Sunday, April 30, 2006

you've GOT to be kidding me...

Folks, I promise you blogs. Just not right now. I'm at a convention in LA. And I'm about to go to dinner with a pair of Australians and a pair of Canadians I just met. Literally, JUST met. These people are strangers in loud shirts. That being said, wish me well. Wait until you hear my tails of flute players and sleazy sports bars. As for tonight, I'm anticipating fabulous...

Saturday, April 29, 2006

immediately before we met the middle aged drunk couple on their anniversary....

When going out with Mike, one doesn’t need to plan strange experiences. They find him. My fabulous roommate took me out to dinner at Mona Lisa is North Beach last night. Mona Lisa is spectacular, not only because the food is hardcore, old school Italian and the waiters hot and foreign, but because the ambiance is like a Donatella Versace/mafia/dago extravaganza. After dinner, we headed over to North Beach Restaurant. We ordered glasses of wine and I hit the ladies. As I emerged, I found Mike engaged in a conversation with the gayest homo you can imagine sporting sunglasses inside and at night. The only way to describe “Will” is to say that we had to be on Candid Camera or a SNL sketch, this guy was so ridiculous. I walked over to them and reclaimed my stool.
Will gave me a quick look of disapproval, clearly feeling that I was being a cockblock, but quickly recovered.
“Don’t you just LOVE his cufflinks? Aren’t they just AMAZING!?!”
Mike and I looked at each other.
“Yeah, they’re fabulous cufflinks.”
“Well, I think they’re just AMAZING. I mean, they’re so fucking FABULOUS. Mmm, I just get the tinglies. So where are you from?”
“AMAZING. I’m from the Hillsborough, but now I live in LA where I have an AMAZING job.”
“What do you do?”
“I work at Paramount. Don’t you just LOVE it?”
“Yes. I just love it.”
“And what do you guys do?”
“I’m a banker.” Mike replied.
“A banker! AMANZING! And you?”
“I’m a Development Director.”
“FABULOUS!” he screamed, distracting diners.
I then made the mistake of replying, “C’est moi.”
He spewed a series of FRENCH travel book phrases at me, his champagne flute full of blended lemon crap spilling on his brightly patterned shirt, sans cufflinks.
Will went on and on, using the word AMAZING a good thousand times. Finally, his friends came to get him. A snobby couple apparently from Pacific Heights, they seemed to think that Will was being hassled by us two yokles, like he was doing us some big favor by introducing us to fashion and culture and gay people. Hey folks, don’t turn up your nose at me. You’re the ones out with Bobby Trendy sipping blended fruit drinks at a restaurant my dad hangs out in.
They left as we burst into hysterics.
“I leave you alone for one second and you get hit on by the most ridiculous queen in all of San Francisco.”
“I know! Isn’t it AMAZING!”

Friday, April 28, 2006

i am SO fighting with my boyfriend...

I don’t know what’s worse:

1. The bran muffin I had for breakfast feels like road kill slowly dying in my stomach.
2. I have to go to a conference in LA all weekend BY MYSELF.
3. Gavin was on the Sarah and No Name show this morning and gleefully admitted that Sofia Eurotrash Milos was his girlfriend.
Are you fucking kidding me?

I was driving along Van Ness minding my own business and flipping through the radio channels when I heard a familiar gravelly voice.
On and on he went, discussing hobos, litter and graffiti. You know, all the shit I don’t care about. Until finally, that sleazy Hooman dives in with 3 “personal” questions.
“Is Sofia Milos your girlfriend?”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. I swerved my car up on a sidewalk and held my breath.
“Well, I feel like a little boy answering this, but yes. Sofia is my girlfriend.”
The sound that escaped my body must have frightened those that heard it; basically anyone within a 10 block radius. My boyfriend is dating Eurotrash, folks. He might as well be fucking Ricky Martin.
It only got worse.
Gavin then went into excruciating detail of the first time he saw her. They played porn music in the background as the love of my life described watching Curly Sue walk into some wedding. Apparently, she was “tall.”
Hello? I invented tall.
And you know what, people? I could speak 7 languages too, if one of them was broken English.
One of the things I love about Gavin is his charm and condor. But when he uses it against me, like he did this morning, talking about their first kiss and what a goddamn positive person she is, I slowly died inside.
How could he openly date a poorly dressed illegal immigrant? How could he be so blinded by fake boobs and bad floral prints? How could he engage in a conversation with someone who is mildly retarded at best?
With a final twist of the knife, he actually plugged her mini-series.
Mini-series? She’s one step away from a Lifetime Afternoon Movie and he’s bragging about how his “girlfriend” is “working her ass off” on a “Primetime Mini-Series.”
Who let this happen? Don’t we have a responsibility as citizens of San Francisco to not allow this ridiculous “relationship” get so out of control? She’s a Scientologist, for christsake. She doesn’t care about Gavin. She’s just biding her time until she can arrange for the mothership to beam him up for anal experiments and cloning.
Cloning? Hmmmm.
Anyway, I would’ve driven over there and ripped the microphone away from him, but unfortunately, I’m currently sporting my 'Casual Friday' pigtails and do-rag look.
It’s not really Gavin appropriate.
Who am I kidding?
Based on his current tastes, I shoulda just swung by a Goodwill, picked up a quinceanera dress from 1989 and the goddamn mayor would have proposed…

Thursday, April 27, 2006

sugar, we're going down swinging...

Sometimes, the road less traveled is that way for a reason. My temporarily ridiculous work schedule means that squeezing in my weekly 12 seconds of gym time is more work than I’m willing to do. Thus, as a master of justification, I’ve determined that if I’m hardcore at Ghetto Gym on weekends, I can get away with 3 power-walks during the week.
Yesterday, I returned from a morning meeting early. Figuring I had a free half hour, I threw on my sneakers and booked it along the Bay for 30 minutes. Delighted with my committment to health, I retunred to the office.
My temporarily ridiculous work schedule also means that I’m attending a lot of late meetings, were junk food and booze are served. Anyone with any type of restraint would not have had pizza and wine at 5:30 last night, especially when copping out on gym attendance. Not I. And as I left my meeting, grease and guilt settled into my stomach. I pulled my car over and headed into the park.
Now comes my Zoë-like math. If I hightail it for another 30 minutes, that’d be an hour of cardio in one day and thus, perfectly acceptable, even considering my crap consumption. I set off on the bike path carreening along the marshes of Richardson Bay. Normally, I’ll walk along here and make it pretty close to Sausalito before heading back. But that takes a good hour and that hour I was unwilling to give. The sun hung low in the sky and I selected a tree in the distance. That’s 15 minutes out and 15 minutes back.
I do not run. I find it annoying and showy. And I hate getting passed by runners who think they’re somehow flying straight up to heaven just because they put on shorts with slits up the sides and swing their bent arms back and forth. At one point, I was passed by the healthiest pair of 40 year olds you can imagine. Perfectly tan, perfectly in synch, they smiled and nodded condescendingly as they skipped on, full of carob and soy milk.
But by the time I got to that tree, I decided to keep going. That’s the good thing about walking outside. At the gym, I can just hop off the treadmill whenever I feel like it. But the further away I get from my car, the further I have to hike back. None the less, I pressed on. 10 minutes later, I was in Tam Valley.
Okay. Seriously. I have to turn around. I want to go home.
I flipped a bitch and headed towards my car, parked somewhere in the distance at the Community Center. As I walked along, envisioning the pizza disappear from my ass, I marveled at the egrets and the ducks peacefully wandering through the reeds.
Christ, I thought. I’m communing with nature.
With that, I saw an overgrown path on my right, heading into the marsh and out towards a little peninsula. What the hell. It’s five more minutes and I want to see what’s at the end, a mere 100 yards away. Without the slightest pause, I swerved from the pavement onto the dirt and maintaining my brisk pace, entered the wilderness. Hopping over parches of mud and ducking under trees, I half expected to find a dead body. No one’d been on that path in a while. And at the end, I found myself on a little piece of land sticking out into the Bay.
I believe I actually uttered the word “neat!” out loud.
It didn’t matter. There wasn’t a soul nearby and I noticed that the untrodden path continued along the water, towards my car. It appeared to be almost parallel with the paved path 100 yards in, so I plodded along. I looked forward, sure that at some point, this little path would meet up with the paved one.
God, I’m really pretty far out here, and all by myself.
Well, when walking solo through the reeds in a preserved wildlife refuge, seemingly miles from civilization, there’s only one thing to do.
Further and further I went, singing Fall Out Boy and Luther Vandross. Shit, folks, I was the picture of health. Screw those tan joggers. I’m booking it over puddles and dead birds, getting closer and closer to my car.
At this point, I’d committed 15 minutes to my trek into the wilderness.
And then, I suddenly looked up and came to a screeching halt. As if in a movie, my perfect solitary path ended by abruptly by falling directly into the bay. I stood at the edge, stopped by an obviously impassible body of water.
In an instant, I realized I had to turn back, not only retracing my precarious steps, but committing another 15 minutes just to get me back to where I made this idiot decision to go goddamn exploring.
Fine, God. Fine.
Over the puddles, through the mud, under the trees, around the dead birds, singing my little heart out. I finally hit pavement again as the sun literally set. I’d been out for an hour and I was still a ways from my car.
With each step, I neared the end of my stupid journey. My only consolation was that I was burning unplanned calories, and would most likely awake the next morning stunning. Finally, I was a few hundred yards from the parking lot. I could almost see my car, the newly repaired Rhonda the Honda parked next to a perfect BMW convertible.
I heard the pitter patter of joggers behind me.
Lo and behold, it was the perfect 40 year old couple, smugly smiling and passing me just as all three of us entered the parking lot.
Those bitches better not be in that Beamer.
Yeah. They were.
I got in my car as they stretched, sipped Evian and eyed my backing out, convinced I’d nick their precious ride.
I cranked up the Fall Out Boy, took a swig of the morning’s leftover coffee in my commuter mug and headed the hell home.
It had been nearly 90 minutes since I’d ventured outdoors, 90 minutes I’d never get back, 90 minutes of mud on my cute sneakers, 90 minutes of trophy wives and cycling enthusiasts and 90 minutes of exercise I didn’t want to do in the first place.
I give up.
Lo and behold, I awoke this morning still hideous, possessing a profound distaste for nature and finding I had a renewed commitment to the road more frequently taken…

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

not so up to date in kansas city...

Ain’t it always when you don’t plan it, that some crazy shit goes down?
For the next two months, my life is my job. So last night, after a crazy day, I needed a cocktail. Plus, I liked yesterday’s outfit. So come hell or high water, I was going out. Mike and I agreed to meet in North Beach and find something to eat and drink. O’Reilly’s was packed with men who tucked their printed polos into their jeans, which were in turn, adorned with pagers from 1995. We decided to move on.
We agreed on Moose’s, which is appalling expensive but Mike’d never been there and we spent no money all weekend. Fuck it. I’m stressed. I want tablecloths. We sank into a cozy little table, Mike sipping his Belvedere straight up as I enjoyed the obvious glass of white. Suddenly, a gentleman appeared with two skinny shot glasses of something strange.
“Miso with green onion, compliments of the chef.”
I regard Miso as seawater, but drank it anyway. Hell, it’s free soup. We were having fun with our drinks and our miso, mocking the Nordstroms-esque piano player and the two little old ladies insistent upon a round of applause after every Broadway cover. I decided on the onion and spinach ravioli and Mike settled on the difficult to pronounce Petrale Sole Remoulade. It was in a word, spectacular.
"Ugh, nothing makes me feel better like pretentious waiters and floral arrangements."
"No kidding. I dig this place."
"We can't afford this."
Sometimes, forking over stacks of cash is entirely worth it when it comes with good lighting and complicated stacking of designer food. “I almost feel like staying out.” Mike said, over bites of sole.
“Oh, then we’re going to the WashBaG.”
“The what?”
“The Washington Square Bar and Grill.”
We headed across the park and settled into the bar. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find my old pal, Pat. You gotta love Pat, the only bartender I know who spends his nights off sitting at bars. Pat offered us a sampling of his duck confit, but I was more interested in the barely touched BOTTLE of Stag’s Leap he shared with his friend.
On the other side of us was a middle aged guy in a swanky suit, trying to order Zinfandel. He settled on the Raveswood and began to chat up the bartender. Mike leaned over, “This guy is the shit. I think he’s from out of town.”
“You want me to engage him in witty banter?”
I leaned across the bar. “Are you enjoying the Ravenswood?”
And thus it began. Turns out, Ned spends 6 months a year in San Francisco and the other 6 months in Kansas City.
"Alot going on in Kansas City."
"Are you kidding me? KC is hopping, sweetheart."
Ned was convinced Mike and I were on a date, and kept saying mildly gross things to apparently “set the mood.” He asked what my favorite song was and then approached the piano player. As “Lady is a Tramp” played in the background, Ned leaned over to Mike. “Hey, kid, I’m trying to help you out here.”
Oh my god.
I laughed. “I’ve known this guy since he was 5.”
He winked at Mike, “Did she look this good when she was 5?”
Oh my god.
"Come on, kid. I'm giving you gold, here."
"No, no. This is great. I'm learning so much."
At this point, we’re not only talking to Ned, but our proximity to Pat and his friend enticed the owner of the Washbag over to refill our wine glasses. Ned, however, was on a roll.
“Kid, you need to take this girl to Bix.”
Ned, Ned, Ned.
“Hey pal, don’t tell me about Bix.”
“Ha! I like a broad that gets around. Well, I’m going back to my hotel. But if you kids want to meet me for a drink, I’ll be at the Big Four. You know it?”
This was funny for several reasons.
“Yeah, Ned. We know it.”
Ned departed, and we finished our drinks.
(In the interest of fulfilling a promise, you should all go to the big Crab Feed at the Washbag. Guy’ll take care of you.)
“Well, should we go to the Big Four?
“It’s up to you.”
“No way, it’s so up to you.”
“Michael, make a goddamn decision.”
“Okay, we’re going.”
I started my evening hoping to grab a couple of drinks with my roommate on the way home. Who’d have thought I’d end my evening hours later by getting stood up at the Big Four by fucking Ned from Kansas City, the guy who makes sleazy comments about 5 year olds and called me a broad…

for serious...

I'm fucking swamped, people. Stop with the bitchy e-mails. However, I'll have something substantial after my lunch meeting so chill. In the meantime, I'll leave you with this...

Monday, April 24, 2006

we keep the knives in the kitchen, keith...

We all watch Seinfeld, right? Otherwise, how the hell would I know who Keith Hernandez is? Well, now he’s the announcer for the Metz* and I’m going to need to beat down his mustached ass for his recent comments a Metz/Padres game. Apparently, after Rock and Jocker Mike Piazza hit a home run, Mike exchanged high fives with everyone in the dugout, including the female massage therapist, aptly named Kelly.

Hernandez, upon seeing this, responded OUT LOUD, “Who is the girl in the dugout with the long hair? What's going on here? You have got to be kidding me. Only player personnel in the dugout…I won't say that women belong in the kitchen, but they don't belong in the dugout."

I know these guys exist in the world. I encounter them from time to time, like when I find myself in Tahoe or at a lesser Home Depot. These are the kind of guys who have Sears siding on their homes and will only discipline their male children. These are the kind of guys who don’t know their wives’ middle names and think this whole acceptance of homosexuality is getting a little out of hand. These are the kind of guys who get kicked out of Little League games and make passes at waitresses. They mingle among us, occasionally blending in but they always reveal their true identity by having bushy mustaches and wearing shorts to restaurants.
Wait until Elaine Benice hears about this shit…

* I don't know when Alex and Big C. lost their touch, but Mike has just informed me that Metz is actually spelled Mets. He thought I was making a joke. Nope. But my boys are slipping. Metz, Metz, Metz. I like it better anyway...

a toe, maybe, but i need my fingers...

I had a friend in college whom I always regarded as a fabulous badass. Amy made her own bizarre clothes, Amy reupholstered the inside of her car with vintage maps and Amy didn’t take any shit. She and I became friends when we had a nighttime painting class together, and I’d drive her home occasionally. She’d invite me to come in to the huge communal house she shared with weirdo artists and hang out, where we’d watch Montel and drink wine coolers.
Amy said she knew we were kindred spirits when one day, she produced an imaginary microphone and began to interview me. I didn’t bat a lash and dove right in. Apparently, this was not the reaction Amy was used to getting. And thus, we were inseparable.
One day, I picked her up from her job at Starbucks and we sipped on our gratis Frappuchinos while driving around Philadelphia.
“I don’t want to die with all of my fingers.”
I slammed on the brakes. “What?”
“I feel like I won’t have really lived unless I’ve, you know, lost a digit.”
“I don’t care. Freak accident, lover’s quarrel, something unexpected.”
“Well, that’s really weird, Amy.”
“You don’t have anything you HAVE to do before you die?”
She had me. Amy was older, wiser and cooler. She had a list of things she wanted to do before dying, as if sudden demise was around any corner. For a little while, Amy was my hero.
So, although I haven’t talked to her in ages, have no idea where she is, or even searched for her on MySpace, this one’s going out to Amy Jo Kreis:

Top 5 Things I HAVE to do before I die:

5. Be invited onstage to perform with a rock or pop legend.
4. Win a major award at a televised event.
3. Sleep with a C-list or higher celebrity.
2. Solve a murder.
1. Throw an expensive drink in a deserving face, calmly grab my fabulous coat and storm out to the spontaneous applause of those around me…

Sunday, April 23, 2006

seinfeld? h.o.t...

The Boston Phoenix has released its list of 100 Unsexiest Men in the World, including Osama Bin Laden and Carrot Top. And I know you Nickelback haters will love their Number 6:

6. Chad Kroeger: It's not just the massive head, weird face, and bad hair. It's also the fact that he's in Nickelback, the worst band since the dawn of music.

However, in reviewing the names, I feel there are a few missing and thus, here are my Top 10 Unsexiest Men in the World that aren’t in this article:

10. Jim J. Bullock
9. Stephen Hawking
8. James Lipton
7. Pete Doherty
6. Ryan Seacrest
5. Mark Summers
4. Pat Sajak
3. Kofi Annan
2. Bronson Pinchot
1. Dennis Rader, the BTK killer…

Friday, April 21, 2006

molto fabulous...

Oh, and I forgot to tell you about my new celebrity crush. Now, like anyone, I worship the obvious hotties on silver screens, well-lit and oiled up monkeys who regurgitate lines and attend awards shows. I’m not an idiot.
But occasionally, I develop obsessions with a bizarre array of public figures. I have no explanation for Roberto Benigni, George Stephanopoulous or Oliver Platt. Christ, I was even on a Steve Buscemi kick for awhile.
I know. I know. Disturbing.
Well, there’s a new member to the club of men I find oddly wonderful and attractive. Let’s all welcome Mario Batali. How I am able to overlook his ponytail and orange clogs is beyond me. I guess I’m blinded by love. But watching this man cook while he talks about it is pure heaven, not to mention his Vespa and array of fabulous NYC restaurants. I once had the pleasure of dining at Babbo in The Village and let me just say, this man can sauté a serious mushroom.
I know he’s married and gives his children annoying overly Italian names which I would never allow, but goddamn it, I once made his spaghettini with breadcrumbs and golden raisins and was in pure heaven. I almost felt closer to Mario, just cooking his food. And now, when I see him, I just envision myself in post-coital bliss, sitting on a kitchen stool wearing nothing but his giant chef’s jacket as he makes me scrambled eggs and tells me how fabulous I am.
Then I would sneak up behind him, grab a knife, and chop that stupid ponytail off…

and burn...

I had seen all of the films nominated for Best Picture except, of course, the winner. I finally got around to watching Crash last night and here’s what I have to report. After sitting for 2 hours in silence, the credits rolled and I looked across the couch at my roommate.
“That sucked.” He said.
“No kidding. What gives? Best Picture my ass.”
“Please tell me Brokeback is better.”
“Better and gayer.”
“Ugh, everyone sucked.”
“I know. Who’s that openly racist? It was ridiculous.”
Ludacis, even.
There was one shining performance in Crash, other than the awesome soundtrack. Michael Pena, I don’t know where you’ve been all my life and I don’t know what your neck tattoo says, but I think you are fabulous. And you, sir, are most likely the reason the over-acted, over-written and over the top Crash won the Oscar…

i still like nickelback, tho...

Everyone gets songs stuck in their head, little melodies that refuse to depart until something equally catchy yet annoying comes along. I currently have “Two More Years” by Bloc Party running through my brain, and have been singing it for 2 goddamn hours. (Thank you, Mikey.)
Which brings us to today’s Top 5:

Top 5 Annoying Songs That Get Stuck In Your Head:

5. “Hot in Herre” –Nelly
4. The Baby Back Ribs Song from Chili’s
3. “Come on Eileen” - that dirty guy in the overalls
2. “Sailing” – Christopher Cross
1. Mattress Discounters!

Thursday, April 20, 2006

i'm not wild about "tartar" either...

Some words make me wildly uncomfortable. I guess this is true with all people. Say the word “utensil” around my mother and she’ll throw something at you. I’ve got a million of these words and I’ve found as soon as I admit to one, it’s used again me relentlessly.
Kelsey, Mikey and I went to a late dinner at Pluto’s last night. Mike ordered the Tri-tip sandwich, au jus.
“What’s that sauce?” asked Kelsey, pointing to Mike’s plate.
“Don’t say it!” I screamed. “I fucking hate that word.”
“What word?” Mike looked up. “Au Jus?”
“Oh my god, ewww.”
Kelsey laughed. “Why do you hate au jus?”
“Because.” I said, as Mikey took a bite. “It’s like blood juice.”
“Au Juuuus. I like saying it.”
“Seriously. Stop.”
“I’m not understanding what’s wrong with au jus.”
“Keep antagonizing me. Watch what happens.”
Back and forth they went, in some kind of vaudevillian routine in which they each word “au jus” into seemingly unrelated sentences, culminating with Mikey’s hit, “I’m not Catholic. I’m au jus.”
“Oh my god, you guys are assholes.”
“I like au jus. I like eating au jus. I like saying au jus...”
Kelsey looked at him. “Do you like drinking au jus?”
“Oh my god. Kelsey, don’t.”
“I dare you to drink your au jus.”
Well now he had to. “Michael, that’s blood sauce.”
“It’s like pan drippings.”
“People, let’s call it what it is.“ They both turned to me. “AU JUS!”
Mikey examined his little bowl of au jus, sniffing it, considering the consequences.
Kelsey could barely contain her excitement. “Beth, pull out your camera! Mike, pose with the au jus! Get a pose shot, then a drinking shot. Oh, this is fucking awesome. Chug the AU JUS!”

He knocked his head back and downed the au jus, choking as he looked back at us.
“Oh my god, I owe you a drink. I can’t believe you did that.”
“Uh, I need some water or something to push that shit down.”
“Go get some.” Sighed Kelsey. “And get me something fried and greasy while you’re up there.”
We looked across the restaurant and noticed that the couple next to Mike was getting ready to go, leaving a barely touched plate of spectacular seasoned curly fries.
“Um, you guys. Check out those fries. Those people are abandoning them.”
“We can’t take them.”
“Why not?” I asked. “That couple looked clean.”
“They do look pretty good.”
“Seriously. But I’m not taking them.”
“Mike, just grab ‘em.”
“Ugh, no. I’m scared.”
With that, 2 poorly dressed bike messengers swooped by and grabbed it, non-challantly bringing it back to THEIR table.
“Those losers stole our fries!”
“Oh my god, now I really want them.”

I was shocked at their moxie. “Now that other people have taken them, I’m convinced how totally harmless they are. Suddenly, I feel that my fries have been stolen. God, we should’ve taken them.”
“I know!” Mike said. “We should walk over there claim them back.”
“Oh, forget it, guys. Let’s go to the bar next door.” Kelsey said, as she put on her coat. “We don’t have any more au jus sauce to dip them in anyway…”

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

i blame osama...

Thirteen years ago, we went on a family vacation to Switzerland, and while I there I picked up 2 things. Number One? My first pack of cigarettes. At 15, on my own in the Alps and feeling very continental, I decided now was my big chance to look cool and start smoking. Having no idea what to purchase, I went for the most recognizable; Marlboro Reds. I’m amazed I didn’t grow hair on my chest from smoking that shit.
And my second Swiss souvenir? In walking along the shops with my then 10 year old brother, we passed a store that sold every imaginable Swiss Army knife. There in the window, I spotted a teeny, tiny pink one and oohed and ahhed over it. A mini Swiss Army knife? In pink? From Switzerland? I had to have it.
But alas, the folks were gone and I was out of cash. Alex and I moved on. The next day, my little blonde brother returned to our hotel room to find me on the balcony smoking Marlboro Reds. He marched right up to me and handed me a bag.
That little 10 year old light of my life had used all of his francs or marks or whatever Swiss money is, and bought me that mini pink Swiss Army knife.
And that little pink knife has been attached to my keys for the last 13 years. I’ve traveled everywhere with it; third world countries, through customs, literally everywhere I go. And every time I remember it sitting at the bottom of my bag as I go through airport security, I get a little nervous. But nothing’s ever happened.
Monday morning, I arose hungover and in no mood to maneuver the Denver airport, packed with holiday travelers and accompanied by my chatty, chirpy parents. We piled in with the masses and got in the security maze, zig-zagging back and forth, back and forth until coming to the metal detectors. I pulled off my jacket, handbag and shoes and passed through the detector.
Beep. Beep.
“You’re big earrings, ma’am.”
Excuse me? These are pounded sterling and divine.
I passed through again, this time free of fabulous accessories, and was cleared. A gentleman named “Randy” with a handlebar mustache peered at the x-ray screen, clearly focused on the contents of my handbag.
“Is this you’re bag, ma’am.”
Well obviously. Look at me? Does anyone else here look capable of selecting such a realistic Michael Kors knock-off? Not unless it comes in a fanny pack, apparently.
“Yeah, that’s my bag.”
“And where are your keys located?”
“At the bottom of my bag. I’ll get them.” I said, reaching for my precious purse.
“Don’t touch the bag, ma’am. Just describe for me where the keys are.”
“Okay. They’re flying around the bottom of my bag with 6 month old receipts and pens I stole from the hotel.”
He digs around my bag, carefully examining my lip gloss and emergency back-up tampons. Then he finds my keys, pulling them from my bag as if they were hazardous materials. With the cruelty of someone who obviously knew the sentimental value of my Swiss Army knife, he unwound it from the keychain. “Well, you can keep your keys and your Skyy vodka keychain. But this KNIFE isn’t getting on an aircraft.”
I took a deep breath as my eyes welled with tears.
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, ma’am. I’m not. You can’t bring KNIVES on the airplane.”
This was clearly not the time to point out that me and my faux Michael Kors were hardly likely to hijack a DC-10 with a pink Swiss Army knife smaller than my pinkie finger. And I could tell from his handlebar that Randy wasn’t going to budge on this one. Randy is the kind of security guard that can’t wait to thwart terrorists at any cost. Randy is the kind of security guard that is convinced soccer moms will hide bombs in baby strollers. Randy is waiting to be personally responsible for saving lives. Even on an 11:20 flight from Denver to SFO.
“I will never forgive you, Randy.”
He chuckled, confident in the knowledge that he had solely halted an act of terrorism. My mother, having watched the whole debacle came over as I put on my shoes. “Are you serious? This is bullshit, Beth.”
“I know. I’m so pissed off I can’t talk about it.”
My father, ever oblivious and highly paranoid about airport security, came over. “WHAT HAPPENED???”
“Dick, leave her alone.”
“They took my little pink Swiss Army knife.”
“You brought a KNIFE to the airport?!?”
“Dad. Stop.”
“Well, that was stupid.”
“One more word, Daddy and I will kill you. I will honestly and truly kill you.”
“She’s brought that with here everywhere. Literally everywhere.”
“Yeah.” I lamented. “That was one well-traveled little pink knife. And I never even opened the knife. I just used those tiny little scissors on it.”
“Don’t worry, Bethy.” My mother patted me on the back. “We’ll find another one.”
“Great. Then go back in time, make Alex 10, refresh his awe and adoration of his older sister and have him buy it for me.”
We got on the tram to take us to Terminal B as mom rummaged through her bag.
“Oh my god.” She said, as she looked up wide-eyed at Dad and me.
From her shoulder bag, she pulled a large pair of scissors, approximately 1 billion times the size of my KNIFE.
Nice work, Randy.
I need a Marlboro Red…

but is it scented...

It's gel, folks. There's no way this is mousse. Mousse doesn't have that decoupage, glossy, bulletproof look, as seen here. Gavin uses gel. Gallons and gallons of gel. Case closed...

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

maybe it'll rise in 3 days...

My chakras are officially screwed again. I crashed last night at Judy's and nearly ran over her gardener on my way to work this morning. Now gingerly driving, I booked it up the hill to the freeway. All of a sudden, a squirrel darted from the right side of the road directly in front of me. Seeming to change its mind mid-run, the squirrel made it most of the way across and then panicked. Within seconds, it swirled around back into the road directly into the path of my car.
Thump. Thump.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!”
I looked in my review mirror. Nothing. No dead squirrel in my wake. I kept driving, but I had a sneaking suspicion. My adrenaline rushing, I grabbed my cell phone.
“Michael! I just ran over a squirrel! I think its mangled body is trapped under my car!”
“What? Are you still driving?”
“Yes! I’m afraid to stop!”
“Oh my god, that’s awesome.”
“This is not awesome. I’m freaking out!”
“Pull over and look under your car.”
“Are you fucking nuts? No way!” I screamed as I pulled onto the freeway and sped up.
“Well, are you sure you ran over it. Squirrels are pretty fast.”
“Yes, I’m sure I ran over it! Jesus Christ!” All of a sudden, at 60 miles an hour, something dropped onto the freeway from the bottom of my car.
“Um, Mikey. I think it just fell off.”
“Are you serious? Yes! Oh man, that’s so gross.”
Relieved to be free of my second animal carcass of the week, I hung up on my chuckling roommate and headed to Starbucks. Carefully, I parked my car and exited Rhonda the Honda.
I delicately tiptoed around my car, looking for blood, guts or fluffy tails hanging from my suspension. Nope. All clear. I grabbed a latte and headed into work.
“Beth! How was your weekend?”
“Did you have fun at the spa?”
“Are you all fabulously relaxed?”
No. I’m not. I just killed a goddamn squirrel…

Monday, April 17, 2006

karma's a bitch...

Cathal and Gareth joined us for Easter Mass at the Cathedral in Denver. On and on, mass went, each word dripping from the lips of the poorly dressed Psalm reader like molasses. I looked around at a sea of scrunchies and elastic waist jeans, people put into a trancelike state by the most boring Easter Mass in the history of Catholicism. And even sneaking out after communion to meet dear Molly for brunch, I wouldn't shut up about the shitty service, the boring priest, the crappy Easter outfits.
And suddenly, from upon high, God retaliated.
And I ate concrete.
My perfect floral silk skirt flying into the air, one shoe twisted in irreversible disrepair, an entire leg torn to shreds and a family shocked into silence.
Instant karma. I now believe in God.
I also realized that I hate children.
I used to say that I took kids like I take pets and the elderly; on a case by case basis. I'm not one of those, "Oh, I love kids!" girly girls who'll make wacky faces at every drolling toddler with sticky hands.
I love some kids.
Or at least I did. But after flying home, obscenely hungover, behind William the screamer, I give up. In the great words of Mama Fratelli, kids suck.
William wouldn't shut up, belting out his cries like he was being stabbed with his complimentary swizzle stick. His idiot father, in an attempt to shut him up, gave him these bizarrely heavy metal toy trucks, which William, still screaming, chose to throw. The old lesbian on my right leaned over. "I think it's time to put the damn truck away."
I took a pained sip of coffee, crossed my bruised legs and responded, "I think it's time to put William down with the luggage."
As if on cue, the plane surged with turbulence.
Shit, here comes that karma...

Saturday, April 15, 2006

head for the foothills...

Ah, family travel. Even if we're merely flying to Denver for 72 hours, the four of us can manage to find mayhem at every turn. My mother managed to convince herself that I'd overslept for our flight, screaming bloody murder at my front door at 6:15am, my father, once at the airport, managed to spill 2 cups of coffee all over himself while also screaming at me, and I had to blow dry my hair in the public restroom while my mother captured it on film. I was ready to kill them before we took off.
The flight was short, thank god, and I survived by reading Vogue and spying on the gentleman next to me, furiously typing away on his laptop. Apparently, the well-dressed businessman to my left is re-focusing his personal priorities and learning from his mistakes.
We landed, greeted by Alex, his roommate Cathal and Cathal's cousin from Belfast, appropriately named Gareth. We piled into Alex's Explorer, Cathal jumping in the back with the luggage. As we drove off, my insane brother decided to speed past a cop and cut some lady off.
Cue sirens.
The mustached cop was in no mood, detailed Alex's many list of offenses. The tinted windows, the missing license plates, Cathal in the trunk...we heard Alex try and talk his way out of it as he stood next to the cop.
"Hey, officer. I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't."
I leaned over to Gareth, enjoying hour 23 of his first trip to the U.S. "This is a fabulous American experience for you."
Because he is Alex, charmer and sweetheart, the lucky bastard talked his way out of it. And off we went to Regis, my mother nervously watching the odometer the whole way there.
"Alex, you're going 70! Alexander, slow the fuck down!"
Welcome to my world, Lex.
We wandered around the perfectly sunny campus, my brother giving the grand tour as Cathal filled me in on recent gossip. But we were desperate to get on the road, said goodbye to the lads and headed to Colorado Springs, 2 hours south. I stared out the window the whole way there, finding that at 28 years old, I need mandatory time apart from my family every 4 to 6 hours.
Are we there yet?
As we neared our exit, Alex read off the list of 4 or 5 turns we'd need to make to find the hotel. Dad, now driving, had a better idea. "Dad, where are you going?"
"Dick, turn around."
He wasn't answering. Finally, we screaming, "You're going the wrong way! We're getting lost."
"No we're not." My father said, calmly. "I remember where to go."
"You do?"
"Yes. It's towards the foothills."
Excuse me? Towards the what? We're in Rockies, folks. He says foothills, I hear Donner Party. Lo and behold, guess what's nestled at the base of the foothills.
We checked in and found our rooms, Alex and I immediately planning our inter-hotel bar hopping. The family went of to examine the spa and fitness facilities while I sunned on my alcove and praised the silence of luxury resorts. Alex returned and we agreed to get ready early and hit the swanky, lakeside bar across the compound.
"Hey, Beth. Remember that shirt I asked you to fold back in my apartment?"
"Where did you put it?"
"On Cathal's bed."
"Are you shitting me!"
"Okay, relax. Mom and Dad brought you a dress shirt."
"But I only have one. For three days?"
"I can make it work." I said, fully confident that the prodigal son could suffer through the weekend in a plain white shirt.
Alex pulled it out and held it up. "This is a tuxedo shirt, Beth."
We wandered downstairs, in the hopes of finding an appropriate alternative, but found the men's store closed and the only available shirts in the gift shop apparently unacceptable. Once again, old green eyes opened his mouth. Lo and behold, they opened the "Haberdashery" for "Mr. Spotswood."
"I can't believe you." I whined. "You're not only buying yourself brand new clothes, you're making some poor hotel staffer re-open up a goddamn store. Who raised you?"
"Fine. Don't come with me."
"I won't! I'll be at the bar."
Thankfully, after screaming and flying and police and tuxedo shirts, I found myself a wine list. And all was suddenly right with the world.
Alex returned, having made a new best friend in 80 year old Carol, the poor hotel staffer who helped him select an admittedly fantastic dress shirt - and got him a discount - and we headed down to meet the folks for drinks.
I have found in my travels, that unlike great poets and artists and travel writers, I am not one for the journey. I am one for the destination. I cannot relax until I know that there are no trains to catch, no rental cars to return, no plane tickets to lose.
Dinner was spectacular for two reasons. 1) I got to pick the wine and was given the green light to get a little experimental, and 2) we had a great discussion on our top 5 family trips of all time. It's interesting what one remembers. The adventure which one will regard as filled with disasters and disagreements, another will treasure. And although my parents will freak out because they forgot to bring their e-ticket with them (yes. I know. That's my point.), they are great adventurers and often take the charmer and I along for the ride. I appreciate it, really I do. After all, this is the Resurrection Weekend.
And that's what I've done today. I am once again alive, all thanks to Megan and Ludmila. Megan applied hot smooth stones to my entire body, placing crystals between my toes and on my third eye in an apparently successful attempt to cleanse my chakras. And Ludmila told me all about how she hates her daughter in law back in the Ukraine as she painted my fingers and toes.
"You know, Bette. I never like her. She married once before. She has son. She don't cook. But she give me grandchild. So I sit quiet and not say nothing."
I wandered around and watched people play golf for awhile, marveling at how people consider sipping Bloody Mary's and strolling a "sport." There are a lot of golf men here, defined by their pull-over windbreakers and wives in appliqued capri pants. There are also a million children about, running around dressed in Easter finery and subtly silencing my biological clock.
I shall now wander the gift shop and find an acceptable yet trashy novel, locate a fireplace and ignore the world around me. Unless of course I find a hot golf boy, in which case I'll feign interest and dig out 1997's capri's...

Friday, April 14, 2006

call me mint jelly...

...cuz I'm on the lamb.
We landed in Denver 25 minutes ago, and we've already gotten in trouble with the law. Nice work, Alex...

Thursday, April 13, 2006

this has pretty much...

...made my day. I'm one of those horrible dorks that saw Titanic 8 times in the theater. Yeah. Eight. And this is genius on so many levels. Jack in a shootout? Jack with a hooker? Two the Surface? Whomever created this is clearly my soulmate...

god bless urban living...

Once again, I’ve gladly accepted the furniture cast-offs of those that either routinely upgrade their aesthetics or die. Luckily, my parents are alive and well. They just want better outdoor furniture. And as our overgrown backyard is barren and furniture-less, Dad rented a truck and appeared at 10pm Monday night with a chaise, a table and 3 matching chairs. In the spirit of Spotswood consistency, he also brought a bottle on wine.
As Mike, Dad and I carried the new stuff through the house and out back, we remembered to warn dad to watch his step outside.
“Well, Dick. There’s a dead rat out there.”
“Oh yeah, Dad. We’ve got a dead rat in our backyard. It’s super gross.”
“Well, why don’t you get rid of it?”
“Because we don’t want to touch it. Duh.”
“You have to burry it, guys. It’s a health and safety issue. Don’t you have a shovel?”
“Do we look like we have a shovel?”
We tiptoed around the rat and arranged our new outdoor set. The next evening, as I sat in my office overwhelmed by work and staring at the rain, I watched a soaked and disheveled man make his way up the steps to the front door carrying brand new shovels of varying sizes. “Um, hi Dad.”
“Hi Bethy! I went to Sloat. I bought you and Mike some shovels. You’ve really got to bury that rat. And I’ll come over and work in the garden when the rain’s stopped. But really. That rat’s gotta go.”
“Okay. That’s awesome. Thanks.”
My father departed just as suddenly as he arrived, and I was left to answer the curious looks from my co-workers. “Yes. We have a rat in our backyard. I told you. I live in the ghetto.”
Last night, I picked up Andy and met Mikey at home. “Oh Andy, I need you to help me carry some stuff in.”
I pulled the shovels from my trunk as Andy laughed. “This looks like the work of your dad. Cuz, girl, I know you’d never buy this shit. That’s some fancy ass shovels.”
I explained the rat situation as we walked inside and handed the shovels to Mike.
“Well, gravediggers. Get busy.”
Andy is hardly squeamish, so as Mike dug a hole, Andy poked and prodded the dead rodent.
“Okay, okay!” Mike yelled. “Throw that rat in here.”
Andy scooped up the corpse, posed for a picture and over-handed it directly into Mikey’s prepared grave. They really were quite a team, my adorable in-house pest service. As we headed out to Chinese food, I marveled at big city living. In the past week, I’ve seen identically hideous twin prostitutes, a man shooting heroin between his toes and a suit-clad Mikey standing in the backyard digging a grave for a dead rat…

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

the only things i have to do are pay taxes and...

I awoke last night at 3am, as usual, and stared at the ceiling worrying. My huge project at work is due on Thursday. I’ve still got to get my car fixed. I haven’t been to a dentist in like, multiple years. And, what else…I haven’t done my taxes!
Oh my god, Oh my god, Oh my god.
It’s April 12th.
Normally, my dad sends me to some dude in West Portal, but this year, Big Chris claimed he could do my apparently “easy” tax returns. So, I blew off tax dude and forgot about it. Promising Big C. I’d get a copy of last year’s taxes and my 2 little see-thru forms from work, I’ve been skipping along March and April confident in the knowledge that with enough Tecate and Taqueria Cancun, I’d save some cash and rely on the genius of my beloved burrito buddy.
It is now April 12th. And I realized this at 3am last night. Big Chris is going to kill me.
I tossed and turned, totally freaking out. I’ll have to get an extension. I’ll pay all kinds of penalties. I’m totally going to jail.
I awoke this morning to the following e-mail from Big C.

Subject: IMPORTANT!!!!!!

Hi Beth,

If you still want me to do your taxes let me know.Also please call your accountant and get your return from last year so I can see how it was done. Taxes are due this Monday, April 17th.
Peace out playa.

Big Chris, I love you.
I responded immediately, and pointed out that jail or not, I’d be at a spa in another state this weekend, and we had to do my taxes either tonight or tomorrow.
He responded:

Cool. I'm going to the giants game tonight so I'll come by your place and do them tomorrow night. Call your accountant NOW and have him fax you the forms. Also I will not only do your taxes for you but you will sit with me and learn.It will be an educational evening. I will be your tax-Yoda.

I will never disparage the greatness of Big Chris, tax god and burrito buddy, again…

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

he woulda drank...

The folks and I are going to Denver on Friday to see the prodigal son and as this is the last 72 hours of relaxation I’ll get until July, when work dies down significantly, I’m kicking this weekend into high gear. Mom and I went on an after-work walk last night and both agreed we’re using this 72 hours to our maximum benefit. We're some stressed out Spotswood women and this is a prime opportunity to recharge. As per the Easter Holiday weekend, the theme of our mini-vacation is Resurrection.
Conveniently, we’re going to a spa in Colorado Springs.
On our walk, we detailed the rules of the Resurrection weekend. “I’m going to camp out in that spa, Beth.” My mother insisted as we booked it along the bay. “I need some serious relaxing.”
“Yeah, we need to totally take care of ourselves this weekend. This weekend should be all about treating our bodies as temples.”
“Oh, I like that. And we’ll have protein for breakfast. A little egg, a little bacon, a little latte.”
“And spa food for lunch.”
“Yeah, really fancy spa food.”
We were getting excited, planning out little weekend of pampering.
“And we’ll work out, obviously.”
“Of course.” Said mom. “We’ll be really healthy. And then we’ll have fabulous dinners.”
“Yeah, where we’ll have wine.” I chimed in.
My mother looked at me like I was insane. “Duh. The real question is, are we allowed to have wine at lunch?”
“Well, we won’t get there till 3 on Friday. And on Sunday, we’ll obviously drink with Alex and all of his friends at Easter Brunch and Easter Dinner.”
“So, it really just comes down to, are we drinking at lunch on Saturday.”
My mother laughed. “And?”
“Well, mom. I think we can go one day without drinking before 5.”
We agreed, and firmed up the rest of the rules for Resurrection weekend. As I drove home, I thanked God for my mother who has a profound understanding of the spa/alcohol needs of stressed females and the willingness to find the balance between the two. I also marveled at our restraint and devotion to supreme health and fitness by giving up wine for a whole 18 hours while on vacation. I wondered if we had made the right decision and asked myself the age old yet appropriately timely question, what would Jesus do?
Tough call…

Monday, April 10, 2006


Ladies and Gentlemen, Doug Benson! Yep, star of Best Week Ever on VH1 and The Marijuanalogues. Oh, and lest I forget, Curb Your Enthusiasm. Hell, folks. He was even on an episode of Friends. Yes! I rule...

Spots: What's your favorite thing about Gavin Newsom?
Doug: My favortie thing about Gavin Newsom is that I don't know who he is.

Spots: If you were a hobo, what would your cardboard sign say?
Doug: "Pick me up, and you can drive in the carpool lane."

Spots: Who is your favorite Golden Girl and why?
Doug: That's like asking me to choose between cancer and AIDS. And two other things. Sorry, but the only way I could do it is in a haiku. (see number 5)

Spots: Which celebrity that you've met is the biggest asshole? Explain.
Doug: Catherine Keener was mean to me once. But I deserved it.

Spots: Weed vs. Booze in haiku, please.
Doug: i like pot a lot
and i also enjoy booze
i pick dorothy

Doug can be seen April 21st and 22nd at Cobb's Comedy Club.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

ugh, that's so 90's...

I enjoy making fun of my ghetto-ass neighborhood. Sure, cars get stolen and hobos live in doorways. Yeah, my creepy neighbor watches us through the backyard fence. So what if Mariachi music is blasted into the street at all hours of the day. It’s charming, my little slice of the barrio.
But when Mikey and I stopped off at Wallgreens, on our way back from Inside Man (which rocked, incidentally), I had no idea that a jaded city slicker such as myself would be completely traumatized by the appalling yet all too common act we witnessed.
I should preface this by mentioning that this is the very Wallgreens with dented head man.
Dented head man?
Well, the name speaks for itself, although in very unlike Beth-fashion, cannot be exaggerated enough. I’d say 33% of his skull is completely dented inwards on one whole side of his head. It’s amazing and I can only imagine how he survived this obvious trauma. Needless to say, he’s no longer playing with a full deck of cards, but he manages to shave his whole head and other than the overwhelming dent, looks remarkably presentable begging for change.
The same cannot be said for the gentleman sitting in the driver’s seat of the SUV we parked next to. As I was getting out of Mike’s car, he whispered, “There’s a guy sitting in that car doing something weird. Be careful.”
Be careful? I’m six inches away from someone who appears to be in mid-attempt to blow himself. In broad daylight.
“What’s he doing?” I asked, afraid to open my door but wildly curious. His left knee rested on the window blocking his face, which faced downward in the heights of concentration. I quickly got out of the car and he barely glanced up. Unreasonably nosey, I had to peek. And I’m quite positive he was not pleasuring himself. Yet, I still had no idea what the hell was going on in that SUV.
We shopped around Wallgreens for awhile and after 10 minutes, returned to Mike’s car. As we approached, I saw the creepy guy hadn’t moved. “He’s still there.”
“Give me the bag.” Mike said, grabbing our purchase of jumbo toilet paper rolls. “Just get in the car really fucking quick.”
I will admit I was honestly terrified. We were parked really close to this guy and I had to squeeze right next to him to “quickly” get in the car.
Still, I looked.
I’ve seen television. I’ve seen movies. But when you see someone shoot heroin between their toes in broad daylight in the Wallgreens parking lot from 6 inches away, you’ve officially got street cred…

*tune in tomorrow for a fucking awesome celebrity interview…


Few things ruin my lighting like some dumb-ass bar manager at the W turning on every single fluorescent overhead at 1:45am. Jesus Christ. A subtly phrased, “All right, foxes. You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here” would have done the trick. That being said, I don’t think my new friend, Juilio cared much.
I love my roommate. And I encourage his mingling with the ladies whenever possible, provided they don’t extinguish their chewing gum on our dining room table. So when I found myself being drooled over by a Eurotrash, 5-foot tall, 50 year old with more money than God, who incidentally, has great taste in dimples, I didn’t need the hilarious yet biting commentary from the peanut gallery.
“Why was that man touching you? And what color would you call his blazer? Would you classify that as ‘salmon’ or ‘coral’? Cuz I want to get one…”

Saturday, April 08, 2006

namaste, bitches...

KG and Shawn had me over for Brunch and Bollywood this weekend. Katherine, conveniently, shares my love of cheesy Indian entertainment, with their complex and sexist story lines and grand scale musical numbers filled with hundreds of dancers. Every Saturday or Sunday morning, Katherine gets her weekly Bollywood fix from Namaste TV, the local Indian programming station, and has enjoyed regaling me with tales of glorious music videos and strange films from the 60’s. I finally made it over, supplying a.m. appropriate booze and Katherine providing a fabulous brunch. We settled in to 2 hours of perfect Namaste TV music videos, and here’s what I have to report.
My new celebrity crush is Bluffmaster. This guy is a god, people and dominates the Indian hip hop scene.
Oh yeah. That’s right. The Indian hip hop scene.
We’re talking fur coats and fedoras. Most of the raps are in Hindi, with the standard chorus in stereotypical English slang. The Bluffmaster is the best at this, by far. Here’s a sampling of his wonderful lyrics:

“aao mil jaayen hum yu ke phir na ho judaa
never gonna let you go girl
never gonna let you go no no no no
na ho koi faaslen na ho dooriyan”

He actually says: "B. L. U to the double F Master!"

But even better than the videos are the commercials. I’m currently looking forward to Rockstars, coming this April 29th to the Cow Palace in San Francisco. Yeah, that place they have the gun shows. Rockstars appears to be a concert staring local Desi-celebs, who apparently are so hot, their instruments are on fire. You're supposed to just call “Paul Singh” at a 209 area code and request information, but I found an awesome link.
Katherine looked across the couch at me as I scribbled down the digits. “Next celebrity interview?”
To dare but to dream…

Friday, April 07, 2006

i bet he ordered a sidecar...

Possessing a complete unwillingness to cook, Mikey and I, decided to grab dinner at Home in the Castro. After a fabulous meal (really, you can’t beat beets) we considered grabbing a drink.
“Okay, but let’s not get Tuesday crazy.” My roommate offered, referring to our impromptu “drink” 2 days prior that resulted in solo dance moves to Hall and Oates and an unfortunate Wednesday.
“Who’s the old lady now? No, no. I totally agree. We should be all responsible and shit.”
“Yeah, but let’s still get a drink.”
“Duh. Where should we go?” I asked.
We looked around, considering gay bars versus Amber Lounge, the only place we might find people to flirt with.
Amber it is.
We walked across the street, deciding to peek inside first and scope the crowd. In front of us walked an extremely elderly man with one of those canes with the prongs at the end. We couldn’t really pass him, so we walked slowly behind him, rolling our eyes as we took tiny step after tiny step.
Come on, old timer. Hustle past Amber so we can go in.
With each laborious step, we inched closer to the front door of Amber, a mere 20 yards away. Nearly there, we were ready to bolt past Father Time into the front door. But suddenly, gramps and his pronged cane made an unexpected right turn. Into Amber!
Mikey and I looked at each other.
And went home…

*PS. Everyone should go to this tonight...

Thursday, April 06, 2006

this, people, is why i have pepper spray in a drawer somewhere...

This is a highly paranoid blog post. Forgive me. But is no one else completely freaked out that a maniacal killer is loose on the street of San Francisco? 2 friends in their 20’s went missing exactly a week ago. One body was found on Saturday with like, a billion stab wounds and a serious beat down. Needless to say, things weren’t looking so hot for that missing friend. Yesterday, KG and Shawn found themselves stuck in traffic in Golden Gate Park.
“I bet it’s a body.” Said Shawn.
“Nah.” Replied Kat. “It’s traffic.”
Guess who was right? Um, hello? A body in Golden Gate Park? I find this highly distressing. So I went to the San Francisco Police Department’s website, where I found this. You can actually enter your address, provided you live in the city, and search crimes that have occurred in the last 90 days in your neighborhood. Within a mile of my house, 188 cars were stolen, 127 people were robbed, 6 people were raped and someone was murdered. In a sad twist, I’m pleasantly surprised. I expected that shit to be much worse. My neighborhood’s really classing up. But you can be sure as Sunshine I’m staying the hell away from Golden Gate Park…

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

wait a second. i'm 28...

Once again, ripped from the pages of Dear Abby, Spots and Big Chris respond to the problems of everyday American idiots.

Dear Spots and Chris:
I recently began dating this guy, "Don," I met a few months ago. For the most part, he's good to me. The problem is I have strong feelings for him, but I'm not sure he feels the same way.
Don says he loves me, and he does treat me wonderfully -- something I've always wanted -- but I have this nagging feeling that "something" will go wrong. I don't know where this stems from. I feel myself starting to fall in love with him, but I don't know if I should because he has been married four times already. Please help me. I don't want to lose him.

Big Chris’ Response:

Dear desperate girl in her late 20's / early 30's,

First of all it always sucks to be in a relationship where you're the one who has stronger feelings for the other person. Also I believe “Don” does love you and his actions show this.
Now let's get to the real issues here. I'm assuming you're between the ages of 27 – 34, that age when women start to get that look, that crazy ass look, when all they can think about is how they want is a man and baby, a man and baby, and nothing else matters. Basically these are your insane years and you're not thinking rationally. I you were thinking rationally you would see that Don has been married four times. Who are Don's heroes? Elizabeth Taylor and J Lo?
And that "something" you think is going to go wrong is Don will eventually kick your ass to the curb. The man simply cannot commit! I haven't had four girlfriends in life, let alone four wives. (I have had several girls who thought they were my girlfriend but that's neither here nor there…) What kind of alimony is this guy paying? Does he have any kids? You know you have to break it off with Don so get off your dead ass and do it.

Spots' Response:

Dear Holding Back,

Hell must have frozen over, because I actually agree with my burrito buddy. It completely sucks to be absolutely crazy about someone and pretty sure they couldn’t give a shit about you. But I think the reason Don’s drifting away is because you regard common sense as a “nagging feeling.”
Oh, that annoying intellect and intuition. Always getting in the goddamn way.
The pig’s been married 47 times, lady. He’s not stopping at 48. Also, I’m confused. What do you mean by, “For the most part, he’s good to me”? Like, he only beats me on Fridays? Don says “I love you” like most people say “What’s for dinner?” He sounds like one of those con-men on Unsolved Mysteries who are always bilking women out of their savings while wining and dining them at TGIFriday’s. They tend to be from Florida and involved in white trash pyramid schemes. Under normal circumstances, I’d advise you to, oh, I don’t know, ASK Don what his intentions are. However, you seem like an easily duped idiot, so I’ll just instruct you to bail.
Christ, if you end up missing him that much, you can always find another schmuck in shirt sleeves and a polyester tie wanting to tell you about his glamorous time-share business in Boca Raton…

davor schmuel...

I just want to say, she lives far away so she’s never photographically represented on the blog. But my dear friend, close confidant and third corner of the infamous Trifecta has quite possibly the most gorgeous headshot I’ve ever seen. Ladies and Gentleman, the talented Dani Marcus. Sadly, I’m the only corner of the goddamn Trifecta still in San Francisco, Zoe joining Dani in the Big Apple to pursue fame, fortune and fabulous without me. The Trifecta, founded in 2002, is quite possibly the most complete friendship known to man. We have the neurotic, high-maintenance, comic relief (c’est moi.) We’ve got the brains of the operation (That’d clearly be Zoe.) And we have the unconditional love and judgement-less support of this stone cold fox. She reads the blog, she knows my dirt. Homegirl’s even seen me naked.
Marcus, consider this your shout out…

i won't live in a world without metrosexuals...

While googling the phrase “white slave trade” this morning (don’t ask), I came across this article. This is pretty much the most hilarious piece of literature I have ever read, and became even funnier once I realized this guy was serious. Apparently, I’m suffering from Racial Alzheimers, or RA. This image is actually from their website. Isn’t it fabulous? I wonder if they guy knew what he was posing for. Did he answer a Craigslist ad? “Racist website seeks model. Must be white and Jesus-y.”
Hey, 50 bucks is 50 bucks.
Anyway, this is my favorite paragraph from his diatribe. Boy, this guy really knows how to make a point:

“A good way to see what I am talking about is to look at some of the newsreels and movies made in the 40s and 50s. Take a good look at the people on the sidewalks, the people in the factories and offices and schools. They were virtually all White. And notice the way they behaved, the way they were dressed, and the way they expressed themselves. No backward baseball caps, no ghetto slang, no androgyny, no "metrosexuals," no disorder. Men were men, women were women, children acted like children, the elderly were respected -- and that's how it was supposed to be.”

Oh, and I would like Tim Gunn’s thoughts on this idiotic gem:

“Another RA sufferer is White supermodel Heidi Klum, in appearance at least a true flower of Europe, who recently married the incredibly repulsive and vulgar Black singer "Seal," a union which produced yet another non-White child. RA sufferers make us all suffer.”

Um, hello? I bet this guy listens to “Kiss from a Rose” on repeat when he’s feeling bummed out about all the gays and militant feminists screwing everything up. I think I shall now go offer my comments on their guestbook…

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

matt damon for appetizers...

I go through these phases where I consistently wake up at 3:30 and can’t go back to sleep until 5am. Needless to say it sucks, and I find myself frequently lying in bed with my eyes wide open worrying. Did I say the wrong thing at that meeting? Did I pay my cell phone bill? Is there someone wandering through the bushes outside?
Tonight, I found myself pacing around Judy’s, where I’m house-sitting, reading her Elle Décor and lamenting my energy and obvious chemical imbalance. Perhaps, I thought to myself, I should be using this time more productively. I mean, I could be mastering tai chi or perfecting my French. I could be painting great masterpieces or writing a novel. God, I could even be working out to Comcast Fitness on Demand. But did I do any of these things?
I returned to bed and attempted to will myself back to sleep. I’ve got a million mental time-killers, little games I developed for myself that so perfectly match my bizarre obsessions. But which one to play tonight? Then I remembered.
Super Celebrity Dream Date Times Five.
(right now, everyone reading this is rolling their eyes and turning off their computer. Except for Zoë. Zoë just let out a little gasp.)
Invented by Zoë and myself, while working our 400th show together backstage, Super Celebrity Dream Date Times Five is the mother of all time-killers. It began simply enough. While slaving away 8 shows a week, we hotly debated our Top 5 celebrities. Soon, tho, naming the 5 celebrities we wanted to sleep with became boring. We had to mix it up.
“Okay, you have to pick one celebrity to have a one night stand with, one to date for 1-6 months and one to marry.”
Playing this with gay chorus boys added a frequent element of surprise. “Girl, you know I love me some Levar Burton.”
At first, our celebrity games were mocked by jaded stage-hands who were far too cool to cop to a minor lust for Topanga from Boy Meets World. But after a while, our relentless discussions permeated all of backstage. By the time Zoë’s legendary Super Celebrity Christmas Morning rolled around, everyone was in on the action.
“How do you play this one?” asked our married, middle-aged boss.
Delighted to inform him that Super Celebrity Christmas Morning involved describing in intimate detail waking up on Christmas Morning to one’s ultimate celebrity fantasy, Zoë offered hers as an example.
“Okay, so I wake up on Christmas morning and sitting at the foot of my bed is John Travolta in a pilot’s uniform. He then informs me that he’s flying me to Tahiti on his private jet where we’ll spend New Year’s sipping cocktails on the beach and discussing behind the scenes Hollywood gossip. So I won’t be bored on the flight, he’s prepared me a fabulous basket filled with snacks and fashion magazines. Not only that, but also within the basket are all of the fabulous beauty products mentioned in the magazines, so I can test them out while I read about them, 35,000 feet over the Pacific.”
Momentarily silenced by the thought that he had actually hired this person, our boss suddenly responded.
“I wake up on Christmas morning to Raquel Welch making French toast…”
Exactly. Nice work.
Finally, the ultimate game was developed. A game so involved, with so many possibilities and variables, there could never be a better celebrity based time-killer.
Super Celebrity Dream Date Times Five.
Taking a good month to perfect, both backstage and on neighboring elliptical trainers, Super Celebrity Dream Date Times Five in a complicated blend of fashion, food and foxes. One must select five celebrities, one restaurant and one outfit. This act alone could take weeks. But wait. It gets better. You then pick one celeb to have drinks with, another for appetizers, the third you sit down to dinner with, the fourth is for dessert and coffee and finally, your last celebrity takes you to after-dinner drinks and then to bed.
Think I’m done? Hardly.
You’ve got to detail exactly what you eat and drink the entire time. AND, one must be incredibly specific about the ensembles of each and every celebrity date.
I know. We’re insane.
Far too involved for even the gayest of gays, Super Celebrity Dream Date Times Five is the exclusive pastime of Zoë and me. Few understand its complexity and genius and most mock it. That being said, it’s currently 4:51am and I am about to go to bed, miss my dear friend and begin the restaurant and outfit selection.
I’m thinking Boulevard and grey cashmere…

Monday, April 03, 2006

rainy days and sundays...

When faced with the prospect of spending Sunday scrubbing red wine out of vintage linens or getting hamburgers and walking around Pacific Heights, Mikey and I chose the latter. We turned off the dreadful Kevin Spacey vehicle, Pay It Forward, dragged ourselves off the couch yesterday and headed over to The Fillmore, grabbing huge burgers at Johnny Rockets while focusing all of our energy on remaining upright.
After our 3pm feast, we tried to figure out what to do next. “Well, I want to be outside. Let’s go walk around in the rain.”
“Fine with me. We’ve just got to find a way to Pay It Forward.”
The movie, sadly, had inspired us to do good works for three strangers in the hopes that they would Pay It Forward by helping others in a similar fashion. In the movie, Haley Joel Osmet befriends a heroin addicted hobo and brings him home to his white trash, single mom, Vegas household. As we walked along Fillmore, an insane homeless person pushed Mikey out of the way, mumbling something along the lines of “Move, fucker.”
“Um, that guy with his sweatshirt tucked into his pants just called me fucker.”
“So, should we invite him to come live with us?”
“Only if he sleeps in YOUR room.”
We kept walking, popping into a few stores but basically wandering aimlessly, oblivious to the rain. “Oh, let’s walk over to that park.”
“Yeah, a park sounds good.”
Along the way, we picked out our favorite fancy houses and made our way up a hill, finding a park with an amazing view of the whole city. Passing well-dressed gays walking dogs and strange people sitting in bushes, we wandered without purpose or destination until lo and behold, we spotted our friend again, sitting on a park bench cursing.
“Hey, there’s that dude that called you fucker.”
“Oh my god, stop getting so close.”
“I think he needs a hug, Mikey.”
“Forget it. We’re not paying it forward to HIM.”
“Well, then we’d better find a little old lady to help cross the street or an addict to make clean.”
“Let’s just keep going.”
We headed back to the Fillmore and observed the masses, too exhausted to say much other than to mock the insane or unattractive. “Okay. I’m done walking.”
“Let’s drive.”
“Okay. Where?”
“I wanna see the Mrs. Doubtfire house.”
“Cool. I wanna find the Top Chef house.”
An hour of driving later, we were out of things to do again. “Should we go home?”
“That seems lame.”
“There’s an art store. Let’s do projects!”
“Oh, I want to make art for my room!”
“Shit. The art store is closed.”
“Fuck. Well, what’s around here?”
“Beats me. And we still haven’t paid it forward.”
“This paying it forward crap is too much work.”
“No kidding. Other than letting a hobo crash in your garage, what the hell are we supposed to do?”
“We don’t even have a garage.”
“And who does heroin anymore?”
“Screw this. We’re going home to watch What About Bob.”
We did not Pay It Forward yesterday, and while I had every intention of doing so, being do-gooder is tough. It’s not that hard to do something nice. We’re all capable of that. The hard part comes when the person you want to do something nice for calls you a fucker…