Monday, July 31, 2006

no wonder they were all into the sherry by noon...

My mother forwarded me a page from the May 13, 1955 issue of Housekeeping Monthly, entitled The Good Wife’s Guide. This is no doubt the kind of regimen still maintained in the Mel Gibson home…

Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favorite dish) is part of the warm welcome needed. (This, I would actually like doing, provided he likes Ina Garten.)

Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you’ll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make-up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. (This is my personal favorite.)

Be a little gay and a little more interesting for him. His boring day may need a lift and one of your duties is to provide it. (Be a little gay? No problem.)

Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives. (This is why I’d need a maid to belittle and occasionally reduce to tears so I don’t feel so bad about my crappy life.)

Gather up schoolbooks, toys, paper, etc. and then run a dustcloth over the tables. (The kids would be in a Swiss boarding school anyway. And then, we’ve got the maid, so…)

Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. (This will come in handy later when I need to dispose of his body.)

Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction. (Provided I get to wear ridiculous 50’s housewife outfits and develop an addiction to prescription drugs, I’m okay with this one.)

Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children’s hands and faces (if they are small), comb their hair and, if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part. Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. (Playing the part of little treasures? Marvelous. This is also in the manual for how to breed serial killers.)

Be happy to see him. (Happy to see this asshole? Well, I can only see him out of my one eye that’s not swollen shut from the beatings for not having dinner on the table and ribbons in my hair.)

Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him. (Isn’t this why God invented hookers?)

Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first - remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours. (As long as he wants to talk about Chardonnay, Project Runway or me, I’m cool with this.)

Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner, or other places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax. (Wait. If he has this need to be home and relaxing, why the fuck is he out all night?)

Your goal: try to make sure your home is a place of peace, order and tranquility where your husband can renew himself in body and spirit. (So, basically a spa?)

Don’t greet him with complaints and problems. (How could a gal have any complaints or problems under this genius plan?)

Don’t complain if he’s late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day. (I’d be delighted never to see this asshole again. He can stay out for the rest of his life for all I care. That last sentence confuses me, though. Oh wait. Don’t question. Shut up. Ribbons in hair. Got it.)

Make him comfortable. Make him lean back in a comfortable chair or have him lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool or warm drink ready for him. (And a double ready for yourself.)

Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice. (I just tried that and sounded like a drag queen.)

Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him. (Just take off his shoes.)

A good wife always knows her place. (Which is apparently in suburban hell…)


And a little history lesson for you, too...

all bottles twenty dolla...

Big Chris dragged Mikey and I to Trad’r Sam’s yesterday, where we mingled with the dregs of society while sipping out of a communal booze bowl known as “The Scorpion.” A sad tank-topped gentleman gave me $5 and instructed me to fill the jukebox, which I was delighted to do. At one point, while listening to Billy Joel, a man awoke from his stupor at the bar and said, “I like this. This is the kinda shit that you only listen to when a chick picks it out, but then you end up digging it.”
Uh, thanks.
Perhaps the highlight of my afternoon was when I found myself sitting between Big C and Mikey and the punked out bartender comes up and says, “The gentleman at the end of the bar would like to buy you a drink.”
The three of us looked up to find an elderly alcoholic staring into his scotch and mumbling to himself. Oh yeah. I’ve still got it…

he's short, so, you know...

Mel Gibson hates Jews. Color me shocked. I think his punishment should be to watch A Stranger Among Us 1000 times. I wonder if everyone in Hollywood already knew this about Mel, or if they're all flabbergasted. Because he's been walking around saying the Holocaust never happened for ages. He's proudly homophobic, once announcing in an interview that assholes were for "only for taking a shit." Christ, he even issued a bizarre statement regarding Terri Schaivo on some random radio show.
All I'm saying is, no one ever accused this guy of being a rocket scientist.
You know who's got the best cocktail party story ever? The arresting officer.
"Hey Jim, so is it true what we read about Mel Gibson's anti-Semitic tirade?"
"Tip of the iceberg, Steve. Tip of the iceberg..."

Sunday, July 30, 2006


It's always nice to rely on the photo posting capabilities of someone else for my weekend update. I'll have something more substantial for you later. Like how no less than 3 people openly and loudly laughed at me at Ghettogym this morning...

Friday, July 28, 2006

apparently, they can take his freedom...

Mel "I hate homos" Gibson was booked at 4:06am this morning for drunk driving. Needless to say, as soon as they become available, I'll be posting the glorious mugshots...

i want to go through life jumping into fountains naked...

The glory of Comcast on Demand Free Movies is that when you’re is terribly bored, you ends up watching random movies you’d never see otherwise. Recently having nothing to do, I flipped through the free movie options one lonely night and settled on the Hitchcock classic, The Birds.
Basically, sassy, young San Francisco socialite Melanie Daniels plays some on trick sassy, young San Francisco lawyer Mitch Brenner, so they do this weird flirty thing in a bird store. Intrigued, Melanie finds out that Mitch spends the weekends visiting his uptight mother and bratty little sister in Bodega Bay, so spunky Melanie drives herself up there and worms her way in with pair of caged lovebirds just in from India as a gift for the bratty sister. As soon as Melanie arrives in town with those cursed love birds, seagulls and crows start attacking everyone and all hell breaks loose. Oh, and Mitch and Melanie magically fall for each other over the course of 48 hours in a confusing yet ever evolving relationship.
First of all, why are guys in old movies always named Mitch?
Second of all, Tippi Hedren is divine. She’s stuck in the same green suit throughout the whole movie, because she only planned on staying in Bodega Bay for the afternoon, but once the bird attacks began, Mitch insists she stay. Yet her hair and makeup are flawless throughout and her suit remains perfectly steamed and immaculate, even through several intense bird attacks.
That’s another thing. Mitch keeps insisting it’s too dangerous to leave. I kept yelling at the TV, “Get out! Go to the big city! They can’t get you in the big city!” Although apparently everyone in Bodega Bay regards Santa Rosa as the nearest metropolis. According to reports, birds take breaks up to several hours long in between attacks. Hello? Haul ass to San Francisco. Controlling, big, strong Mitch won’t let uptight mom, bratty sister or Melanie get the hell out of Dodge, and they remain trapped and surrounded in the big Brenner house. Finally, Mitch goes outside and finds a radio, shocked to learn that “Most residents of Bodega Bay have escaped, although a very few remain trapped.”
Duh, Mitch. Told you.
We’re led to believe that Melanie's third world lovebirds might have something to do with the sudden onslaught of attacks. So, uh, why not just kill the lovebirds? Oh wait. Brattly sister won’t let us. Her classmates get knocked off left and right, but don’t touch her precious lovebirds from her new best friend, Melanie.
Towards the end, Melanie walks into an upstairs room filled with seagulls and is instantly attacked by hundreds of them. In the final throws of consciousness, she lets out the most girly, helpless cry of, “Oh, Mitch!”
And then collapses.
To which I screamed, “Are you fucking kidding me?!?!”
If my eyes are being gorged out by hundreds of seagulls and I’m about to succumb to the thousands of beak wounds inflicted upon me, I would not yell for some idiot I’ve known for 2 days who was too cocky and stupid to get us to safety.
They finally decide to split and pile into Melanie’s convertible, Melanie now borderline insane and bratty sister insisting on bringing the cursed lovebirds. Scowling, Mitch drives off into a sea of hundreds of thousands of birds.
The End.
What? The End? Excuse me? Then what happens? Was it the lovebirds? Were they cursed? Do we bring a shaman in to reverse it? Do the attacks follow the lovebirds to San Francisco? How is this resolved???
Damn you, Alfred!
I’ll admit, this film is pretty terrifying, especially when they’re trapped in the Brenner house waiting for imminent death by gull and cower in corners all looking to Mitch for more bright ideas. You’ve got to love a film that lists a character in the credits as “Doomsayer in Diner.”
I think my favorite part of this whole movie is when a bloody yet dewy Melanie emerges from unconsciousness still fighting imaginary seagulls, her fabulous matching pumps kicking in the air as her perfect blond up-do remains unscathed. Thank you, Edith Head…

Thursday, July 27, 2006

hold on. i'll have to check my tk...

Sharpee came out with all these fabulous new colors. This delights me, as I love Sharpees. Actually, I love most office supplies, and as I was selecting my new Sharpees this morning, I recalled the familiar twinge of glee I experienced buying grammar school supplies every September. Not only did I get free range of the Longs Drug Store school supply aisle, I was faced with the daunting and highly important task of selecting my Trapper Keeper.
I wore a plaid uniform from Kindergarten through 8th grade, thus the only means of expressing one’s personal style was done via free dress days, key-chains attached to backpacks, footwear and the image upon your Trapper Keeper.
Early on, girls lean towards the gender appropriate puppies, kittens and fields of flowers. Puppies and kittens were always coming out of baskets and had that White Diamonds haze over everything. Guys always had some sports or skateboarding related Trapper Keeper, or if you were really nerdy, some kind of outer space goings on. TV or movie related Trapper Keeper’s were also acceptable, provided they were the right TV shows and movies. For example, I recall falling madly in 4th grade love with Max and his A-Team Trapper Keeper.
Fancying myself a trendsetter and having a reputation to maintain, in 6th grade I selected an early 90’s hippie revival Lisa Frank binder, depicting brightly colored rainbows and peace signs, and emblazed with the hippy-fonted slogan, “Make Love Not War.”
Worse, feeling the need to push the 6th grade envelope at St. Patrick’s, I printed out a rustic homemade computer sign bearing the same words. To look at it looked like you were seeing something printed on the first home printer ever invented. It even had those perforated strips with holes in them along the edges, like they were printed on lie detector paper. Anyway, the day before my birthday party, to which all 28 6th graders were invited, I displayed my computer printout.
Directly above my bed.
You’d think I was running a whorehouse from a 13 year old’s room, based on the response from the classmates. The combination of my fake hippy Trapper Keeper and my homemade computer sign was too much.
“Oh my god, Beth makes love. Ewwww. Why don’t you go make love with your lover.”
I was an outcast at my own party, and I couldn’t wait to get those brats out of my room so I could take down that stupid printout and toss that cursed Trapper Keeper.
Needless to say, I arrived at school the following Monday with a goddamn puppy peeking out of a goddamn basket…

question of the day...

Who would win in a fight?

Robbie Williams vs. Colin Farrell?
Mariah Carey vs. Whitney Houston?
Rachel Ray vs. Paula Deen?
Tim Gunn vs. Michael Kors?
Kimberly Goldigger vs. Sofia Eurotrash?

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

eight is enough...

Interestingly enough, these three were at my 8th grade graduation. They all look exactly the same, other than the fact that Ben has facial hair and isn't dressed in his Christmas pageant Little Drummer Boy outfit.

And this is my hilarious and wonderful friend, Christine. You've got to love a girl who arrives with amazing wine, chicken wings and instantly starts in on Big Chris, who she's never met.


It won't surprise anyone to know that New Kids on the Block ruled my life in junior high. Actually, that's putting it mildly. Think Gavin times five. But you might be slightly saddened to discover that as an adult, living in my own apartment in college, I developed a secret obsession with N'sync. This was during their No Strings Attached album, which I actaully purchased (alone) on the day it was released. MTV was running a tsunami of N'sync programming and I'd sit around Jesse's dorm becoming more and more enthralled. At the bottom of the screen, they'd have bizarre N'sync trivia and my friend Carrie and I actually began writing it down, testing each other on the crazy facts pertaining to JC's favorite state or Justin's frosted perm. We thought this was hilarious, as the facts were so ridiculous and only got better.
Apparently, Lance Bass collects antique knives and guns. And Beanie Babies.
Obviously, Lance became my instant favorite.
Knives and stuffed animals? Nice.
Once I got my hands on that album, I would sit on my bed in my studio apartment beneath my Tori Amos poster and listen to that shit over and over, so much so that my serial killer neighbor actually complained. A lot. I knew every word of that stupid album, and I'd always strain my ears to see if I could hear that gun toting Lance. It was hard, as I think Lance only exsisted to fill the #5 slot and on rare occasion, would do that deep voice talking in the middle of a song thing, a la Boys II Men.
I've always held a soft spot for those lads from N'sync and kept an eye on that Lance Bass, who at one point, tried to travel to space. So, I guess it makes sense that this is the new cover of People Magazine. If you ask me, it would've been far more bad ass to come out in Guns and Ammo...

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

ain't that america...

In spending some time with a foreigner lately, I’ve become highly defensive of this wonderful country. Never have I experienced such a renewed patriotism and pride in my big belt buckled, gas guzzling, materialistic, gun crazy, white trash homeland. Truth be told, I get why the rest of the world despises us, I just don’t get why they can’t understand that most of us agree with them. We’re not ALL idiots, Earth. We’re not ALL carrying around guns and aerosol cans, Europe. We’re not ALL from Texas, Canada. And quite frankly, my family showed up here on a boat one day and found prosperity and happiness in the land of the free and the home of the brave. I wouldn’t necessarily die for my country, but I’ll gladly tell some frog where he can shove his willingness to surrender.
Last night, Mikey and I sat around flipping through the channels, in between episodes of Dog, Bounty Hunter. For a moment we landed on CNN. We both stared at the bombs and civilians and expert commentators.
“I don’t really get this whole Hezbollah thing.”
“Me neither.”
“I’m kinda over it.”
We flipped to the next channel, finding current events more to our speed. Instead of educating ourselves to wars waged all over this delicate planet, becoming informed on foreign policy and matters of national security, we watched Ryan Seacrest intricately describe Colin Farrell’s recent restraining order against his stalker. Enraptured, we spent a good 20 minutes hearing all about Colin’s stalker woes, how she filed 2 lawsuits against him, wrote a book called, ‘Colin Farrell: A Dark, Twisted Puppy’ and emerged from the Tonight Show audience and accosted him. Sadly, this was information we pretty much already knew, we just found this pressing issue of significantly more interest and pertinence than, like, war. I mean, Colin Farrell is being publicly stalked by a crazy person.
When Seacrest finally finished his investigative reporting, and we moved on to E!’s 100 Most Staralicious Makeovers, I suddenly realized. “This is why people hate Americans. We found CNN too intellectually challenging so we switched to red carpet interviews and closeted gay midgets reporting on Colin Farrell’s stalkers.”
Perhaps war is taking an emotional toll on me and I’m forced into escapism. Perhaps it was Monday night and I was too tired to hear about how fucked up this planet is. Perhaps I’m simply an ignorant American who cares more about Nicole Ritchie’s eating disorder than, say, starving children in Africa.
I watch E! So sue me. At least it wasn’t Fox News…

Monday, July 24, 2006

if you wanna sing out, sing out...

Yesterday, I dragged Mikey and Big Chris to see Harold and Maude at the Red Vic, shocked that either of them agreed to go. Perhaps it’s because I’ve seen this movie a million times and neither of them had, perhaps it’s because I saw it coming a mile away and they’re oblivious or perhaps some of us are emotionally evolved grown-ups and some of us are not, but when 20 year old Harold and 80 year old Maude are shown in half conscious post-coital bliss, you’d have thought Chris and Mike were watching a snuff film based upon their overwhelming physical and verbal reactions.
“What the fuck!”
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
“Are you shitting me?”
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
“This is the most fucked thing I have ever seen in my life. I hate you.”
We walked along Haight Street back to the car and passed a shop that prints whatever you want on t-shirts and trucker hats and tacky underpants.
“I wonder what I’d get on my t-shirt” I asked aloud, walking between the two of them still cringing from the movie.
“Probably something lame and chick-like.”
“No. I’d get two fingers pointing left and right and it’d say ‘I’m with stupids.’”
“Yeah right.” scoffed Chris. “I know what it’d say.”

Friday, July 21, 2006

hint, hint...

Is it an odd coincidence or a sign from up on high that every time I cross the Golden Gate Bridge, Madonna’s song, “Jump” mysteriously comes on the radio?

i'll even pretend to like dalmations...

Are American women (and men) programmed to find all fire and rescue personnel appallingly attractive, regardless of moustaches? Driving along Van Ness this morning, I was rubbernecking an accident like no body’s business, not because I was watching someone get loaded into an ambulance or arrested or body bagged. Nope, I was checking out the firemen. Ding fucking dong, fellas.
Of the 15 or so heroes congregated along the block, about 5 or 6 made me want to pull over and tackle them. Something about those navy t-shirts and utilitarian suspenders melts my butter, and this morning, it was all I could do not to slam my car into a telephone pole and play dead.
Maybe it’s the idea of being rescued by someone driven by forces greater than money or success. Maybe it’s the idea of the traditional American hero, a big vision of bravery with big strong arms than runs into burning buildings to rescue kittens. Maybe it’s the fact that they all live together in close quarters, cooking huge meals, watching Die Hard and slapping each other on the ass all night. Okay, I might be making that last part up, but it’s possible.
As I stopped traffic and paused at a green light, oogling these fine men like I just got out of prison, I marveled at my instinctive reaction to a fire. Literally, my first thought is, ‘Oooo, fire. Hot guys.’
I’ve also noticed that I find firefighters way hotter than cops, which I attribute to the fact that cops generally get you in trouble whereas firefighters bail you out. Firefighters also have better outfits, cute mascots and tend towards joviality. Firefighters never ask you if you knew how fast you were going or how many cocktails you’ve consumed in the past hour. Firefighters say things like, “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’re gonna get you right out of here.” and “No need to thank me, ma’am. It’s been an honor to rescue you. Would you like to try on my helmet?”
I won’t even venture into the cheesy “light my fire, douse my flames, etc” phraseology because it’s downplays the seriousness of my point. There appears to be an official law which clearly states that all American women are pre-disposed towards 3 things; Food, Oprah and firefighters. Gentlemen, I salute you(r guns)…

Thursday, July 20, 2006

ps: tim's in love with keith michael. pass it on...

Please tell me you watched ProRun last night. Because I don’t want to be the only schmuck sitting in my office with puffy eyes staring out the window and wondering why, oh why, Malan was kicked off ProRun. Yes, his dress looked like something found down a Port-O-Potty well, sure his rouching was unsophisticated and student-y, indeed the asymmetrical bust line looked like something out of Beetlejuice, but my god, Bravo. He’s Malan Breton from Taiwan. He speaks seven languages and has a maniacal laugh. His gel usage makes Gavin look like a hippy. He wears velvet blazers and ascots and slippers with crests on them. Malan is the most marvelous, affected, Euro-freak I’ve ever encountered and I looked forward to an entire season of mocking/worshiping him.
Kicked off in Episode 2?
Quelle horreur. Talk about a bitchslap.
Worse, those idiots kept Vincent. Vincent, who can barely muster the emotional stability to thread a sewing machine. Vincent, who’s a 49 year old straight male and constantly on the verge of tears. Vincent, who might as well shove a dustbin up a model’s ass and call it fashion. Vincent, we keep.
You know who I blame? Guest judge Vera Wang. First of all, I haven’t liked Vera Wang ever since I read an article in Vogue about Vera’s pre-party routine in which she spends an hour in the bath and has holistic massages and meditates in her sensory cocoon and reflects on her heritage. I call bullshit. I bet she shaves her legs at the sink and slams a shot of courage while applying 3 year old mascara like the rest of us. Additionally, I hate Vera’s voice and tone and nagging, whining ridiculous opinions. Everything was inspired by fresh lilies on her mother’s nightstand or a croissant she once had while studying at the Sorbonne. Whatever.
Where the hell is that queen Kors? Fire Island? Palm Springs? And from the looks of next week’s previews, it seems we’re stuck with Wang again. I know that Michael Kors would never kick that Malan to the curb. He’s too watchable. But Vera, with her evil, swishy hair and pursed lips, looking so disappointed by the unattractiveness of everything and everyone, has probably never even watched the show, unwilling to lower herself. Vera’s only willing to enter the reality milieu provided she gets to pontificate on hemlines and haute couture. Vera has no sense of humor, and I bet if someone said something funny around her, she stare them down with her cold disapproval and dismiss them to fetch her some miso.
I’ll leave it to the other bloggers to dish on Kween Kayne and The Dread Butt Pirate Robert, because I’m still in mourning over the untimely dismissal of my personal hero and future butler, Malan Breton from Taiwan

Update: I just read “Tim’s Take” on the Bravo website, basically a weekly recap from my best friend and yours, Tim Gunn. This week, Tim refers to Robert as “the epitome of sophistication and quiet restraint.” Are you shitting me, Tim? Or rather, are you fucking Robert? Because the last thing Miss Barbie outfit designer should be described as is sophisticated. I was stumped at Tim’s response to Robert at the casting special, as Robert displayed his trite, poorly constructed Jennifer Love Hewitt collection. Robert, however, is a former student of Tim’s, and thus, must be a genius. I pointed out to Mikey last night that Robert is a man upon whom homosexuality is completely wasted. He’s simply a bad gay. He’s not funny, he’s bitchy in the wrong way, he’s far too kiss-assy, he’s totally fake and his designs, Tim Gunn, are unoriginal, uninspired and uncool. Something’s up here, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it…

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

goodbye malan breton from taiwan...


maybe it's the model trains in the basement...

It’s always fascinating when a parent reveals a snippet of their past previously kept under wraps. Last night, we celebrated Mom’s birthday with dinner at Poggio, and eventually, after intense discussions on global conspiracies and Hezbollah, we moved appropriately onto Dad’s ex-girlfriends. For unexplainable reasons, my mother loves discussing this and will goad me into asking more and more specific questions. We’d heard over the years about one in particular, a woman I’ll call “Jane” who apparently dated my father while he was in law school. After a few months, dad didn’t see his relationship with Jane going anywhere, so he took her to dinner and dumped her. According to lore, “expletives were involved.” Furthermore, some time later, a friend of my folks ran into Jane on a San Francisco sidewalk. When informed that the apparent love of her life, my dear old dad, was about to tie the knot with my mother, she threatened to show up at the wedding. Thus, 2 friends were stationed outside Old Saint Mary’s in a famous and oft-retold attempt at thwarting any angry, dumped wedding crashers. When my grandfather, the late, great Bob Spots was asked about Jane, he responded, “She was nutty as a Christmas fruitcake.”
So last night, we get to talking about Jane. “Why’d you date such a nutjob, dad? Who knew you were such a heartbreaker?”
Rolling his eyes, my father casually stated, “Yeah, then she ripped up a picture of me and mailed it to me.”
Uh, what? Are you shitting me?
If this happened to Big Chris or Jason, I would hardly be so shocked. But Daddy?
This information delights me to no end. First of all, my father’s a pimp. Second of all, iPod or not, I don’t think he could’ve given my mother any better birthday present than this glorious tidbit of pre-Joanne scandal...

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

hey eunice, look! it's a queer!

It’s July, and we all know what that means…goddamn tourists! I don’t care where they’re from, what they’re staring at or who they’re wearing, they all look the same. I can spot a tourist in San Francisco from the air, they’re so obvious with their backpacks, crazy shirts and sourdough bread bowls of chowder wandering Fisherman’s Warf and buying “Alcatraz Swim Team” apparel.
I remember as a child, my father, the public transportation expert, driving around and getting absolutely livid at tourists riding faux cable cars. He’d scream and yell (at the passengers) that cable cares RUN ON CABLES and don’t come with steering wheels and uniformed drivers named Kimber holding microphones and pointing out Coit Tower, nor do real cable cars go back and forth across the Golden Gate Bridge and pause for photos by the Palace of Fine Arts.
So prior to yesterday, I thought fake cable cars were the stupidest thing to hit San Francisco since Kimberly Goldigger. However, both yesterday and today, I spotted this monstrosity.
“Spots?” You’re saying. “What’s the big deal? It’s just an ugly double-decker bus driving Republicans around San Francisco.”
Oh, I don’t know. Call me picky, but there is nothing that makes me more ashamed of my country and my people than to see a bus proudly sporting the sights and colors of SAN DIEGO driving a bunch of oblivious tourists through San Francisco…

happy birthday joanne...

I am thankful for many things about my mother, but the greatest of which is her amazing lack of aging. It might have something to do with all that fucking exercise and yoga, but I like to think it's a healthy daily dose of Chardonnay and genes...

Monday, July 17, 2006

you can leave your hat on...

KG, Mikey, Alex and I saw The Devil Wears Prada yesterday. I spent most of it pining after the clothing and vowing to dress more fashion forward. As a result, I find myself in a ARMY sweatshirt and the main item in question, a green military hat. I feel slightly like Nelly Furtado and even more so like Private Benjamin. I can't believe the hat made it this far, save for the hot guy at Atlas Cafe letting me cut in the coffee line, which I maintain was entirely based on the cuteness of the questionable hat...

i brought flip flops, i swear...

I’m one step closer to what I like to call, “The Inevitable” or as it’s more widely known, the pending Spotswood-Newsom Nuptuals. ‘Why, nutjob, is this?’ you’re probably asking yourselves. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because Gavin just launched a new WINERY, set to open in the Spring of 2008 with a lavish launch of a new wine (and huge, black tie, outdoor wedding to, most likely, me.)
Speaking of winery weddings, I recently attended the wedding of my 2nd cousin, a lovely person I see once a year. Seeing people once a year means they know exactly what you’re like under only very specific circumstances. As a result, and for a myriad of reasons you can probably imagine, my cousins think I’m weird. I’m not being paranoid. My cousin Michael filled me in.
So for this wedding, I was hell bent on behaving and keeping my big yapper shut. I’ll fully acknowledge that I’m incredibly strange and unlikely to change, but I’ve been looking to squash my rep as the family freak and this was my big chance.
It didn’t help that we arrived late, walking into the garden ceremony in the middle of the vows. Nor did it help that my mother convinced herself we were all to be dressed up, when it reality, we could’ve dressed slightly more casual. Thus, I sported black flats for the ceremony and kept gold, glittered flip flops in my handbag. Needless to say, standing on the grass sipping my cosmo at the reception right out of J. Crew, I quickly switched to my flops, attempting to shove my flats into my packed purse. Kicking all of the possessions under the table, I flip-flopped it around all evening long, and spent most of my time avoiding embarrassing myself by drinking at my table with my brother and cousin Michael. Finally, Alex and I decided to dance and while slightly trashed at this point, I’m pretty sure I didn’t do anything heinous. I mean, I could’ve grabbed a microphone and announced to the crowd how not weird I am. But I restrained myself and left the wedding somewhat pleased with my comparatively normal behavior.
Finally home, I gathered my belongings from my parents’ car and headed to my own. Here’s my keys, my wallet, my phone, my camera, my make-up and my shoe.
One shoe.
Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Crazy Cousin Beth stumbled out of the wedding with one shoe on, they must be thinking. I mean, how else can you explain her leaving one SHOE under her dinner table?
Whatever. I give up. Who cares?
They’ll be singing a different tune at a different winery in the Spring of 2008…

Thursday, July 13, 2006

red lobster. on me...

A day without internet feels as if I’ve fallen down a well like that little Texan girl, and I have no idea what’s going on up in the real world because I’m trapped in a communication-free vortex.
More importantly, I’ve yet to forget my important thoughts and feelings about last night’s ProRun and I’m desperate to get them down.
Tim Gunn, what happened? My god, it’s been a rough year apparently. Tim looks like pasty, old shit. And he’s either completely let himself go or is aging like Robin Williams in that movie, Jack. That’s not stopping sugar daddy from kissing the adorable yet bitchy Keith Michael’s ass. Andre who?
I love that Heidi Klum, but she’s getting bitchier and bitchier every season and watching her offer “opinions” on the portfolios of contestants like a fashionista dilatante annoyed the artist in me. Models don’t have opinions.
Nina Garcia, you are not important to the show. You exist because you’re foreign and offer a modicum of critical credibility. You’re boring, you’re not funny, and while often articulate, fair and correct, you and your flashcards bother me.
Michael Kors is obviously jealous of the Tim Gunn attention machine and has spent his entire hiatus not designing his fabulous American sportswear for fly-over states but coming up with snippety quips in a pathetic attempt to one-up and out-gay our Tim. Impossible! Michael, you’re not the flamer old homo with the sassy lines. You’re the flamer old homo fashion expert. Act like it.
Malan? Oh Malan, you are my new favorite person alive. Malan claims to be from “all over. I was born in Taiwan, so you know…” He has the most ridiculous yet marvelous accent and I’m desperate to have him to dinner parties because no one’s ever worn an ascot in my house and I’d love him to make up stories about how he races cars with the Crown Prince of Monaco and plays polo with Masai warriors at his Kenyan ranch.
I want Laura Bennett to design every outfit in my life and I was so inspired by this ice queen, I actually dressed like her today. She’s, thus far, my absolute favorite designer on the show, even though I wasn’t wild about her Cotton Club, J-Lo goes to court winter coat, I was so into the green dress with the red rose and flapper ensembles, not to mention her art installation home, I’m calling awesome now.
Vincent will be kept on the show for the sole purpose of mocking his crappy ass style. I went to fashion design school with some chick who designed like Vincent, always shit falling off her garment on the runway and incorporating ridiculous things as accessories. Frying pans aren’t purses. Hello, Tim? Wouldn’t we call this “student-y?” I am not interested in Vincent, nor do I have any sentimentality towards his fragile mental state. Vincent’s out!
Keith Michael, Tim’s new boytoy, is totally fabulous because he’s a cocky asshole, which I love, and I think it’s wonderful how he keeps announcing he has, by far, the best taste of anyone in the world. That may very well be true, as his clothes were flawless. But that’s a hard claim to pull off whilst wearing a sweaty short sleeve white henley.
There’s some Barbie dress designer named Robert who’s already talked trash about working for Isaac Mizrahi, which I believe, but it’s still no-class to diss a former boss on episode one of a show you know he’s watching. Plus, I thought his portfolio was crap and his runway dress barely passable, and even then, only if you’re Audrey Hepburn.
Oh, oh. And we’ve got the perfect, mid-west gay from Oklahoma who designs pageant dresses and I promise you, will cry constantly. I’m delighted that we’ve got some Midwestern homos on the show. I’m from San Francisco. Mid-western homos end up here. I’m bored with those high-falutin’ New York queens, in their Barney’s Co-Op ensembles and seared Ahi. I love me some country gay.
Who else?
Oh, there’s the rapper guy who designs disgusting ho clothes, but he’s so friendly, I can’t help but like him. I hate his clothes. I hate his teeth. But he’s a big one for the handshake and eye contact and it’s unexpected, so I’m cool with him. For now.
Jeffrey, the psychotic, LA rock stylist almost lost the challenge, which is ridiculous. Granted, he’s obnoxious (I didn’t know they still made hand buzzers) and I’m hardly a fan of his neck tattoo (Yeah. We get it. You’re hardcore. How do we know? It says so on your neck) but his clothing was perfect. How the judges put him on the shit list with two untalented idiots is beyond me. Jeffrey, by the way, is the new Santino.
Alison, the flawlessly beautiful girl, makes me want to become a lesbian. Or a murderer, because she has no sense of humor and nothing interesting to say, which makes me want to kill her. Also, I hated her designs and did not understand why she felt the need to ruin a perfectly cute jumper with sea-shell body armor. But she’s hot. And hot always wins.
There are some other people I don’t care about, too, but I’m far more focused on my TimTim. Tim Gunn is the new media darling, as far as I’m concerned. Whatever I can do to forward the show biz career of this glorious gay I’ll do, because number one on my list of things I love about my favorite show in the world is everything Tim Gunn says or does. Ever…

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

i am, actually, on pins and needles...

So, I'm just saying, I won't be available from 9 to 11pm PST tonight. I don't care if someone has died. I don't care if we're under terrorist attack. I don't even care if Gavin calls (lies, Gav, lies. I'll answer. Call me.) Because between 9 and 11 tonight, I'll be watching Project Fucking Runway. Oh, my bitches, it is so on.
Only ProRun related texts and emergency ProRun related calls will be warrant a response.
Those in New York and Texas, already watching and taking notes, are not allowed to convey ANY type of information prior to my watching the entirety.
We'll begin at 9 with the Casting Special. I saw it last night, but it's not the same as the back-to-back and I prefer to watch all ProRun related programming a minimum of 3-4 times. I will report at this time, however, Tim Gunn isn't aging well.
At 10, we finally meet the 15 finalists, choose who we like and more importantly, who we hate. We'll also get back to the Tim/Heidi awkward forced friendship banter, and Tim's voice and mannerisms, which is my number one reason for such devotion to a single reality show.
This probably goes without saying, but we'll discuss tomorrow...

check out the name on his desk...

Normally, I don’t drop the ball on Gavin related news, or perhaps I just don’t care because my love is unconditional, but I just found out that Gavin C. Newsom is dyslexic. Oh my god. It explains so much. And I know what you’re all asking yourselves: What does this mean for Spots?
Uh, it means everything. First of all, if he mixes things up, maybe he’ll mix up fat and thin, obnoxious and charming, hung-over and radiant. It could be like bizarro world all the time. Also, no wonder he’d been dating those boneheads. They must seem like rocket scientists to him, making me, comparatively, Stephen Hawking or similar. My god, I’m like a tower of intellect because I know that whole ‘i before e’ rule.
Finally, anyone sane fears the perfect and I’m thrilled to know that little Gavy struggled his way through prep school and was most likely openly mocked by his shithead little classmates who are currently committing tax fraud or cheating on their trophy wives. Beating the odds, my boyfriend struggled against his secret disability and triumphed, not only becoming head honcho of our fair city, but a well-dressed god with a learning disability which, if given the chance, I can easily manipulate and abuse…

case by case...

It’s not that I don’t like ALL animals, children or the elderly. I just don’t like MOST of them. Conveniently, my pal Marge had a baby of superior intellect, appearance and charm and thus, I love that Miles Owen. And as I roped Marge into coming into the office and helping me with Quark, I spent all morning playing with Miles and arranging a Vanity Fair photo shoot with Miley and BCFS…

Monday, July 10, 2006

at least no one said tevas...

Sunday afternoons are often spent in the company of my platonic life partner and burrito buddy, Big Chris. Yesterday was no exception and Alex joined us at Puerto Alegre on Valencia for margaritas and Mexican Food. Inevitably, the conversation turned towards the oft-asked question, ‘What shoes would Jesus Christ wear if he were alive today?’
I have never heard two men debate so fervently, Chris insisting that Jesus would sport footwear much like his own, the timeless Air Jordan. Alex violently disagreed.
“He’s a walker. He needs a good walking shoe.”
“Also, you guys. Don’t forget he’s very international.” I offered.
“No way. Michael Jordan was the greatest athlete of all time, thus, Jesus would wear Jordan’s.”
“Converse.” Said Alex, in all seriousness. “He’d wear old school, low top Cons or slip on, checkered Vans.”
“Ahhh, slip ons.”
“Yeah, Jesus needs to slide into a shoe. I don’t see Jesus bending over tying his laces.”
“Like Jesus’ laces would ever come untied.”
“Yeah, he probably wouldn’t need to tie them in the first place. I mean, the man walks on water.”
“Not a flip flop, though. Something with a back.”
I think to think I’ve got my finger on the pulse of what kinds of things certain people are apt to wear. Jesus, in my opinion, wouldn’t wear some $150 sneaker or a retro, hipster skater shoe. Jesus walks through the slums of Central America. Jesus holds starving babies in Africa. Jesus thwarts Anti-American sentiment in Europe. Thus, I’ve figured out what shoe Jesus would wear, assuming that Jesus would sport one single style of shoe.
“You guys, Jesus would wear something cheap and poorly made. I bet you anything, Jesus would wear some kind of crappy, brown plastic sandal from the men’s shoe aisle in Walgreen’s.”
Chris and Alex looked at me as if I’d just spoken blasphemy.
“What the hell did you just say, woman?”
“Jesus is a man of the people. He can’t wander dirt roads surrounded by the impoverished in Prada.”
“The Pope does.”
“You’ve got to think about this logically. This isn’t about what Jesus needs in a shoe, because we’ve established he needs a good, breathable, multi-climate walking shoe in neutral tones. But Jesus isn’t about what HE needs. Thus, I feel like he’d sport something basic, easy to obtain, worn by the multitudes in third world countries and unpretentious.”
“I disagree. I’m pretty sure he’s wear Converse low tops.”
Fine. Let’s go get drinks next door and move onto the next topic that will take up another hour of, appropriately enough, our Sunday.
In what color…

Saturday, July 08, 2006

poggio is so 2004...

I will always shop. I could be on a deserted island. I could be in jail. I could be in a funeral procession and pull over for a red tag sale. I will always shop. So last night, as Lo and I sipped cocktails at Poggio, we decided to wander around Sausalito.
“Oh, Oh, we have to go here!” I demanded. “I loved this store when I was a kid.”
I dragged Lo into the Sausalito Ferry Company and began to narrow down my options. Come hell or high water, I was buying something. I found perfect cards for far away friends, birthday presents for distant parties…I even bought myself a glow in the dark ring (it’s way cuter than it sounds.) Lo finally left me between the Jeffrey Dahlmer car scent and the selection of religious icon boxers, returning to Poggio and deciding where we’d hit next. I think I spend about $11, but it was sadly, the highlight of my night. Today, alone at noon in the movie theater, I looked down in delight.
There it was. Glowing in the dark. God, how I love to shop…

Friday, July 07, 2006

god bless homosexuality...

This is an e-mail just received from my beloved gay in response to a personal ad he placed on a website, the name of which I'm embarassed to type, much less tell you fine people about. It delights me to my core. Enjoy:

Hello Homoloco!!!
My name - Yuriy.
You will be very much surprised, but I should tell, that I am small nice men from Russia. I want to find mine the first and last Real love. I did not cope to make it in Russia because the Russian men do not estimate it. Thats why I hope to find my magic prince in the foreign country.I have decided to write to you because I was interested with your structure, and I think, that will be pleasant to get acquainted with you.If you do not fall in love, and you want to meet sociable young man for serious relations, to write to me!I hope to your answer and if you have the big desire, I I promise, send you my photo.If you are interested with me, please write to me on my e-mail:
You can give me your e-mail also. I promise, our communication will be pleasant and interesting.I shall wait for your letter as soon as possible. I allow to you of 1000000000000000 kisses...........
I wait.......................

and now, item four on the agenda...

Occasionally, my father (via e-mail) decrees it time for a “family meeting.” In most families, I imagine, or certainly in sitcoms and live-in reality shows, this means someone’s in trouble. In my family, this means we’re planning a party or going on a trip. We met at Gaylord India Restaurant in Sausalito, Alex and I heading over early to enjoy drinks at the bar. This is also standard. Any family meal gathering, even if it’s just the four of us and especially when traveling, requires that we meet somewhere an hour early for cocktails, as if the prospect of sitting down to dinner with one another requires self medication. I complain about my family a lot, but it’s small, happy rituals like last night that make me thrilled to be a Spotswood…

Thursday, July 06, 2006

the definition of glamour...

Keeping in mind, this is pretty much my favorite homo-song ever, THIS has completely made my year. I love this woman, I love her outfits, I love her hair, I love her flare, I love white trash and I love the angelic creature who created this masterpeice. Many of you won't care in the slightest, but for those that do, crank up your speakers and roll with me on the floor in pure, strip-mall pleasure...

red carpet interviews by janice dickenson...

The Emmy Nominations were announced today, and as I think I may have mentioned my occasional viewing of a variety of high brow programming, I thought I’d offer my own awards list. Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to The Bethies.
This year’s host, Dog, Bounty Hunter recently presented the coveted Bethie (a bust of my bust) to the following recipients:

Best Performance by a Male in a Comedy Series:
Anderson Cooper reporting on anything
(he accepted his award in a fur lined Prada parka.)

Best Appearance on Oprah:
Nate Berkus, the tsunami episode

Best New Gay on Television:
Tim Gunn
(Tim regrettably couldn’t attend as he was learning German. Santino accepted in Tim’s voice.)

Best Hair and Make-Up:
The Cast of Dog, Bounty Hunter

Best Costume Design:
The Cast of Dog Bounty Hunter

(At this point, Dog became confused as they employ no hair, make-up or costuming crew.)

Best New Reality Show:
Top Chef

Elizabeth Spots Award for Sheer Adorableness, presented to one television actor annually who exemplifies everything I find totally hot:
Jim from The Office

Most Annoying Person in the History of Television:
Katie Joel
(perpetually confused, she gave a tearful and sadly, heartfelt speech)

Best Television Hook-up:
Josh and Donna on The West Wing

Best Local News Appearance(s):
San Francisco Mayor, Gavin Newsom

Most Appalling But Wonderful Television Show:
My Super Sweet Sixteen

Break for Musical Number by Matt LeBlanc and 5 Chimps dressed as the remaining characters from Friends singing “I’ll be there for you (I’ll even work for scale)”

Show Beth wishes was still on Television:
Murphy Brown

Best Performance in a Local Commercial:
Dr. Jang and Associates

Best Performance by a Gay Playing a Straight:
Jonathan Antin

Best Performance by a Psychic Medium on The Montel Williams Show:
Sylvia Browne
(Sylvia accepted her award in her leopard print caftan and crazy nails, and then announced that anyone with the letter “S” in their name should stay away from horse drawn carriages.)

And Finally,

Best Overall Moment on Television:
Barbara Walters verbally Bitch-slapping Star Jones on The View

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

i'm sensing a theme...

I spent the 4th of July playing beer pong with Kelsey and the Boys (album in stores this summer) although they had to ammend it slightly, as I'm not a big beer drinker. I can't imagine anyone ever played beer pong with a nice 2003 Pinot Noir, but I've always been a pioneer. As our forefathers intended, I also spent some time yesterday reflecting on what makes this country so great. Here is my Top 5 List of why I'm Proud to be an American:

5: Dental Care
4: Cable Television
3: Oprah
2: Apparently, in Australia, they pronounce the popular game UNO, "you-know." I recently pointed out to one of them that it's pronounced "ooo-no. Like uno, dos, tres." Utter shock.
1: At least I know I'm free...

Monday, July 03, 2006

you look your uniform...

I am a whore for any form of celebrity and glamour, including any uptight schmuck gracing a society page. I will position myself at any event so as to be photographed as much as possible and on the rare occasion that I actually worm my way into a party of any societal significance, I will instantly recognize a myriad of people simply by having read about their fabulousness in those back sections of local magazines and newspapers where they write about anyone with money as if they’re rock stars.
I am desperate to be one of those uptight schmucks, and if they refuse to have me, (which they appear to be doing) I’ll have to revert to instinct.
If you can’t join them, mock them.
First of all, it’s not like any of these people actually care about the issues they’re fundraising for. Like Anne Getty’s ever heard of land mines or abortion or trees. Second of all, there’s a pathetic genius to the self congratulatory party photo-op, their bizarre hyphenated names listened beneath themselves like we’re actually supposed to know who they are. Finally, whenever I encounter them in real life, it’s always a let down.
However, there’s one gal who’s graced the San Francisco society pages since the beginning of time, the grande dame in fact, of anything important, fancy and hoity toity in all of our fair city. I have met Charlotte Schultz twice and both times, she was appallingly delightful. Honorary Roomie even worked for her at Gavin’s office a couple of years ago, and had nothing to report but glowing reviews (other than the fact that you couldn’t drink water out of bottles. It always had to be in a glass.) I was allowed to accompany HR to one of Charlotte’s fabulous soirees and as we watched her give a speech, sitting jealously at the open bar, we both agreed that we completely aspired to be this flawless demonstration of class, clad in Chanel and being nice to dishwashers.
So you can imagine my dismay this afternoon, when flipping through the Nob Hill Gazette (Luxury, Legends and Loquacity issue) and read the following quote from Charlotte, referring to the President (of the United States) arriving early for a party she was throwing him at her Stanford home.
“I dropped everything, ran up to the third floor, grabbed my suit and pantyhose, putting on the pantyhose running down the stairs. It wasn’t easy. I think the Secret Service men know me better than my doctors. So they’re helping me fasten my pearls, I’m carrying my shoes, putting on earrings, the cars pulls up and the President gets out while I’m still zipping my skirt. My lovely Filipina lady goes outside, walks right up to him and freezes. “Come on.” He says to her. “Let’s get a picture taken. You look wonderful.”
Calling her lovely doesn’t make it okay to call her yours.

Saturday, July 01, 2006

i vote 'yay'...

According to today’s Chronicle, Supervisor Chris Daly wants to impose some kind of monthly public grill session upon my boyfriend, San Francisco Mayor Gavin Spotswood. Apparently, this happens all the time in British Parliament and that aptly named nut wants to rip this concept off, having Gavin placed on a chopping block before the Supervisors and berated about all of the wonderful things he does to make San Francisco, California, America and the world a better place.
I am ALL for it.
First of all, I have immense faith in hottie’s political abilities and relish in watching him beat those Supervisorial bitches down while looking dapper in a pinstripe Armani. Second of all, why make it so civilized? I say, strip down, oil up and wrestle in wading pool of Bloody Mary’s. Because, if we’re voting on sheer foxiness, my betrothed will always dominate.
Understandably, the love of my life isn’t feeling Wackjob’s idea and is in no mood to endure a monthly session of whining and bitchiness. After all, that’s a woman’s job. But I really don’t see what the big deal is. I mean, when Gavin walks into a room, anyone that doesn’t bow down and roll around in ecstasy at the mere sight and scent of him is either jealous or crippled.
Truth be told, I simply want more access to his genius and his gel, and if I had my druthers, I’d subject him to a monthly drill session of my own. But in the meantime, I’m with Fruitcake Daly on this one. Dance hottie, dance…