Wednesday, June 28, 2006

unsolve this...

Perhaps the greatest reason to stay home on a weekday is the television. Back to back Law and Order, an array of my favorite cooking shows, old sitcoms, game shows, the A-Team…it’s all wonderful. But I’ve finally settled on the absolute best daytime television viewing option ever: Unsolved Mysteries.
Let me break it down.
The theme song: I remember when UM (Unsolved Mysteries from henceforth) was on at night, I believe on Thursdays, and I’d watch it religiously. And without a doubt, especially when I was home alone, I’d be sitting upstairs in my parent’s creaky, old TV room completely terrified by the intro credits alone. Even watching them at 11am today, that bizarre, synthesized song gives me the creeps. I love it.
Segments: Each segment is introduced by a fabulous 1980’s graphic letting us know what type of mystery we’d be hearing about. The best is obviously “Unexplained Death” or “Past Life Memories” and the most boring are always “Lost Love” or worse, some kind of stupid treasure hunt involving hand held metal detectors and old men in bolo ties obsessed with bizarre skirmishes of the Wild West.
The host: Robert Stack, in every scene, in every episode is always dressed like McGruff the Crime Dog. Better than the extreme seriousness with which he takes each segment, better than his gruff tone when detailing the sins of “Fugitives,” better even than his immense hatred of Red State con-men who bilk little old ladies our of their life savings is the fact that he introduces each segment by walking around the most random places. He could be giving us the details on “Noreen,” taken from her backwoods family farm by cruel, meddling Depression-era social workers and trying to find any of the 16 brothers and sisters she hasn’t seen since, and he’ll be walking through Safeway. Or he could introduce “Imelda” who believes she was a plantation slave in 1852 and he’ll be strolling through a meat-packing plant. I just this very moment watched him introduce “Wendy” looking for the anonymous good Samaritan who comforted her as her grandmother was hit and killed by a car in Modesto and he was strolling through a courtroom. COURT WAS IN SESSION. Not one of the 10 people in the courtroom appeared to notice Robert Stack, hands shoved in his trench coat pockets, wandering around talking to TV cameras. I mean, these are clearly people hired to pretend to be in the middle of some big court case and no one bats an eyelash or, as I would, wonders aloud, “Who the fuck is Dragnet over here, and where’s all this mist coming from?”
Re-enactments: One day, if you’ve lived a good life and been a kind person, karma will bless you with the Matthew McConaughy episode of UM, in which he re-enacts a crime and gets shot by a man masturbating in a pick-up truck. 100% of UM segments involve horribly acted, filmed, costumed and produced re-enactments and I love each and every one of them.
Interviews: You are only allowed to have your mystery featured on UM if you’re the ugliest person alive, missing teeth, have a mullet, look oddly old for your age, are wearing a banana clip and/or require the anonymity of silhouette/voice disguise. No one who has graduated from college has ever been on UM. In any capacity. Ever. Most of them can’t even read.
Keely Shaye Smith: Keely and her wonderfully fluctuating ass-size are married to Pierce Brosnan, which makes her really interesting to me. Keely’s not allowed out of the “Call Center” where she fills us in with Updates and Reunions. We only get to see Keely if the mystery is being solved and is thus, if you ask me, no longer interesting. Keely is also in charge of handing the phone to “Noreen” after one of her 16 brothers or sisters excitedly phones the call center.
Finally, the best part of UM is that everyone involved thinks there’s actually doing some good. Like, they don’t exist purely for my entertainment. Hello? Their re-runs are exclusively on Lifetime, Television for Women. And people still call in! Decades later! Isn’t that wonderful. Like somewhere in Arkansas, some woman in blue eye shadow and every one of the Chicken Soup for the Soul books thinks she recognizes a re-enactor ripping off a convenience store and rushes to the phone to call Keely or, as instructed, her local and state authorities.
Pure television gold…

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

i probably should've mentioned it, but i didn't want the lecture...

I am notorious for treating my car like shit. While I love Rhonda the Honda, finding my base model 2003 Civic both reliable and low maintenance, I assume that I can ignore her until she eventually rebels. This morning, Elliot and I decided to go to brunch, and as I began to rattle off our dining options, I stuck the key in the ignition and pushed.
Rhonda sputtered out a death rattle.
“Um, did we leave a light on? A door open? The battery must be dead.”
“It’s can’t be.” Elliot responded. “The radio works. The lights work. But I know nothing of cars.”
“I, I’m sure, know less.”
In any instance of crisis, I call my brother. As I’m currently house-sitting in Mill Valley and Alex is home for the summer, for the next two weeks we’re 5 minutes apart. The main reason I needed Alex to come over isn’t because he knows anything about cars. It’s because for some bizarre reason, my father remembered to renew Alex’s AAA membership and not mine.
I’m the girl, you’re saying. His only daughter. The apparent light of life.
Apparently not.
With Alex on his way, Elliot and I stood in the driveway and began chatting with the plumber working on the house being built next door. The plumber decided that he and Elliot should push my car into the street, where he could align his plumbing van and attempt a jump. Finding jumper cables in the garage, we figured we might as well try, even though all signs, lights and working radio pointed to a charged battery.
Needless to say, Rhonda could not be jumped to life.
A dead battery I can handle. Even the plumber was stumped, guessing it was the starter and beginning a tirade on Japanese craftsmanship. Alex soon arrived and sat in the driver’s seat of Rhonda. He put the key in the ignition and pushed.
“Well, I’m out of ideas.”
The plumber suggested getting one of the Mexican guys also working with him on the house next door. “I don’t know why, though. They’d just steal the tires.”
Elliot, Alex, the plumber and I stood around waiting for a tow truck, as I called Al, the body shop guy who recently applied Rhonda’s new bumper after her unfortunate collision. Conveniently, Al’s shop is a mere 5 or 6 blocks from my house sitting gig.
“Al, what do I do?”
“I’m not a mechanic, Beth. I own a body shop. But call my friend Marcel. That’s where I take my car and he’s right across the street. Oh, and thanks for the tickets. I’ll call Marcel right now and tell him you’ll be towing a car over to him, okay?”
A ha!
After Al had so kindly repaired Rhonda’s bumper and then, knocked a dent out gratis, I sent him and his kids a few tickets to the play I’ve been working on. It seemed like an easy gesture at the time, and one that would come back to me tenfold in the long run. I was right.
“Awesome, Al. Thanks so much.”
“No problem. I’ll tell him to take good care of you.”
By this time, AAA had arrived, having been called by Alex, possessor of the coveted membership. Curiously, they came in a van which had, obviously, no towing capacity. From out of this van leapt Joey, cocky in his little uniform as he mysteriously applied latex gloves.
Alex looked concerned. “Uh, I said we needed a tow.”
“Relax, pal. I’ll get her running.”
He pulled out jumper cables.
“We tried that.”
Ignoring us, he attempted to jump her anyway. Needless to say, Rhonda was no more impressed by Joey’s cables than anyone else’s. “It’s got to be that starter.”
“That’s what I said!” chirped the plumber, now invested in my dilemma and neglecting his leaky toilet or broken faucet.
Joey circled the car several times, rambling on in automotive jargon and deciding that the internal mechanics of my keys were to blame.
“Joey, I have a base model Civic. There are no internal working of my keys.”
“Yeah, there are. You know that button on your keys you click to unlock the doors?”
“I don’t have that.”
“Yeah you do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“What you’ve got there in your hand are valet keys. You should be using the key they gave you with the locking button. And only Honda can do that for you. We’re going to need to call a tow truck to tow you to Marin Honda. Then they’ll hook your car up to a big computer and reboot her internal computer.”
I called Marcel and ran this by him.
“Hi Marcel, I’m Beth. Al told me to call you.” I explained Joey’s diagnosis.
“Well, Beth. I hate to say this, but if he’s right then yeah, you’ve got to take it to Honda. I’d love to get your business but I don’t have some computer thing I can hook up to your car. I’m really sorry.”
I then called Marin Honda. Finding “Craig” on the other line, I explained Joey’s diagnosis.
“You never got keys with push button locking because you got the cheapest model available. I’ve never heard of some kind of magic computer that magically starts cars, but if I did, I wouldn’t be working here.”
Thanks, Craig. Because what I need right now is attitude.
Fine. Marcel it is.
Joey departed, getting Alex to sign some form and announcing, before he left, that a flatbed truck was on its way.
“A flatbed? Really?”
“It’s all we got available today.”
Alex left us with the AAA card and went on with his life. “Keep me posted, guys. I want to see how this ends.”
As he drove away in his working car, a huge flatbed truck made its way up the hill. From within the can emerged Bill, his weathered arms covered in vintage tattoos and his hair a full bodied mess of gray curls. Maybe 55, Bill, it’s safe to say, is a badass and we later decided, must have an array of children in their 40’s and a checkered past. Bill got Rhonda onto the flatbed of his truck and inquired as to where she was going.
“Marin Auto Works.”
“Oh, cool. Who’d you talk to? Marcel?”
“YES!””Marcel’s cool. You coming with me?”
“No. Marcel can’t get to her until this afternoon. Is that okay?”
“I don’t give a shit. It’s your car.”
He unceremoniously shook our hands and departed with Rhonda sitting embarrassingly on display. We said goodbye to the plumber and headed out to brunch.
“What a cast of characters we’ve met. The plumber, Joey, Bill. With Marcel popping in on the phone periodically.”
I borrowed a car from the garage and drove Elliot to the city, calling my brother on the way back. “Shit, Alex. This is going to cost me a fortune. And I hate borrowing someone else’s car, especially while they’re out of town and have no idea. Ugh, I just know it’ll be a million dollars.”
As we chatted, my other line beeped through.
“That’s my mechanic. Gotta go.”
I clicked over.
“Hi, Beth. Boy, it’s bad when you recognize your mechanics phone number. But, in this case it’s good because I have good news. Your car is fixed. You can pick it up whenever you want.”
“Yeah, a (insert something car sounding) wire came loose. As soon as I opened the hood I saw it and screwed it back in. No biggie.”
“Oh, thank god. How much is this going to cost?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Seriously? Oh my god, thank you so much, Marcel. I’ll just walk over in like, an hour. Is that cool?”
“Sure, Beth. No problem.”
Yes! I returned the borrowed car to its spot and raced inside. Whipping together a huge batch of cookies, I called my brother and filled him in. 30 minutes later, I walked the 6 blocks to Marin Auto Works carrying a tin of warm cookies.
5 minutes after that, I drove away in Rhonda the Honda. She started right up, and I drove her past Marcel and Company just in time to see a crowd of mechanics hovered over my cookie tin.
And the lesson learned in all of this? When your car’s got a blinking light on the dashboard flashing “Maintenance Required” for 2 weeks straight, she may indeed require some maintenance.
Wait, I didn’t mention the blinking light?

oddly familliar...

On so many levels, this makes my day.
Kevin Federline, what have you become...

Monday, June 26, 2006

that timepiece is hot, tho...

Here is San Francisco Mayor, Hottie McFabulous telling reporters about his "Neckwear for the Hobos" program, in which he gives all but one of his designer neckties to bums and is forced to dress for Easter Mass every day because of his immense kindness and generosity...

Sunday, June 25, 2006

god, i love the internet...

So, uh, believe it or not, after the immense success of my DLISTED interview with Michael K., I've decided you wonderful readers deserve my biggest celebrity coup yet. I'd be tremendously more excited if he didn't answer my questions in an incredibly boring and sadly, unfunny way, but I can't control the famous. And I'd just like to remind everyone that the greatest interviewee on my blog thus far has been my hilarious friend Jacob Sirof.
However, when fucking Todd Hockney answers my 5 questions via MySpace, I have to post them. I mean, the title of this very blog is from my all time favorite movie, starring today's Celebrity Interviewee. This should be the greatest day of my life.
Go see him at Cobb's this coming weekend. I've seen him twice and he's way funnier in person. I mean, Walken impressions never get old.
Ladies and gentleman, Kevin Pollak:

Spots: How is Steven Baldwin so pompous considering the fact that he starred in BioDome?

Kevin: Stephen is just that way cause................he's nuts.

Spots: Did Tom Cruise ever try and convert you to Scientology?

Kevin: Sorry to disappoint my fellow cynics, but Tom was truly 100% real and normal. If anything, he's a bit nerdy, but that's literally the worst I could say about him. And, trust me, if I had a reason to slam him, I would.

(Spots calls bullshit.)

Spots: What is your favorite thing about San Francisco Mayor, Gavin Newsom?

Kevin: I don't know much about the Mayor, but I did think it was great the way he stood up for gay marraiges, long before the other Mayors.


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

Kevin: "Will impersonate Walken for spare change..."

Spots: Will you be supporting Christopher Walken in his 2008 Presidential bid?

Kevin: Natch

I don't even get that last one.
What'd he have a whole team of monkeys working on this one...

i hope my hobo's okay...

I frequently joke that I live in the ghetto, applauding my own street cred for sharing a block with a jovial hobo. But truth be told, I’m rarely that freaked out by my crime-ridden neighborhood and it’s only when I hear automatic gunfire at 3am, do I really consider moving somewhere safer, like Kabul.
New Chris and I celebrated his birthday with fabulous drinks and dinner at Foreign Cinema, surrounded by impeccable lighting and an array of wealthy gays in town for Pride Weekend. Walking the 6 blocks back to my house, I stopped Chris from checking his voicemail.
“Put that shit away, Christopher. Someone’s going to jump us for your fancy ass gadgetry.”
“Are you kidding me? Relax.”
Okay, fine. Let’s see how chill you are with a chiv in your face. Needless to say, we made it safely home and opened a bottle of wine. At around 2am, my darkened house lit up as what sounded startlingly like 15-20 gunshots shook the windows. Apparently, a skirmish had broken out right next door.
“Holy shit!”
“Um, was that a gun?” I asked, half joking and hiding behind my wineglass.
“If it were a gun, I’d have hit the deck.”
Don’t placate me. I see fear behind those eyes. “Well then, what do you think it was?”
“I have no idea. Get away from the window.”
We agreed that whatever it was lit up the backyard and the alley between our houses, and it certainly seemed to be inside the house next door, as opposed to outside, removing fireworks from our list of likely possibilities.
“Should we call someone?” I asked, far too chicken to actually abuse the fine folks at 911.
“Are you nuts? No. We’re minding our fucking business.”
“Well, I’m going in the backyard to check the perimeter.” I said, sliding into flip flops and attempting to appear brave.
“You are absolutely not.”
No man tells me what to do. I flung open the backdoor and stepped outside into pitch black silence. I tiptoed up the stairs leading to the flat above mine and peered over the fence.
Nothing. No fireworks residue. No exploding barbeque. No dead bodies.
We went back inside and locked the door. “Well, that was exciting.”
“No shit. No more going outside.”
“Fine. But Michael’s not even home yet. It’s like, the middle of the night. I don’t want him to get shot.”
“He won’t get shot.” Chris replied, unconvincingly. “But uh, I take it back. This place is seriously ghetto.”
Christ. It’s the goddamn demilitarized zone…

Friday, June 23, 2006

hey, you want flower...

So, not to sound like Leona Helmsly or anything, but I was just totally assaulted at the salon. I walk into the Shiny Nails, located across the street from my office and am immediately instructed to “Pick Color!”
I hand them my standard O.P.I. Kennebunk-PORT.
“What you want on foot?”
“Oh, I want same color on hands and toes, please.”
“Same color?”
“Yeah. Same color.”
Immense rolling of eyes and speaking in tongues ensues. I am then pushed into a spa chair as both right extremities are aggressively grabbed. With my free left hand, I snag a People magazine from a rack nearby and proceed to dive into an article on my favorite inmate and neighbor, Scott Peterson. One angry woman manhandles my feet, as the other rips apart my hands. All of a sudden, pain shoots through my right ring finger. I look down as my nail bed fills with blood.
Oddly enough, I don’t want to be a bitch. I mean, they haven’t even begun to paint yet, and that’s the important part. I certainly don’t want to do anything that will be the manicurist equivalent of spitting on my salad. But my uncontrollable twitch alerts the masochist manicurist to my injury and she must respond by dousing it in what I pray to God is some kind of miraculous infection prevention.
Needless to say, flames erupted within my epidermis and my eyes watered up.
The pedicurist angrily looks at me, then at the manicurist and then back at me.
“You cry?”
“No, no. It just stings a little. I’m totally fine.”
“You make her cry!” She screams at the manicurist, while vigorously rubbing my calves with lotion, thus causing my entire body to move and forcing the manicurist to get nail polish all over the place. I believe there’s still some on my elbow, I was being so subsequently pushed, pulled and painted.
“She fine!” The manicurist bellows in response.
“She so tense now!” The pedicurist rips Scott Peterson from my hand and angrily throws him to the floor, probably where he belongs. Her evil eyes focused back onto me.
“You relax!”
Oh yeah. No problem. I’m bleeding from a highly necessary digit, causing inter-office fights among beauticians and we’ve all prompted an orchestra of angry Asian squabbling, clearly all about me.
I’m the picture of serenity.
With Scott slammed on the filthy wall to wall carpeting, I’m forced to stare into space, like the Cowardly Lion uncomfortably having his hair done. They finally finish, all 10 nails red and indeed, quite shiny. After the required 20 minutes under the needless driers, I slide into my flops, scrawl out a check and bolt.
“Thank you!”
“Oh, you welcome! You come back. And you no cry next time!”

Thursday, June 22, 2006


To know me is two know that I am obsessed with 2 websites on the entire internet. My own, and DLISTED. Created by the genius Michael K., Dlisted's constant celebrity trash talking is often times the only thing that keeps me going. His coverage of the ongoing Lohan/Hilton feud is both cutting edge and biting, his writing about Lewis, the violent cat recently sentanced to death is hilarious yet timely and his brilliant commentary on international pop culture is the basis for most of my happiness. I can't believe this bitch answered my questions, albeit x-ratedly...

Spots: Who is the most ghetto celebrity and why?

Michael K: Paris Hilton, because she will suck a dick for a can of Fanta.

Spots: What's your favorite thing about San Francisco Mayor, Gavin Newsom?

(DISCLAIMER: This answer grossed even me out)

Michael K: My favorite thing about him is that he swallows and I got chunky it takes a real man to swallow mine. Oh shit, am I gonna get into some kind of trouble for saying that shit?

Spots: How do you select your Hot Sluts of the day, week, month and year?

Michael K: As dorky as it sounds, I keep a list. I seriously carry around this ugly notepad and whenever I think a hot person, I jot them down. Readers also write me with hot suggestions.

Spots: Can I be one of them?

Michael K: Send me a nude pic of yourself and you can.

Spots: If you could pick 5 people to share a booth with at Bungalow 8, who would it be and why?

Michael K: Probably some doctor who specializes in STDs, because if it's Bungalow 8 then Paris Hilton will be there and I'm going to need some strong meds to not contract whatever she's got. I would have to say Star Jones, because I'm on a diet right now and I don't want to have an appetite. Looking at her face will secure that for me. Vin Diesel, because I need someone gayer than me at the table. Lewis the Cat, because bitch will kill anybody who fucks with me and lastly Lindsay Lohan...because seeing her try to beat down Paris's ass will provide my entertainment!

That was incredible. Thank you, Michael K. and all you bitches should read Dlisted...

top 5 guesses as to what he's listening to...

5: "It's Hard Out There For A Pimp" by Djay
4: "Man in the Mirror" by Michael Jackson
3: "The Bitch is Back" by Elton John
2: "Hail to the Chief" by the United States Marine Band
1: "Beth" by Kiss...

someone needs a latte...

Driving to work this morning, I made my usual commute call to Zoe in New York and left her a giggly, dorky message pertaining to issues of a personal nature. Clad in sweats and flops, I had my left foot propped up between my dashboard and my door as I drove, and as I hung up my phone, I moved said foot across the steering wheel in an attempt to return it to the floor while maneuvering my vehicle along Van Ness.
When my foot touched the steering wheel, my horn honked.
For approximately half a second.
Based upon the reaction of the gentleman in front of me, you’d have thought I took a shit on the hood of his Chrysler Cobra, he was so incensed. At the next red light, he exited his hunk of junk and stomped over to my open window and impending panic.
“What are you honking at?!?!?!?!”
His face was most of the way inside my car, my personal space now completely invaded. I was stunned into a rare silence.
“I said, what are you honking at?!?!?!?!”
“Uh, relax, pal.”
“I’m not your pal!”
“Okay. Relax psychotic stranger. I accidentally hit my steering wheel. A honking sound ensued. And thus, your day was apparently ruined. Jeez.”
He removed his face from within my car and stood at my window, his hands resting femininely on his uptight hips. “Nice attitude. You’re an idiot.”
Before I could utter another word, he stomped back to his ride as the light turned green. Cars passed on either side, but road rage was still putting on his seatbelt and restarting his Cobra, as I muttered furiously under my breath.
Frustrated commuters were piling up behind us, and I was pissed.
I had only one choice.

Wednesday, June 21, 2006


Zoe's famous. I know. I mean, duh. But check my bitch out...

abby who...

Dear Big Chris and Spots,
Over the last three years, my best friend of 15 years, "Hazel," has engaged in some disturbing Internet dating behavior. Several months ago, she answered a classified ad on the Internet in which a man was looking for women who enjoy "domestic discipline." (In other words, "spanking.") Not only did Hazel go to meet this man in person, but she married him after knowing him for only three weeks!
When I met him in person, every alarm God ever gave me as a woman went off at once. He was very aggressive and began making inappropriate comments in front of me about spanking her after knowing me for less than 10 minutes.
Hazel keeps pressing for us to "get to know him," but every time I think about it I feel ill. My husband and I are conservative people. We would never associate with someone we knew openly practiced deviant behavior. However, I am concerned for my friend. I'm afraid he may abuse her. I don't want to associate with him, but I don't want to lose Hazel. Can this relationship be salvaged?

Dear White Trash People,
First of all I've been saying for years, e-mail, internet dating, craigslist etc. are for geeks, pedophiles, and perverts. Your friend "Hazel" and her new husband fall into the category of perverts. They also fall into the category of fucking idiots for getting married after 3 weeks. Only the great Britney Spears can get away with that kind of behavior.
Here's the problem and the irony of this whole situation: You are your husband are a conservative couple (probably christian, insane, twice a month missionary style sex, pro bush etc.) and you're good friends with"Hazel" who's a freak into internet marriage, S&M, spanking, anal and "domestic discipline" which her new dirtbag husband is happy to provide.
Basically the friendship can be salvaged. As long as he isn't kicking her ass outside the bedroom just mind your own business. What you consider deviant behavior, they consider normal and you're in no position judge.
Finally after reading your letter I think you're all fucked in the head.
~ Big Chris

Dear Prude,
Uh, Hazel’s the Sub who answered the very up-front ad. At least the Dom is putting it out there and being honest about what he’s into. Hazel makes no bones about chasing him down and dropping trou, and hell’s bells, who are we to judge? I’m simply amazed Hazel told you and your Reader’s Digest, Christian programming hubby about her sex life. Because, and this might come as a shock to you, it’s none of your GD business. Thank god someone’s having dicey, controversial and fabulous sex. Because it clearly isn’t you.
As for disliking this guy, even out of the bedroom, so what? Your friend married a sleazy creep. Get in line. Bite your tongue like everyone else, or if that’s too kinky for you, leave them to it and go back to your noodles and red sauce. Either way, some friend you are. Because if, god forbid, this guy really is a slimeball and starts ignoring Hazel’s screams of their safeword, you’ll be the last person she calls.
I can’t believe you used the word deviant,

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

whenever you're ready...

Now that Gavin dumped Eurotrash, I imagine he’s currently working on the courage to ask me out (in addition to his tireless efforts on behalf of the hobos.) I’ll admit, though, I’m surprised it’s taking him so long. I mean, I make myself pretty available. And while I have complete confidence that perhaps I’m a little intimidating and unapproachable, what with my verbalized opinions and fluency in English, I’d imagine myself a welcome change of pace for Gavin.
I am starting to doubt our obvious impending romance a little and perhaps, this lack of attention is giving me a complex. I had a very intense and realistic dream in which Gavin and I shared a wonderfully amorous and fun-loving secret road trip to Palm Springs and upon my return, no one would believe me. I spent the majority of this dream trying to convince my friends and namely, my mother, that the mayor and I were indeed officially bf/gf.
Perhaps my years of blogging about our imagined and forbidden love has given me a certain lack of credibility in this department, but I assure you, awake or not, you haven’t heard the last of us. I know that stupid Eurotrash Mama Celeste is probably calling him nonstop from her quarantine cell on Ellis Island, and Gavin is far too polite to brush her off and begin a public romance with yours truly. But as soon as she’s shipped back to the old country, it’s so on…

can i get another knife...

Like most families, people have the same seat at the 916a dinner table. Often times, depending on the number of diners, one will have a usual side of the table, but it’s always the same side and usually the same end. At my folks’ house, I always sit across from Alex. I have no idea what will happen if we’re on the same side of the table. No one does. It’s never happened. My uncle Bill always sits on Alex’s side. My uncle Ted always sits on mine. My dad is always by the window, my mother always by the kitchen.
T'was always thus, and always thus will be.
Ben Number 1 just moved back to San Francisco. I’d like to welcome him to civilization and welcome him to his official seat….

Monday, June 19, 2006

hey, i'm the one that asked...

Saturday night was John’s graduation from UC Santa Cruz, which gloriously involved me seated at a table solely representing estrogen as 8 Italian guys explained a woman’s role to me. Highlights include John’s brother grabbing his belly and referring to it as the fuel tank for his sex machine and my making a toast which I do not remember.
Before leaving, Mikey and I were getting ready for our respective nights out, and lately he’s been instructed to be honest and tell me when I look like ass. He’s slowly getting better at this, but going from Honorary Roomie, who will say “Change immediately!” to Mikey’s standard, “Um, yeah… What?” is challenging.
Saturday night, I was really putting him to the test.
Twirling around the bathroom in my new blue dress, I asked. “Hair up or down?”
“Lemme see.”
I demonstrated hair up. I demonstrated hair down.
“Um, down.”
“Yeah. Unless, I mean, do you want it up?”
“Well, it’s so hot out.”
“Lemme see it up again.”
I stuck my hair up and rummaged through my jewelry.
“Okay, which earrings?” I asked, sporting a hoop on the left lobe and a silver dangly thing on the right.
“Ummm, hoops.”
“Yeah. Unless, you like those other ones. I, um, I don’t know, Beth.”
I would like to point out that when asked which shoes Mike should wear, I curtly responded “Flops.” No hemming and hawing.
Flops. And roll your cuffs.
Finally, running wildly late with a different shoe on each foot and a different bracelet on each wrist, I said, “Or I could not wear this dress.”
Suddenly, he looks up. “Yeah. I’m not really a fan of that dress…”

"since kindergarten, john's been the gas and i've been the brakes..." -alex

Saturday, June 17, 2006

"your blog's all restaurant reviews now. what gives?"

Andy, Mikey, New Chris and I tried out a new restaurant I’d read about in the Chronicle.
I thought I lived in the ghetto.
Farmer Brown is in the GD ghetto, and in getting there, we pretty much almost died. Chris and I picked Andy up, rushing to meet Mike already waiting for us at the bar. Farmer Brown is located at Mason and Market, so basically, it’s in an actual crack den, and Chris circled the block looking for parking. A one-legged, toothless hobo stood in the middle of the street, staring into the sky oblivious to the cars around him, Andy leaned forward. “Uh, Chris. Run over that bitch.”
Oh my god.
“Boys, we are parking as close to this restaurant as possible. I would give that guy’s leg for a parking place right now.”
We passed the restaurant again, this time blocked by ambulances and fire trucks rescuing a homeless, wheelchair bound crack whore. Like, right at the front door.
“You read about this place where?”
“The Chronicle, fancy pants. Relax. It’s urban, soul-food fusion.”
“In the ghetto?”
“I guess so. I’m, um, starting to get scared.”
Another hobo came into the street and started yelling at us, as what I believe to be a tooth exited his mouth and bounced off my window.
“Oh my god. That was awesome.”
With that, a pimp exited his parking space right at the front door. Yes!
“You guys are going to kill me. I have to go to the ATM.”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t really feel like getting raped today.”
Andy eyed the array of firefighters and paramedics standing around. “I do.”
We pushed our way into the restaurant to find Mike sitting at the bar, sipping a fancy vodka rocks and surrounded by a Benetton ad.
Turns out, deep down Skid Row, there’s a wonderful new upscale soul food place, where we got stuffing and mac and cheese and fried chicken, with great lighting and funky artwork. It wasn’t that crazy expensive, either. And our server was the hot guy from the Chronicle, who, while a little too cool for school, is like 12 and owns his own badass restaurant. Plus, you get free cornbread and biscuits with pepper jelly. And a tooth in your window…

Friday, June 16, 2006

so long, speaker city...

It’s time to update the top 5. Someone’s getting shifted out.
Jim from The Office.
Um, let me tell you about my growing love for Jim. First of all, unlike Berkeleyist, who shares my need to obsess about unattainable weirdos, I prefer fictional characters. You can make them do whatever you want. Real people tend to ruin things with their pesky free will.
Mikey’s got me hooked on The Office, which I had originally snubbed in favor of the assumed better British version. Amazingly, America has finally pulled something off and Mikey and I spend Thursday nights pining over Pam and Jim respectively. Pam, of course, is stuck with her boyfriend, the unattractive, unappreciative Roy while she and Jim share unrequited, mutually respectful, completely forbidden and deeply hidden love, which is, obviously, my favorite kind.
Jim is wonderful, perpetually cool and dryly funny. Jim is laid back and nice to everyone, always up for a good time and never taking himself too seriously. Jim is tall and has shaggy hair, ever secretly swooning after plain Pam, who, of course is just as cool as him. Jim rolls his sleeves and puts his hands in his pockets. I don’t know why, but I love that. I love that a lot.
Jim is basically perfect, and aside from the fact that he works at a paper company in Scranton, Jim is the f’ing bees knees and I love him.
Therefore, we bid adieu to the increasingly lame Vince Vaughn and welcome John Krasinski

Thursday, June 15, 2006

sports are for dorks...

Um, the Giants suck.
And let me tell you why.
How, in such a sophisticated, educated and cosmopolitan city can we have a team called the GIANTS whose mascot is not a giant? Is this ridiculous to no one else? Seriously, sportsfans. This is the stupidest lack of common sense I’ve ever encountered.
I don’t care if they’re winning or losing. I don’t care who is taking steroids or screwing strippers. I don’t even care what their outfits look like. I do care, however, that some sea creature is the stupid mascot of a team whose very name provides so much wonderful mascot fodder.
If I were running shit over there at PacBell Park, I’d have some guy in a huge, Shrek type giant costume leading the cheer. With his huge fingers, he’d point to different sections of the theater as people would scream, “Fee! Fye! Fo! Fum!”
Ad campaigns would consist of the Giant, who we’d obviously name, at various recognizable San Francisco locales, using cable cars as roller skates, climbing the Transamerica Building and sitting in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge dipping his toes in the Bay.
Who do I talk to about this…

jason, step away from your phone...

Mikey, Bikeshorts and I went to meet Berkeleyist and crew at 111 Minna. None of us had ever been there before and as apparently, “everyone goes there,” we thought we should try it.
After getting instructions from my soon to be cousin in law, Hunter, crossing the street in front of us and not really knowing who I was, we made it to this gallery/bar/chess club hangout and paid to get in.
Guess what?
It sucks.
After a couple of drinks, we ditched Lo and headed to a fabulous looking bar we passed, right by our fantastic parking space.
How the hell did I not know about Flytrap. This, let me tell you, is my new favorite place.
On earth.
First of all, I think I’m getting old. I would much rather sit at a swanky bar sipping incredible wine with my wonderful and well-dressed friends.
And my wonderful and well-dressed friends have fabulous taste in food. Jason started with the Caprese. And Mikey?
He had brain.
I actually tried it, as did Bikeshorts, and we agreed that perhaps knowing what it was hindered our enjoyment. Mikey sat beside me over his empty plate. "I think I'm getting smarter."
Dinner was wonderful. We're all going to Flytrap.
Until the end of time.
Get a couple of drinks in Bikeshorts and he starts calling chicks. It's actually entertaining to listen to, as he suddenly becomes this overly-flirty, mildly desperate yet ultimately disappointed player who holds his phone up and lets me announce to girlfriend number 657 how he'll never really care about her.
We hit up Bloom after, for cocktails and mocking my jukebox tastes, but it paled in comparisson. Actually, everywhere pales in comparisson.

Where my wings at? I just got trapped...

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

he says he never loved you, dear...

THE best part of taking a day off is Montel Williams, hands down. And, as the gods appear to be smiling upon me, today’s episode? Psychic Sylvia Browne. If you haven’t seen Sylvia on Montel, you haven’t lived.
Years ago, Montel Williams, ever the tough talkin’ skeptic, had a panel of psychics on his show for the sole purpose of proving them liars through his very own brand of dim-witted investigative journalism. Sylvia, sitting there in her animal print caftan, smoker's voice and painted acrylic claws warned Montel to stay away from dogs, and most importantly, to keep his kids away from dogs. Montel scoffed at the notion, but I detected a hint of fear behind his eyes as he took us to commercial.
4 months later, Montel’s son was attacked by a dog.
Oh. My. God.
Sylvia Browne is now a regular guest on Montel, and her predictions are treated as gospel. Sylvia is, in addition to be certifiably insane, completely heartless and I suspect, makes things up just to fuck with people. Let me give you an example.
When Sylvia appears on Montel, which is pretty frequently, audience members are allowed to stand up and ask her questions or see if their dead relatives have messages from the grave. Sylvia will then tell them to go dig for treasure under some oak tree or make only left turns for 13 months, and they’ll sit down, satisfied and excited as Montel proudly observes and seriously contemplates.
Suddenly, this sweet looking young woman gets up and tells this long, boring sob story about how everyone in her family’s been dying and she’s barely holding on. Her brother died unexpectedly, her mother died of cancer, he father was killed in a car accident, her best friend got hit by a bread truck. Literally, everyone was, as Sylvia would say, “going through the tunnel.” So with tears in her eyes, this young woman tells Sylvia that the only person left in her life is her dear grandfather, who’s happy and healthy. And of course, she wants to make sure he’s okay and not going anywhere. Tell us, Sylvia. Tell us that he’s going to live for the next 20 years.
Sylvia’s response.
“He’ll be dead in 3 months, sweetie.”
The young woman bursts into tears, is escorted away and the microphone is quickly passed onto someone else, who is far more concerned with his nagging suspicion that someone is secretly trying to poison him. Sylvia, needless to say, agrees.
The best part of the show is how seriously everyone takes Sylvia’s predictions and messages from heaven. It’s not like we check back in 3 months and make sure the grandfather actually died. We just assume that, of course, he passed away immediately and most likely while watching this very episode of Montel Williams.
This doesn’t mean, however, that if Sylvia Browne told me to wear a bulletproof vest every time I went into Old Navy, I’d roll my eyes and laugh.
I mean, come on. Montel’s kid was attacked by a dog…

***Uh, Sylvia's hosting a Psychic Mexican Riviera Cruise. I just booked by ticket. Who's in?

i wonder if this'll work...

So, I’m taking today off, because I’m a fucking rockstar, and so far all I’ve managed to do is clean the lint out of my clothes dryer, consider having people over for dinner and update my MySpace slide show. I sense tanning in my near future. Take the day off, peeps and come over...

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

apparently, the illiterate get lots of play...

1. I received this image in an e-mail with the subject line, “What you’ve been waiting for, Sheldon!”

2. Do you have to stand like this looking at your watch for the full 15 minutes? Because that’s awesome.

3. Nice shoes, Jessica Rabbit. It looks like she’s using women’s self defense move #47 on who I can only assume is Sheldon…

Monday, June 12, 2006

miss teefie goes to washington...

Queen Latifah is considering running for the Senate. Apparently, there is a God. First of all, I’ve been remiss in my failing to alert you to how much Last Holiday rocked my world. Since people laughed in my face as they refused to go see this movie with me, I went to an 11am Daly City Sunday showing alone, with my Snapple and my sweatpants.
I’ve loved Latifah since the beginning of time, but fell in deep lesbian love with Living Out Loud. So come hell or high water, I was seeing this cheeseball flick and I don’t care who knows it. .
The premise of Last Holiday is the story of a quiet, reserved, “big boned” woman obsessed with cooking shows. Working at a fictional “Macy’s” equivalent, Latifah develops the hardcore hots for her obscenely foxy co-worker, LL Cool J, until she discovers she has a brain tumor and mere weeks to live. She decides to go to the Czech Republic on one last holiday, to blow her savings see her celebrity chef hero, Gerald Depardieu.
Um, hello? This is Spots’ personal version of heaven.
I think we all know that Latifah doesn’t die. And I think it’s pretty obvious the chubby girl hooks up with Cool J at the end, when he comes to rescue her and proclaim his undying love. Please. I sat through the whole thing shoving popcorn in my mouth grinning from ear to ear.
But you guys, listen up. Predictable as it is, this is movie is seriously enjoyable. All of the supporting characters are wonderful, especially that philandering Depardieu, and you can’t help but get caught up as Latifah discovers her joie de vivre and makes friends with unsuspecting international socialites along the way.
At one point during the film, one of my fellow theatergoers shouted out, “Go ahead, Miss Teefie!”
I think that should be her campaign slogan. Because all she’d need to do to get anyone to vote for her would be to screen this gem.
Queen Latifah for Senator. Yes, America. You heard right. True or not, this is a brilliant idea. Get me Penny Marshall, find me some stretch satin and let’s make this movie…

Saturday, June 10, 2006

"omg i candy"...nuff said...

I really hope Bikeshorts didn’t tell his "new friend" about my blog because I’ve got some things to say.
Jason, I love you deeply, but oh my god.
Bikeshorts texts me to let me know he hit Biron last night, a mere 24 hours after Berkeleyist and I enjoyed a bottle of something I don’t remember. I was home alone, watching Boiler Room like the loser that I am, and texted back my beloved Bikeshorts, who I assumed was at Biron with an array of friends. Had I known he was on some hot, serious and territorial date, I would have left his metro ass alone and gone back to my movie. Apparently, his date got tired of Bikeshorts’ focus on his phone and lack thereof upon her and chose to text me herself.
This is where she went wrong.
All of a sudden, I get a text from some random number, the message involving a series of shorthand and smiley faces I believe to be reserved for the stupid. I do not shorthand my texts, people. Look at my photo. I commit to correct spelling.
Keep in mind, I’m still mad at Bikeshorts from dumping the lovely lass that, upon meeting me, proclaimed "Beth? With the hilarious blog? Oh my god, you’re wonderful."
Her, I liked.
But insane, 10th grade texter was working my nerves. Everytime my phone would glow, I’d roll my eyes and be forced to text something witty yet slightly bitchy in response. I have a coveted collection of very close, very good, very straight gentleman friends. And I reserve the right to hate every skank they date. In fact, I’ve perfected it to an art. Texter was making this too easy.
Why Bikeshorts gave her my number is beyond me. And why she chose to text me a series of mildly retarded grasps at humor is perhaps a testament to her inability to remain cool under pressure. Either way, I now have to make fun of her until the end of time.
Which, as Bikeshorts is well aware, I fully intend to do...

Friday, June 09, 2006

you're on my turf, redstate. recognize...

Dear table full of assholes,
It’s not my fault that you’re wearing Old Navy’s 1999 pleat front chinos and a fake Rolex. Nor is it my fault that your evening apparently involved being rejected by a series of women in retro tank tops and ethnic earrings. Clearly, your mother never taught you that when you see a woman standing alone in the middle of the Redwood Room holding 2 drinks, surrounded by sleazy businessmen and mid-level prostitutes, and you’re sitting at a perfectly empty table with an array of chairs, you’re supposed to offer one. And if you can’t manage that, and she’s forced to ask if it’s okay if she borrow a chair for a matter of seconds until her friend comes back, don’t make her feel like a peg-legged, eye-patched, hairy face freak. Finally, no matter how fucking hot and sophisticated you think you are, smugly sitting there with your wedding ring shoved in your cheap-ass pocket, never forget that there is something to be said for being a gentleman.
To everyone.
The quickest way to lose your air of imagined fabulousness is to lack charm. You could just have easily sucked it up, asked me how my night was going and discovered that I’m delightful, hilarious and better looking when I’m not so fucking terrified and awkward. Mais non.
You had to sit there like a trio of shitheads, far too cool to even smile. Which is why I was forced to lean forward, introduce myself and let you know how much you suck. Sure, I came off like a bitter, rejected woman, sipping my drink that some far better looking stranger happily bought me at the bar, complaining that I wasn’t getting enough attention. And quite frankly, I don’t give a shit. Just as I would tell someone they had toilet paper on their shoe or a booger hanging out of their nose, I had to tell you.
You are assholes.
I repeat, you are assholes.
Next time, that red wine I was holding might just end up all over your iron-free Izod…

for lo...

Thursday, June 08, 2006

can you kill this bug for me...

Part of my highly glamorous and important job means that in addition to my work e-mail, I’m also the recipient of my company’s “info@” account. Therefore, I get a series of bizarre, random and often offensive e-mails hourly. You’d think the ones that drive me nuts would be the nasty complainers or people who ask stupid questions, the answers to which they’d have to read several times just to find the “info” e-mail address. But no, not them. While annoying, I simply file them under wacko and move on. You want to know what really chaps my hide?
“Dear Sirs.”
I am sitting in an office capably staffed exclusively by women. Somehow, in between changing our tampons and crying at Oprah, we manage to like, balance a checkbook and run a non-profit. On occasion, I actually get the curt and impersonal “Gentlemen” in which case, I always respond, “Dear Madam.”
Here’s the thing. It’s 2006. It’s not like I’m breaking through some glass ceiling like a character in 9 to 5, thwarting sexual harassment and blatant discrimination at every water cooler. I was raised by someone who suffered through that so I wouldn’t have to. And the notion that every company is, at the very top, led by a man is not only offensive, it’s stupid and requires immediate retaliation.
My grandfather lived next door to a woman who, to his immense amusement, wouldn’t bank at the local branch because their manager was a woman. I met this nut when I was a kid and can still recall my horror and disgust at her views and corresponding outfit. Who are these people and why are they still alive?
If you’re hip enough to e-mail, you should be sane enough to consider the fact that the person on the other end of that crazy internet just might possess a vagina. And perhaps even a brain…

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

bob grunts loudly while eating (with us)...

number 24...

Wanting Indian food, Michael and I decided to have dinner at Pakwan last night, a divey Indian/Pakistani joint in the Mission. The prospect of cheap Na’an and a loose BYOB policy attracted us, and after spending 6 hours looking for parking, we grabbed a liquor store bottle of screw top Chardonnay and got in line. At Pakwan, one’s forced to fight for a menu, pushing your way though a line of hipsters and finally ordering at a counter as a impatient moustached gentleman in food stained clothing angrily asks, “You like spicy?!?!”
“Uh, yeah. Do we like spicy? I don’t know. Do you want spicy? Me? I like spicy. You? Okay, okay, we want spicy. Jeez.”
We found a table covered in filth, grabbed two opaque glasses from the shelf, unscrewed our wine and settled in. The place was hopping, as it usually is, filled with a mix of dreadlocked hippies, Mission hipsters and the dreaded Free-Tibet yuppies. You know these people. They’re the kind of people that drive new Volkswagons and pat themselves on the back every time they recycle. These are the people that think they’re doing the world a favor by going to Peet’s instead of Starbucks. These are the kind of people who go to artsy political movies just so they can mention it at cocktail parties and make the rest of us that went to The Breakup feel like assholes. I hate these people and I assure you, they do not belong in Pakwan.
We sat there, forcing down what can only be described as brake fluid, anticipating our dollar na’an and fried lentils. All of a sudden, what can only be described as What About Bob comes over to our table. Spotting no empty spots in the tiny restaurant, he asks if we’ll be using the “whole table.”
“Oh, uh, no. Oh, uh, god. No, sure. Yeah. Sit with us. Uh, yeah. No problem. Really.”
Mikey and I look at each other across the table as Bob Wiley settles in, slamming down a carafe of water and arranging his 47 napkins in some sort of scientific order. Over a microphone, stained shirt man calls our number in a language I believe to be an obscure dialect of Hindi. Pakwan is actually great, because for surprisingly little money, you get a ton of food and help yourself to plates and forks and spoons and mysterious sauces in ketchup squeeze bottles. It’s kind of like Camp Calcutta.
Forced to fit all 11 plates onto our now tiny table space, we ate in virtual silence, as every word we spoke was clearly and openly providing entertainment for the literature-less Bob. It became so awkward and uncomfortable, we were no longer able to stifle giggles. Bob was oblivious, forcing cauliflower down his gullet with forkfuls of rice. Picking at our food and waiting for some privacy, we watched Bob finish and sit, proudly looking over his plates, breathing heavily. Suddenly, he began to cough. Now, when I say he was coughing, I don’t mean he was clearing his throat. I mean, he spent a good 10 minutes sitting there staring into space hacking up a lung like a scene from Outbreak. Michael actually leaned back and uttered, “Oh my god…”
Bob was able to pass whatever object blocked his windpipe and moved on, babystepping out of Pakiwan and onto the streets of San Francisco to no doubt infringe on someone else’s space and disperse bacteria onto their Tikka Masala. We exhaled and leaned back into our chairs as he departed, marveling at the perfectly empty and available table behind ours. Thankfully, while he was dining with us I was able to capture Bob on film. Michael is adamant that I point out that the camera is providing my perspective looking into the wall mirror, and I’m sitting in between the mirror and Bob. I think this is clearly obvious, but Mikey apparently lacks faith in your ability to figure out that the only way I was able to capture this elusive freak was to get his reflection in the mirror. I mean, a direct hit may have broken my camera.
We spoke freely for the rest of our meal and marveled at Bob’s brazen behavior. But, it’s not like we could hassle him. Because, you know, he's local…

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

this is after her agent edited...

After God intervened and helped Gavin dump Sofia’s Eurotrash, MysticTan ass, I checked her website to see if she issued a statement. Lo and behold, here’s what I found:

Hello beautifuls,
As many of my fans might have hear, I have ended my special relationship with His Excellency, Mayor Gavin Newcomb. I am saddened to say it, but it is the true. I cry for little while, but my friend and spiritual advisor, L. Ron Hubbard, help me realize to move on. Also, I paint in the nude which make me feel good. I wish Gavin all the best of the lucks, and I hope he remember me fondly and the things I teach him. I hope you catch my special mini-series on the T.V. and check back for times when I appear to sign my book, Uh, How Do You Say? Thank you for your kindnesses and letter to me. I really love you in special ways. Reach for the stars!

Okay, okay. Not really. But wouldn’t that shit be awesome…

happy birthday, honorary roomie...

Monday, June 05, 2006

color me shocked...

I’m not to say that I’m happy Kimberly Golddigger got knocked up by a gay and is now forced to suffer the embarrassing farce of going through with a shotgun, rag tag, last minute wedding, Pachebel’s Canon drowned out by the snickers of the guests and a bride stuck sipping Ensure as her groom hooks up with an illegal member of the waitstaff in the supply closet. But I will say I’m not surprised…

what do you mean we can pimp him out...

Some people know how to throw a party, and while I’ve had many years of practice, I can only hope to achieve the hosting ability possessed by my friend Dale. After early afternoon mojitos at the Park Chalet, populated by yuppies and their obnoxious offspring, we picked up Andy and headed over to Dale’s Castro pad, a fabulous apartment packed to the gills with gays. To watch my entrance, you’d think Dale and I had just been reunited after years apart, orphans separated by a dreadful Depression-era social worker and this was our Unsolved Mysteries-esque reunion. Turns out, this is how he greets everyone. As Andy and I introduced Alex and Mike, I hear a bellowing from the back of the house. "Oh hell no, that bitch did not just walk up in my shit! Miss Beth, get your ass over here, girl!"
I leaned over to Alex. "Oh, I forgot to mention. Rob’s here."
"Oh my god, are you shitting me."
Clearly not. Rob and I have been friends since the beginning of time, since Freshman year of high school... hell, since Rob was straight. He came running over, pushing tank-topped homos out of his path. "Tell me that is not Big Al! Oh my god, it is! Big Al!"
"Rob, what’s up." smiled Alex. "I haven’t seen you since Thanksgiving when you flooded my parent’s bathroom."
"Oh, remember that shit? Oops!"
I introduced Mike and we all headed outside, finding a table out in the sun and a cooler full of beer. I surveyed the crowd and I think my estimation is pretty accurate. There were 30 gay guys, 3 girls and Alex and Mike. For those that don’t know, gay men love cute straight guys. Similar to the hetero-male thrill of girl on girl action, hooking up with a straight is to gays. And flirting with polite, good looking college boys is pure heaven, especially to this crowd.
I ventured inside to get more drinks, stopped periodically along the way by an array of gay men, all echoing the afternoon’s sentiments. "Beth, honey, I love how you always show up with the cutest straight boys. I mean it, girl, those are some fine ass boys."
Towards the end of the afternoon, Alex had to depart. "I’ve got to go, but first I need to find Dale. He is seriously like, the best host."
Like the goat tied to the post in Jurrasic Park, Mikey was suddenly prey and his T-Rex was a leather daddy named Peter. I left Mike to fend for himself as I had fallen in love with Matthew. Sitting in the corner, sipping his beer and looking better than everyone, Matthew was willing to casually and expertly mock the masses with me. If there’s someone sitting off my themselves, looking above it all, but open to bitching, I’m in. Especially, if they are hot.
As the evening wore on, Peter got more and more flirty with the ever polite Michael, who simply sat there smiling and repeating, "I’m speechless. I’m just speechless."
"Mikey. I think you are officially comfortable in your sexuality."
Even Andy was stepping in, getting wildly protective of Mike. "Get away from him! Seriously, you bitches. Do not freak out Mikey."
I left him under the watchful eye of Andy and sat on the floor next to Matthew. "Matthew, I know you’re gay and everything, but I like you. I mean, I really like you. In fact, I think I love you."
"I like you too, Beth."
"No, no. You don’t understand. I want to like, be independent friends. I want to go on adventures and fancy restaurants and snuggle."
Soon Andy appeared and moved onto my territory, sadly having a much better chance of snagging the adorable Matthew than myself. It was time to go.
Michael stood up and went over to Dale. "Dale, thank you so much. I wasn’t invited and Beth just brought me, but you were so friendly and made me feel so welcome. Thank you."
A living room full of gays collectively sighed, "Awwwww!"
Andy had moved in on my man, and Mikey had a date with, you know, a girl, so I went home, crawled into bed and smiled. I have officially regained my coveted fag hag status. All is once again right with the world...

mikey likes it...

i'm scared...

Saturday, June 03, 2006

indiana jones, hands down...

Not that she cares, but Kelsey pretty much knows Lindsey Lohan.
Wait, let me start at the beginning. We were supposed to meet dear Bonnie for drinks and mayhem, but she was unfortunately indisposed, so we headed out to the Irish Bank. It started off quite innocently, with shots of Tequila in the kitchen. I can’t do that shit. If I had a shot of tequila at 8, I’d be passed out by 10. Anyway, we ended up sitting at a table in a perfectly lit alley, sipping drinks and laughing loudly. Alex excused himself to get more drinks saying, “Talk amongst yourselves. I’ll give you a topic. What’s the best trilogy ever? Go.”
Needless to say, for the next hour, we hotly debated this genius question.
Meanwhile, Kelsey was getting texts from her sister. “Kels, what are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing. My sister’s boyfriend is hassling me.”
“He’s a cop. Actually, he’s Lindsey Lohan’s bodyguard and right now, he and my sister are out with Lohan.”
“Shut up.”
“Uh, I’m serious. You should not care about this. Lohan is lame.”
“Ewww. They’re with that bitch all the time.”
“Ask her a question! Get them to ask her a question!”
“Oh my god. What power. I am about to ask Lindsey Lohan a question.”
“What are you going to ask?”
“Ask her what her favorite trilogy is!”
You guys, I know you mostly read this shit to hear about me falling on my ass or making up stories about Gavin. But every once in a while, I’ve got the hardcore celebrity scoop.
Lohan’s favorite trilogy? The Godfather.
Stupid bitch. Godfather 3 sucks.
Begrudgingly, I moved on. But not without saving a number under “F’ING LOHAN!” in my cell. In the midst of discussing the related, “What’s the best sequel ever?” Mikey and Kelsey decided they needed to dance. Thus, we headed to Vertigo and settled into a table. As I sat sipping my wine with Kelsey and her boyfriend Warren on one side, and Alex, Mikey and Big Chris on the other, I began to laugh.
Kelsey leaned over. “What’s so funny?”
“Look at these boys.”
“I know. These are your boys.”
“These boys are my life, Kels. They’re giant, stupid, womanizing shitheads…”
“I love them too.”
So we danced. And danced. And danced. Finally, I found myself alone, ditched by my boys who’d found stupid women to kiss and Kelsey and Warren, who were huddled at a table in the corner. Fuck this. I’m going to the Holy Grail, across the street.
I texted Alex and Mikey, alerting them to my move, not that they cared, and walked myself the 10 steps to the grown-up bar.
Immediately, I sat next to a smiling, tattooed, pierced English guy traveling the world and willing to talk to anyone. He put down his journal (sigh) and pulled me out a barstool. For the next hour, I was entranced. I had a glorious, Pinot Noir, grown up time with Christian, who I politely listened to while he explained to me that I knew nothing of the world because I’d only traveled it First Class. So cute, I didn’t have the heart to break it to him that everything’s better with turn down service. I kissed him, right there in front of God and everyone. Suddenly, he looked up.
“Three large men are staring at us. Should I be worried?”
“Hardly. Those are my security guards. Ignore them. Speaking of which, what’s your favorite trilogy…”

Thursday, June 01, 2006

screw jdate. i shoulda said we met in jail...

Feeling mischievous, I grabbed drinks at the Bell Tower with Gray Cloud last night. He returned from the bar with our cocktails and said, “Sorry that took so long. I met a girl and invited her over.”
Oh, glorious.
She soon arrived, clad in a floorlength linen jumper and an oblivious disposition. I simply couldn’t help myself. As Gray Cloud departed to grab her a drink and a barstool, she asked how we knew each other.
“Oh, we met on JDate. We had this really intense physical relationship for 6 months until I finally realized I was a lesbian.”
“You’re a lesbian?”
“Oh yeah. Hardcore. I’m really lesbian identified. I came out like, a year ago and Gray Cloud has been instrumental in helping me realize my true sexual self.”
“Wow. Did you always know you were gay?”
“Well, I’ve always found women mesmerizing.”
Gray Cloud returned, and proceeded to ask linen jumper about her job. Apparently, she takes photos of celebrities.
“Have you ever photographed Gavin Newsom?” Gray Cloud politely asked. “Because Beth loves him.”
“Gavin Newsom. The mayor of San Francisco.”
“Opps. I should know that. I majored in political science. Giggle, giggle, giggle.”
Okay, if I was being a bitch to this poor girl before, I now had to open the floodgates.
“My girlfriend hates how obsessed with him I am. But I’m getting over it, you know, now that I’m a big butch lesbian. In fact, I’m thinking about shaving my head.”
Gray Cloud glared at me from across the table, as linen jumper asked me my favorite question.
“What do you do for a living?”
"Oh, I’m a cop. A police officer.”
“You are? What kind of cop?”
“A beat cop. Just a uniform beat cop. I’ve been walking my precinct for 4 years and am working my way up to Special Victims. Now that I’m a lesbian, I really want to work for the betterment of women who are assaulted and abused by men. It’s what I’m most passionate about. Aside from, you know, being a lesbian.”
I was two seconds away from telling her about my glass eye, when Gray Cloud jumped in. After I was forced to witness the awkward digit exchange and give linen jumper a ride (Golly, you drive fast for a cop!), Gray Cloud and I headed to RBar, laughing the whole way there.
“Oh man, that was awesome. That was pure heaven. That was surprisingly challenging, keeping a straight face. I was riffing! Go find another chick. Seriously. I want to be something else this time.”
“Yeah, that was awesome. But I don’t like the JDate or the SVU thing. Next time, say you’re a cop who goes undercover as a hooker…”