? Probably. But it’ll be worth it. Ugh, I can’t wait!

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

ghettogym strikes again...

Excited to mock the freaks at GhettoGym yet again, I got home from work, packed up my People magazine and headed over there. I made it all the through my cardio and that magazine and nary a freak appeared. It was almost as if my gym suddenly became normal, safe and clean overnight. The only people wandering around were trainers giving tours to all of the folks who got gym memberships for Christmas, a harmless and easily ignored bunch.
Mildly sweating and severely ugly, I headed upstairs to the jail-yard/weight room, nervous to find it over-flowing with meatheads.
I’m confident in the cardio area, where I’m working out with my fellow self conscious singles, mini-van moms and elderly men in slacks strolling along the treadmill. The jail yard is a different story altogether. Without Zoe, I know how to use about 5 machines by myself, and that’s what I stick to when I venture up there. Also, I’m very uncomfortable with people who grunt or moan when working out. I kind of want to turn to them and say, “Hey, pal. We get it. We’re all very impressed. Now please shut the fuck up. You’re grossing me out.” Then I look at their tree trunk sized neck and rethink my phrasing.
Anyway, the only machine available was this leg press where you have to lie on your stomach on this little arched bed, tuck your legs under this padded bar and curl it back. Quite possibly, the least flattering, most embarrassing machine in all of the jail yard, I sucked it up and maneuvered my way in.
Much resembling the first dead body in Silence of the Lambs, the girl with, you know, the missing back fat, I began to curl back the weights, praying for my reps end as soon as humanly possible. All of a suddenly, I hear, “And this is the leg area.”
A GhettoGym trainer had decided to give some schmuck a tour of the cow on the leg press.
Fabulous.
I break my neck to look up and see a meathead in a GhettoGym polo and someone who can only be described as Uncle Leo from Seinfeld. Sadly, it was so wildly awkward to actually look anywhere but straight down into the little bed thing, I had to continue those damn curls with meathead polo and Uncle Leo critiquing me and my ass, not to mention, my technique. I felt like a beached whale. Apparently, meathead polo has no sense of ladylike decorum.
“Normally, you shouldn’t keep your feet together like that. Your legs should be shoulder width apart.”
Oh my god. He was talking about me. Uncle Leo may have snickered or made faces, but to his credit, didn’t say a word. The wandered off to the abs section, a section I am unfamiliar with, and I was left to wallow in my humiliation.
I went to GhettoGym in giddy anticipation of ghetto freaks and as life has made it clear to me over and over, it turns out the freak was me…

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

this has got to be pretty close...












Gavin’s New Year’s Resolutions:
1. Continue to affect positive world change on grand scale.
2. Meet that girl with the charming blog.
3. Find out what all the “hair gel” snickering is about.
4. Make the Matrix Fillmore less lame.
5. Befriend a real hobo and have it captured in film.

Kimberly’s New Year’s Resolutions:
1. Learn correct pronunciation of housekeeper’s name (note to self: the l’s should sound like y’s)
2. Find better plastic surgeon to make me look less “robotic and insincere.”
3. Prove to Gavin that America doesn't "loathe" me.
4. practice phonetic legal term flashcards.
5. Renew subscription to USA Today...

Monday, January 02, 2006

you can't make this shit up...

Perhaps calling it GhettoGym is a self-fulfilling prophecy. This morning, as I drank my coffee while checking my e-mail, I wondered if I should blog about last night’s viewing of U.S. Marshals or go to the gym and see if anything wacky happens there.
Screw U.S. Marshals. Get a load of what just happened to me.
After nearing cardiac arrest on the StairClimber and dismayed to find not one of the good treadmills or elipticals available, I found a lone stationary bike in the packed gym, keyed in Level 12 and cracked open my Elle. Lost in article about the history of the little black dress, I was yanked into GhettoGym reality by panicky screaming about 4 feet to my left.
“Get the fuck away from me! Get away! Oh my god, someone call for help!”
100 people looked up from their newspapers and iPods, although my proximity was in to top 5%, and assessed the level of emergency. A small, wiry, middle-aged white woman was screaming hysterically at a 20-something, baggy jeans-clad black man.
Holy shit.
“Get away! Don’t you hear me! Ahhhhhhhh!”
Baggy jeans was really just standing there, getting pissed off and saying, “What’s your problem, lady? You need to chill.”
“Move! Get out of here! Ahhhhh! Help! Help!”
“Does anybody see this bitch yelling at me for no reason?” Baggy jeans loudly asked the gym. No one reacted. Everyone stared.
“Ahhhh! Get away from me!” It’s at this point, that she began kicking him and yelling racial slurs.
Literally, everyone was stunned into silence.
“Get this bitch off me!” Baggy jeans yelled. “I’m being assaulted!”
“I’m going to have you arrested! Security! Security!” And with that, middle-aged went running off to the front desk. Baggy jeans turned to the gym. “Did any of y’all see that bitch assault me?”
Nothing. 100 pairs of eyes stared back at him.
Louder and more pissed off. “Did any of y’all see that bitch assault me!!!???!!!”
(now let me just say, in my defense, I saw her kick him. But the kick didn’t really connect with his body and I wanted none of this mess, which at this point, I still didn’t understand.)
To her immense credit, a ballsy woman on another stationary bike piped up. “Yeah. I saw her kick you.”
Baggy jeans turned to her. “What did you say?”
“I said I saw her kick you.”
“You are a witness! Come with me!”
And off they went. The bikers to my right and left both looked at me.
“What happened?”
“I have no idea?”
“Did he do anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She must be nuts.”
“Well, he should’ve walked away.”
“Yeah. Good rule of thumb. Crazy person? Walk away.”
We resumed our peddling, but not knowing what happened was driving me nuts. It was all I could do not to go to the front desk and involve myself. But instead, I finished my cardio and went up to the weight room, because I’m, you know, so committed to fitness.
Lo and behold, who was sitting across from me in the thigh toning area? Ballsy witness!
“Excuse me? I’m dying to ask. I saw the altercation downstairs. What happened?”
“Apparently, he made eye contact with her and it freaked her out. Turns out, she is a rape survivor and was having some kind of flash back. She completely lost control.”
“What? Did he do anything, though.”
“Well, when she started to freak out, he should’ve split.”
“No kidding.”
“But he’s obviously sensitive to racism and wasn’t going to back down.”
I love you, ballsy witness.
“So did she leave?”
“I don’t know. I left them both up by the front desk. But she was still hysterical. She was banging on the windows over-looking the pool. Poor thing.”
“Oh my god! That’s insane. Well, good for you for stepping in.”
“Have a great work-out.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Just to punctuate how huge and distracting this altercation was, 2 people approached me afterward and rightly assuming me to be the nosey and indiscreet gossip that I am, inquired as to the details. All too happy to inform them, I wrapped up my workout and headed out of GhettoGym.
Thank god I have a blog in which I feel compelled to write everyday and a membership to the filthiest, most ghetto gym in all of San Francisco. Otherwise, I’d never work out, where I am guaranteed at least one daily incident of pure and wonderful insanity. And to think. You almost had to read my thoughts of the Tommy Lee Jones/Wesley Snipes car wreck, U.S. Marshals. God, I love GhettoGym…

Sunday, January 01, 2006

amateur night...

I had a crappy day on Friday. Just a gross, unhappy, shitty day that culminated in a solo 1am death march through a monsoon from Beauty Bar to my house. I crawled in bed and cried, my day was that bad. So I awoke yesterday with a profound distaste for the New Year, much less the required celebrating of it. Zoe was off with Richard, Andy was busy with some boy toy, and Alex and Co. were going to the godforsaken Union Street.
I had three options last night. My favorite straight, Darren, was throwing his annual New Year’s Without The Hype Party, Man on the Inside was having a soiree for which cocktail attire was required, and Dale was having yet another gay extravaganza at his pad in the Castro. After bemoaning my life to Darren and Berkeleyist, I made up my mind. I’d swing by Man on the Inside’s for a drink and commit to spending the bulk of the evening at the pressure-free, kiss-a-drag-queen-at-midnight homo fest.
I put on my cocktail attire.
Now, if there is one thing that could life my spirits, it’s getting dressed. And after the Christmas windfall, I’ve got some new clothes to debut. As I have a mere 2 New Year’s resolutions, (dress more fashion forward and have sex with a celebrity) I’ve discovered a fast track to achieving one of them on any occasion. Before getting dressed, I flip through an array of high end fashion magazines, suddenly inspired to don the huge colorful African necklace, pitch black smoky eye make-up and steel-heeled stilettos.
Who wants to look like everyone else? Certainly not I.
Standing in front of the mirror all done up, I instantly felt better. “I can do this.” I thought to myself. “I can walk into Man on the Inside’s party totally alone in a huge African necklace and people will find me interesting and brave.”
I finished my glass of wine and headed out the door. As if a sign from God, I found parking 3 steps from MOI’s front door. I gathered my coat, my clutch and my courage and opened the door. There’s stood MOI, whiskey in hand, dressed in a near-flawless pinstripe suit.
“There she is!” He screamed. “Let me take your coat and get you a drink. You want wine, right? Uh, what’s that around your neck? Candy?”
Goodbye coat. Goodbye clutch. Goodbye courage.
I walked down the hall to the kitchen, finding Kate’s old roommate, May surrounded by drunken, tattooed strangers. “Holy shit! Beth! Tell us a joke! Oh my god, this is the funniest girl! Come on! Tell us a joke!”
“Hello, May. It’s lovely to see you too.”
I was introduced to the tattooed strangers, one of whom shook my hand with the charming, “I’m trashed“ and once again, informed I must immediately perform some kind of vaudeville act while May loudly built me up as non-stop party hilarity in between her shots of Jameson’s.
I figured, Fuck it, and told a wildly racist and elitist joke which I will not repeat here.
May and the tattooed strangers stared at me. And then, to my immense relief, began laughing like there was no tomorrow. “Ha ha ha ha! And oh my god, I love your necklace!”
Much like Whitney Houston, I exhaled.
Then I found Joey. Joey is the nicest, sweetest, can’t-say-a-bad-word-about-anyone frat boy you’ll ever meet. I was thrilled Joey was there, thrilled MOI was opening a bottle of Chardonnay and thrilled I wasn’t in complete and utter hell. I was actually having fun and went to find my digital camera amidst a pile of coats on MOI’s bed. It is at this point, tragedy struck. Some time between downloading my photos from the previous post to last night, and I have no idea when this time was, my digital camera became irrevocably broken.
I love that little camera. I love it a lot. And I was pissed. But there was nothing I could do. I got myself another glass of wine, ate a lettuce wrap and listened to MOI’s diatribe about Project Runway.
“Are you going to your other party or are you staying?” MOI asked me at 11pm. “Are you okay to drive?”
“Um, I don’t know. I can‘t decide.”
“You should stay for the all important ball dropping.”
“Okay. I’ll stay.”
I kissed Joey at midnight, laughed for another hour and said my goodbyes. Screw the homo holiday. I was going home. MOI graciously walked me to my car, gave me a bottle of water and saw me off. I began my evening dateless and dejected, and left with my spirits mildly rising.
I’m not the biggest fan of New Year’s Eve. And certainly not a fan of my brother and his crew banging on my door at 3am in search of sleep. But having kicked them out by 10, had my first coffee of 2006 and come to terms with my broken camera, I’m feeling better about this new year and this new necklace…