Thursday, August 31, 2006

happy birthday, mikey!

Everyone gets a blog on their birthday. Michael Drew is no exception. But I realized I don’t really have a wacky story about Mikey I haven’t already told you. So I’ll tell you my Top 5 Favorite Things I’ve Discovered About My Living Companion:

5. If Mikey is drinking a hot drink, ie; coffee, he will first warm his mug with hot water, wait until the mug feels hot enough to receive his precious coffee and then dump the hot water, rapidly filling the now warm mug with coffee. Also, he keeps beer mugs frosty in the freezer at all times, which he never uses. So basically, Mike insists on the temperature of his cup pre-matching the temperature of his beverage. Curious and Wonderful.

4. Mikey relates any occurrence, situation or circumstance to an episode of Seinfeld. Literally, everything. Anything that will ever happen to you when you’re with Michael was already on an episode of Seinfeld. And was better.

3. Some people like to dance. And some people love to dance. Michael LOVES to dance. Like, really loves to dance. You know that scene in Billy Elliot, where little blue collar, ballet dancer Billy is asked what it feels like when he dances and he responds, “Don't know. Sorta feels good. Sorta stiff and that, but once I get going... then I like, forget everything. And... sorta disappear. Sorta disappear. Like I feel a change in me whole body. And I've got this fire in my body. I'm just there. Flyin' like a bird. Like electricity. Yeah, like electricity.”
That’s pretty much what happens which Mikey dances.

2. There is only one woman in Mikey’s life. And that woman is Pheobe. I have never seen a straight man so in love with his cat. He talks to her, he snuggles with her, he twirls her on the hardwood floor. For hours. Every day. They are in love with each other and I pity the fool that leaves the door open and lets Pheobe out, because if Pheobe gets hit by a car or gets cat-raped or something, Michael will never be the same.

1. Mikey will attend any event I drag him to, and look pretty and be charming and put up with anyone. You can call Michael 5 minutes before a party starts and get him to bring ice. You can subject him to dozens of gays groping him and he laughs it off. You can get obnoxiously, horribly wasted, stumble in the street and Mikey will pick you up. As I said to Laura the other day, Mikey is a magical angel from heaven, floating around in business suits bringing sunshine and happiness wherever he goes…

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

oh, and i want bagpipes...

I’m sure you’ve heard, but yesterday some nutcase drove all over San Francisco running over pedestrians on purpose. But did you know that Gavin visited the victims at the hospital? Hold on while I go stand in the middle of the street.
Kidding, kidding.
First of all, if I’m trapped in some ghetto hospital without hair products, make-up or push-up bras, there’s no way in hell I’m letting Nightingale Newsom near me. He can Make-My-Wish after I’ve recovered and have reclaimed my fabulousness. Trust me. I’ve been in the hospital. And I looked like shit.
So consider this my living will. If I’m hooked up to life support, clinging to consciousness or even in a goddamn coma, harvest my organs and divide up my crap but under no circumstances should anyone on my Top 5 be allowed within eye-shot of me. I don’t care if delirium has me calling out Gavin’s name in my last moments of time on this earth. Let me die alone rather than let him see me in a backless hospital gown with tubes emerging from various outlets. And should I perish in hideous solitude, having being driven over by some loon who forgot his cocktail of meds, I shall rest in peace knowing that Gavin will remember me looking my best as he tearfully watches my memorial video montage and lives the remainder of his life in celibacy…

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

honorable mention: bloodhound gang...

Years and years of true crime reality television has honed my already god given gift of hardcore detective skills. I fully maintain that had I been provided with the complete case evidence on a number of crimes, particularly Scott “Hot + Stupid = Murder” Peterson, I’d be able to solve that shit. Which has me thinking. As a child I entertained a myriad of potential professions, from astronaut to marine biologist to mathalete, including one I’d like to revisit today: Private Detective.
In fact, I think that most likely, I’ll find myself the center of an array of unsolved mysteries as an older woman, and aspire to a lifestyle not unlike that of Jessica Fletcher, heroine of Murder She Wrote. I don’t necessarily want to get paid for my services, because really, they’re priceless. I just want to go off to a hunting weekend at a British country estate of an old friend and discover someone murdered in the drawing room. Or find myself in some international 3rd world, 5-star hotel and just stumble upon espionage and subterfuge, working in cahoots with grumpy old detectives who slowly realize that the well-dressed, well-aged American woman in the corner seems both innocent and impressively helpful.
The thing that was so convenient about Murder She Wrote is that anytime Jessica Fletcher left her little Cabot Cove cottage, some disposable person we meet within the first 15 minutes of the episode shows up dead. Uh, Hello Sheriff Tupper? Cabot Cove’s got the homicide statistics of Compton.
But of course, that’s what makes that old battleaxe Fletcher so fabulous: the black cloud of untimely death that follows her wherever she goes. Which brings us to today’s Top 5 List:

Top 5 Fictional Detectives/Mystery Solvers of All Time:

5. Jessica Fletcher
4. Hercule Poirot
3. Scooby Doo
2. Sherlock Holmes
1. Encyclopedia Brown…

Monday, August 28, 2006

does this mean the mom did it...

So John Mark Karr didn’t kill Jon Benet. He’s still super creepy and should be locked up. I am apparently the only person in the world surprised by this news, not because I thought the evidence was stacked up against this wackjob, but because I’m so shocked anyone can confess to a crime they didn’t commit and be instantly swathed in international attention. If I were a nut with some free time (which, clearly, I am), the message would be clear: Confess to a random crime, preferably a dirty one people have almost forgotten about, and wait 5 seconds for the planet to go ape-shit and fly you all over the place and until they realize that, uh, you were in Alabama or some other hell hole the whole time and are instantly cleared. Psycho McSkinny got a free Business Class ticket from a Thai child bordello to LAX and an exclusive interview bidding war just for shifting in his seat and muttering, “It was an accident.”
I’d just like to hang out in the Boulder DA’s office today and watch the shit hit the fan. Especially after we were forced to watch their “We Caught Jon Benet’s Killer Awards Show Telecast” where everyone patted themselves on the back and thanked their dry cleaners and 2nd grade teachers for supporting them on their now completed quest for justice. Um, he was in another state, Hercule Poirot.
So what happens now? Oh, I’ll tell you what happens now. The one thing that makes this country so wonderful is what happens now.
Oprah Motherfucking Winfrey.
No Dateline, No 60 Minutes, No 20/20 can outbid Moneybags Winfrey and her minions of horrified housewives. Ugh, I can’t wait. I simply can not wait…

Thursday, August 24, 2006


There's a foreigner at home, trapped with American television and the channel I left him with: The Food Network.
I just received the following e-mail PS:

"...And also - I do NOT care for the one they called 'Rachael Ray'"

I guess annoyance is universal...

this shit would never be tolerated in a metropolis...

Sometimes, the most mundane tasks prove the most challenging. On my way to work this morning, I stopped at Whole Foods in desperate need of cantaloupe. Mill Valley’s Whole Foods provides their patrons with a dozen parking spaces right by the front door, the very front door where trophy wives congregate with their yoga mats and dreadful children who rub their sticky fingers all over the fruit samples. These godless freaks also have absolutely no problem carrying on detailed conversations smack dab in the middle of empty parking spaces. There I sat, emitting pollution waiting for Trixie to finish her conversation with Bitsey, no doubt discussing how much they hate their decorators and how you just can’t find good help these days, what with the stringent border patrol. Rhonda the Honda was literally breathing down their tan, foodless necks and on they chatted, not paying me the slightest bit of attention. Finally, and this is after like, 8 whole minutes, I whipped off my sunglasses, rolled down my window and screamed, “Um, hi. I need to park my car. Preferably today.”
They rolled their eyes and took several delicate steps sideways, one of them actually still wearing Uggs. I was hoping one of their spawn would fall beneath my wheels and I’d do the world a favor by ridding us of one more emerging shithead, but I guess we’re just not that lucky. Finally inside my mecca of organic produce, I located the pre-sliced, over-priced cantaloupe. I grabbed my container, self-served myself a coffee and got in line…behind Father Time.
Father Time hasn’t been in a grocery store since a Roosevelt was in office and the complex, modern ambiance of Whole Paycheck was too much for him. The idiot cashier made the grave mistake of offering him a Whole Foods organic cotton tree-saving tote bag for a buck fifty.
“I have to pay for my bags!?!?!”
Oh god. Seriously? The cashier, still hocking the damn tote, explained the benefits to bringing your own reusable bag to Whole Foods. Father Time fell into deeper confusion. Sanity had to step in and I was late.
“You don’t have to pay for paper or plastic bags. But if you want, you can buy a bag and use it every time you come, so, in theory, you’re saving the planet.”
“I just want my milk and my eggs in a bag and I want to go home.”
I looked at the cashier. “He doesn’t want a tote bag.”
Finally back at my car, I threw my cantaloupe in the passenger seat and put Rhonda in reverse, only to find a goddamn hippy with a clipboard blocking me in and hassling people to sign up to save the egrets or something.
Seriously. All I wanted was some cubed melon. It literally took me 30 minutes. To buy $4.38 worth of cubed, pre-packaged melon.
Ugh, I curse the suburbs…

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

yeah, we're still working on that...

After passing it several times on the way home and having read the review in yesterday’s Chronicle, Mikey and I decided on dinner at Brick last night. First of all, when you go to Brick, go on a Tuesday. Every bottle of wine is half off, which is why we enjoyed a $38 bottle of Willamette Pinot Noir for $19. Second of all, when you go to Brick, sit in the kitchen, so you can watch the really hot chef prepare everything. He’s from Brooklyn and makes sprinkling toasted pine nuts look really masculine. Finally, when you go to Brick, the waiter will try and take away your cilantro fries and curry ketchup before you’re finished. Protest loudly. We think he’s deaf.
After dinner, we headed over to R Bar for after dinner drinks, where Todd, the lovely owner hooked me up with some Jukebox credits and I got to play DJ, busting out an array of Johnny Cash, Radiohead and Louie Prima. As I returned from selecting the evening’s music, Mikey quickly whispered, “Don’t talk. Just listen.”
A very drunk man at the end of the bar was regaling anyone who’d listen with his recent turn in a Thai Massage Parlor.
Um, guess what. Turns out, they really are hookers. Color me shocked.
We chuckled at his story and went back to our drinks. Later, Mikey leaned in again. “Todd’s cutting him off.”
We looked up to find Todd handling the situation gracefully but insisting that Thai Massage Parlor had clearly “had enough today.” I liked the “today” part. It implied Thai Massage Parlor probably started drinking at sunrise and would continue to do so tomorrow. That is, in between his massages.
“Oh god,” sighed Mikey. “That’s gotta suck. Getting cut off at 9 at night. How embarrassing.”
With that, Thai Massage Parlor dramatically knocked over the huge glass of water Todd had so graciously provided for him. He stumbled back off his stool, hands in the air as if he were being arrested. “Alright, alright. I’m an asshole.”
Asshole? You? Come on. Never!
He stumbled out of R Bar onto the streets of San Francisco, no doubt to go cry on the pre-pubescent shoulder of his treasured Thai Masseuse…

Monday, August 21, 2006

oh, and he paints...

I like to think that one of the purposes I serve in your life is to introduce you to hot people you may never have heard of. Sunday’s exhaustion meant that when I plopped down on the couch next to Mikey watching golf yesterday, I was too tired to argue about changing the channel. I just started watching and slowly, started asking questions.
I don’t know if I was still drunk from the weekend, but I was into that PGA Championship. 15 minutes into watching it, Mikey looked over.
“So, did you want to go to the movies?”
“I guess. But we have to watch the end of this golf game first.”
Stunned silence.
“Why are you staring at me?”
“It’s just, I’m, um, I’m so happy right now. I can’t believe you’re into this.”
He was incredibly patient, answering my questions and tolerating my ignorance. He even spent the commercial breaks (of which there was one every 5 minutes) running to the computer and looking up details I’d inquired as to.
Suddenly, HE appeared.
“Who’s that????”
Luke Donald.”
“Um, tell me of this Luke.”
“He’s British.”
I think I just fell in love. Not only is he adorable, foreign and rich, he’s sponsored by Ralph Lauren.
Gavin who?
We got to see a lot of Luke yesterday, as he was playing with Tiger “Big Chris” Woods. Tiger Woods needs to relax. I know he’s like, the greatest golf player in the world or whatever, but the guy walks through throngs of people who give him a standing ovation every time he goes to the bathroom and he just looks straight ahead, feigning focus. We get it, pal. You take this really seriously.
“So Mikey. Tiger was minus 19 before and now he’s minus 18. Does that mean he got a bogie?”
“Oh my god, yes it does! This is awesome!”
His elation was short lived. “Let’s talk more about Luke.”
“His caddy is his brother.”
“That is so cute! Ugh, that is the cutest thing I ever heard of.”
Suddenly, with Tiger and the future Mr. Spotswood finishing up the 17th hole, Mikey got a phone call he apparently HAD to take. “Michael, get in here! They’re at the 18th hole! Everyone’s going nuts!”
As Tiger claimed his trophy in what can only be described as a very awkward exchange of compliments and handshakes, Mikey finally returned.
“Shit! Did I miss the whole thing?”
“Yes! I can’t believe you missed it. It was awesome. Everyone was cheering and they both did it par and Luke tipped his visor and Tiger won his second Majors after the death of his father and best friend, Earl Woods.”
“Who the hell ARE you?”
Folks, we had 2 big breakthroughs at 916A yesterday. Number One, I now encourage the watching of golf. And Number Two, let’s give a big blogger welcome to the hottest boy at the country club, Luke Donald…

i'm sorry chris, i can't do it...

Much like Meatloaf, I would do anything for love. Anything, that is, but use the bathroom at Taqueria CanCun...

Friday, August 18, 2006

buh bye...

I do not believe in the journey. I believe in the destination. So spending 7 hours in coach at the height of terrorist paranoia is pretty much my own personal hell. What could make it worse? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a washed up old hippy having a flash back and dropping trou to pee in the aisle.
I’m sorry, ladies and gentleman. We’ll be landing about a 1000 miles from where you need to go because the nut in Row 62 is having a bad reaction to some LSD she took in 1968. Oh, and that’s not anthrax or bomb making chemicals you smell right now. She just had some asparagus for lunch.
Had any member of my immediate family been on that flight, the shit would have hit the fan, I assure you. My father is still mad on the flying restrictions imposed after the Unabomber and his manifesto of bullshit fucked up his elaborate schemes to screw the frequent flier program of every major international and domestic airline.
And while this nut apparently alluded to the tragic events of September 11th and various Middle Eastern connections (she was, after all, returning from visiting her Pakistani pen pal), the thought of my tax dollars being used (not to mention the emotional stability of the other passengers) to scramble fighter jets and have this poor plane accompanied to a closer airport is ridiculous.
I’d have put it to a vote.
Excuse me, Captain OverReactor. I’ll need that PA system for a second. Um, folks. This is Beth. I’m in Row 46 and I can smell that bitch from here. Apparently, Mother Jones is having a bad trip and is freaking the understandably uptight flight crew out. They propose we reroute this bird and head to Boston, accompanied by the two F15’s you may notice on either side of the plane. Well, we could do that. OR, we could beat the shit out of this wackjob, tie her up, cover her ass with newspaper, tape her yapper shut and get back to our in-flight movie, Chicken Run. I don’t know about you people, but I’ve got dinner reservations at The Palm with Stephanopolous and come hell or high water, no voodoo priestess and her patchouli love beads are making me miss this…

Thursday, August 17, 2006

you see this guy in bangkok, you think one thing...

I have so many things to discuss with you, I’ve got to break it up into several posts. Here’s today’s table of contents:

~Jon Benet
~The lady who got claustrophobic on an airplane
~Laura on ProRun

Let’s just get Jon Benet out of the way. First of all, now that Scott Peterson is officially old news and locked away reading his fan mail, God Bless America that another scandal and what’s sure to be a subsequent trial hits newsstands. The killer of Jon Benet has been captured molesting children in Thailand. A nation gasps.
The best thing about this, other than, you know, justice being served, is that this molester is quite possibly the creepiest person alive. I slept last night at my folks, and spent this morning glued to the television, watching that wiry little John Mark Karr in his khakis with his polo shirt buttoned all the way up and tucked anally into his belt. His eyes slowly switched from one corner to the other as he gave meek-voiced but eerily confident responses like, “I loved Jon Benet. It was an accident.” Oh, you mean the six year old you molested and murdered? Of course you did. This guy was so creepy, Alex got the chills, shaking the grossness off of him and then announcing, “You know who he looks like? Karl, the computer guy.”
Because CNN and local news insisted on occasionally covering other news stories, I made us switch channels to Fox News. One can always rely on Fox to beat a dead horse, particularly if there’s sex and murder involved. That’s when I saw the Boulder DA’s press conference, in which an array of people who worked on the case 10 years ago were paraded before us, accepting accolades for basically screwing this whole thing up. It was like the Oscars for small town bonehead law officials, patting themselves on the back for taking 10 years to find Kreepy Karr. We don’t care about this shit! We want to know how he did it, how’d you catch him, why’d it take so long, what’s his ex-wife say, what was he doing in Thailand, why is he so wonderfully creepy??? Come on people! OJ who?
I think Nancy Grace just exploded…

Wednesday, August 16, 2006

baby fish mouth...

I know we're at war and everything, but Bruno Kirby died! This is the kind of news that can really affect my day. Also, I've got to admit, I find celebrity death very interesting, as I refuse to regard these people as human. And I don't like to be surprised during that part of the Oscars where you see the montage of all the people that have died since the last Oscars as my mother spends the whole 5 minutes screaming, "No! He died? Oh no, her? Gasp! When did HE die!?!" I just want to make sure she's prepared for Bruno Kirby, or as she'll remember him, that whiny guy with the moustache from When Harry Met Sally and City Slickers.
So long, Bruno. I hope you found your one thing...

are ye kidding me...

Ah, Berkeleyist.
"So it'll be a mellow night. 7 to 10ish, just hanging out because I'm exhausted. Cool?"
Her words rang in my ears as the staff at Johnny Foley's turned on the overhead lights at 2am. I looked over to find Miss 10pm with a 59 year old Irish guy hanging all over her, screaming over the music about her beautiful eyes and telling her what to do with her life.
We were at Foley's to see Nicole McRory, an extraordinary performer whom Lo had mentioned ages ago and I'd been fortunate enough to run into on several occasions.
How to describe Nicole?
Well, as I mentioned to the 59 year old Irish guy, "Nicole used to be a Nicolas."
But that's beside the point. Or at least the 2 points I want to make. The first is that Nicole's repitoire is exceptional. She takes requests and prefers them to be from her massive book of songs. I've requested "Pink Houses", "White Wedding" and pretty much every Johnny Cash song I know. Even better, she performs her cover songs in the voice of the original singer. And really, you haven't lived till you've seen Nikki switch her guitar strap from the embroidered "Nikki" side to the "Pussy" side, curl her lips and belt "Walk the Line." Nikki personifies the, "Dance like nobodys watching" because she sings it like you sing it in your car, only better and with an electric guitar.
The second point I want to make is that I think Nikki is currently in love with me. Lo and her beautiful eyes may have snagged the 59 year old Irish guy, but Nikki was performing to a packed house and working ME into songs.
"Oh my god! Did you hear that?!?!"
"YES! Nikki loves me!"
The 59 year old Irish guy leaned over, "Hold on, love. Yer tellin' me that's a bloke?"
No, sweetheart. That's MY bloke...

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

i've made her sound like the italian celine dion, which is probably accurate...

On occasion, Sofia “Mama Celeste” Milos e-mails me now that her ex-boyfriend is obsessed with yours truly. Internet access on Ellis Island isn’t what it used to be, so I’ve been getting a lot of bouncebacks from that quarantined piece of Eurotrash and I thought I’d share some of them with you.

Elisabetta! I write this to you as I gaze upon the beautiful Hudson Ocean and the city towers of the City of New York. I read on the blog page that you see HIM, and at first I do the gasp and cry a little but I you know I love the female form and I love you! So yes to that, eh! He laugh at me all the time too, yet I never know why but oh well. You like Tosca? I no like the food, which I don’t eat. I feast on the soul, girl! Be well. You call my lawyer?
Reach for the Stars!

Dear Sofia,
I’d appreciate it if you’d study English a little harder. Your “writing” is very difficult to read. I don’t mean to be rude, but you owe it to our gender not to sound like an idiot. Did you get the crayons I sent? I did indeed run into HIM, and I can see why you’re still so enamored. He really is quite something. Please don’t cry as it will only make you look older than you already do. I haven’t been able to get in touch with your attorney as it appears he was recently disbarred. You’ll have to sit tight in your quarantine cell until I’m able to locate someone willing to deal with you.

Oh Elisabetta! How super duper to hear from you. I try to learn the English but when I ask for the tutor they send me letter which say this:
Ms. Milos,
We regret to inform you that budgetary restraints prohibit us from spending money to teach you anything for two reasons. 1. You’re being deported to a non-English speaking country and thus, your horrible language skills don’t affect us and 2. Preliminary testing indicates an IQ of below 80, thus disqualifying you from receiving any educational services. You are also prohibited from using the Ellis Island gym due to your inability to follow the ‘Clothing Required’ rule, clearly posted in 62 languages at both entrances.
EIMS (Ellis Island Management and Staff)
What this mean? I get crayons but leave them in sun by my window and they melt! It looks so beautiful all the waxy colors mixing in the sunlight and I get inspired!
You can do anything you set your heart on!

Dear Sofia,
Disregard that letter and continue to use the gym. That may expedite your deportation.

Elisabetta! Yes, your advice always come at right time. I think you are very smart. I wish I was as smart as you, my shining star! But God has blessed me in so many ways, yes? My golden skin needs the sun and they only let me into the outside for 1 hour a day. Is not enough, I’m sure. Plus, they no let me remove my jumpsuit and feel the rays of sun on every inch of my beautifulness. I no understand why. When you think I can travel the journey home, too? I like to know this.
Be true to yourself!

Your e-mails are really starting to get annoying. Although, I get the impression I could say anything to you and you’d be delighted. For example, prior to it being seized by the government, you were in possession of quite possibly the shittiest wardrobe on earth. Rwandan refugees have hotter outfits than your embarrassing array of stripper rejects and floral monstrosities. Also, no one has ever watched your TV show. Ever. I’ve never even heard of it.
Are you gone yet?

Elisabetta! I feel the same that I can say anything to you too! Such friends we are! Thank you for the board games packages. I like to play the Four Connect by myself in my concrete cell space. My guard, she think it so funny. I ask her to play but she agree with you it is a one person game. At night, as I look through the bars at the stars (a rhyme!) I think of HIM and am happy he find someone as special as you to replace me. Yes, yes, we all move on.
When one door closes, another one opens!

Message Bounceback. User denied message. Re-Send…

Monday, August 14, 2006

the first sign of the apocalypse...

Dancing with the Stars has announced its upcoming Cast for Season Three of a show in which “celebrities” of varying degrees compete against each other via dance, getting voted off each week a la everything else. Among those appearing on this lesser reality show?
Football player Emmitt Smith. Talk Show Host Jerry Springer. Has-been Joey Lawrence. Oh yeah. And Tucker Carlson.
What possessed my bow-tied, right-wing extremist, Nazi lover to agree to this is beyond me. Apparently making fun of the poor, the war and Canadians wasn’t paying the bills…

the drugs are upstairs...

I know, I know. Since Thursday. I've been in Sea Ranch with the family, tanning on my own private deck and reading lots of In Style Magazines from 1999. Ted, Bill and Cathy joined us and we spent a weekend wandering the cliffs, playing boardgames, working on model trains and hiking to the Lodge Bar. I'd like to point out that upon arrival, my uncle Ted insisted I check out his new microscope. He'd assembled an array of curious objects, including one described as resembling "a beautiful piece of amber!" It was his booger.
Later, he found some kind of bug in the weeds which he subjected to his science projects. The bug, not surprisingly, ate the booger. Ted was thrilled.
I returned early from Sea Ranch to meet Mikey and Chris for some party a client had invited Mike to attend. We grabbed a bottle of champagne and headed over to his house, not quite sure if we'd find six 50 year olds sipping Merlot on couches or 100 people at a fabulous party.
Marvelously, it was the latter and I think Mikey has a client for life. I made tons of new friends including one gentleman in a red bow tie who announced to Mikey, "This bitch is fucking awesome!"
The night ended with drinks at Noonan's, where the boys confessed to noticing my boobs. I'm not really sure if that's supposed to be a compliment, but I'm glad they occasionally remember I'm, like, a girl. Because most of my evening was spent being forced to admire a caterer's ass.
Oh, and if you're wondering who the Dread Pirate Roberts is, it's Mikey. He lost his razor...

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

mrs. mohammed...

As usual, I swung by SuburbaGas this morning for my gallon of crappy coffee. I was in a fairly good mood, spending the previous 5 minutes of my commute belting Aretha’s “Freeway of Love” and looking forward to my long weekend in Sea Ranch. At the bank of coffee dispensers, I found a middle-aged gentleman in mini-Magnum P.I.-esque denim shorts and sunglasses dangling around his neck, taking up the coffee, milk, sugar and container areas simultaneously. Literally, this guy somehow dominated every square inch of SuburbaGas as I stood right there attempting to make my presence known.
Clearly, this guy fancied himself Norm in Cheers, he was so comfortable with his surroundings, speaking to each employee as if they were best friends getting together for their morning cup of Joe. Suddenly, the owner of SuburbaGas emerges from “Employees Only” and Norm manages to take up even more space greeting him.
“Ma-HAM-ed! Where the hell you been?”
“Ah, hello. I was visiting my family.”
“In the Middle East? Shit, Ma-HAM-ed! I don’t see any bullet holes. Hehe.”
Silence. Still blocking coffee. Spots getting uncomfortable.
Norm keeps talking. “You got a girl there?”
“No. Just family.”
“We got to get you some tail, Ma-HAM-ed!”
Oh my god. Can I please get my fucking coffee?
I finally push my way past him, quietly excusing myself as I plop my handbag down and start to dispense my coffee.
“Oh, ‘scuse me, honey.” Norm giggles, shifting in his shorts. “Never keep a lady from her coffee, right Ma-HAM-ed?”
I was about 2 seconds from dumping my coffee all over this douchebag until suddenly, Mohammed emerges as my knight in shining armor.
“You let her get coffee. You take up room. Make people uncomfortable. You get out of way. She wait while you talk bullet hole.”
Norm was stunned into silence.
While delighted, I had no idea what to do next. Had I any balls, I would high-fived Mohammed and been like, “Nice shorts, asshole.”
But I didn’t. I’m a repressed-Catholic American woman. So, as protocol states, I apologized for doing nothing.
“Oh, no! I’m fine! I’m so sorry. I’ll get right out of the way. I’ve got coffee. Don’t worry about it. I’m almost done.” I stammered, dumping Spenda into my cup without even bothering to swizzle.
Norm was still in shock, holding onto his coffee and staring me down. As I pushed my way past him to the cashier, he finally pulled it together. “Jesus Ma-HAM-ed. Relax. I didn’t know that was your girlfriend. Christ, I come in here every day for this shit? I was just messing around.”
I slowly paid my $1.75 as Juan the cashier and I listened in.
“You not mess around. You get coffee. You go. No mess around! No loiter!”
Juan and I made eye contact as Norm slammed down his cup and walked out of SuburbaGas, most likely to return tomorrow morning.
Mohammed made his way behind the counter next to Juan. And then, like I wasn't already in love, Mohammed rocked my world yet again.
Folks, had I not been there I wouldn’t believe it.
He simply looked at me, sheepishly smiled and winked…

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

lali lali rice head...

I don’t know what you queens are doing tonight, but I’ll be watching the highly anticipated nuptials of Dog, Bounty Hunter and his big-boobed sidekick, Beth.
I know, I know. I should be out on the town knocking restaurants off my list of musts. After all, Tuesday is the new Wednesday. But I’ve been waiting for this beautiful moment for ages. I can only imagine the ridiculous wedding ensembles, the hair extravaganza, the ivory, feathered armbands. This will actually be the first wedding I attend where the groom is missing some serious teeth. Finally! Adding to the emotional rollercoaster of this blessed event is the fact that the night before the wedding (which happened this past May), one of Dog’s 12 children was killed in a car accident in Alaska. Why she was in Alaska and not at the rehearsal dinner is beyond me. I think it’s safe to say the Chapmans are a non-traditional family. I’m just delighted they allow this white-trash crime-filled insanity to be filmed…

Monday, August 07, 2006

norman bates: ding dong...

There’s a Hitchcock extravaganza going on at that Comcast on Demand Free Movies section, and I’ve been spending some hardcore time with Alfred and crew revisiting the classics. Needless to say, I’ve got some comments.
First of all, why do people in old timey movies speak with a bizarre affectation? Think Wizard of Oz style. “Oh, Darathy! Whea ah we? I’m so frahtened.”
What? Where are you from? What is that?
That being said, after watching Rear Window, Mikey and I wandered around all day saying, “How could any of ya be so low and hurt a poor, innocent puppy? Neighbas ah s’posed ta be kahnd to each otha!”
As a child, seeing Grace Kelly’s entrance in Rear Window pretty much defined my sartorial esthetic for life. That Edith Head and her 57 Oscars knew her shit. Even Mikey was marveling at the ensembles, although he much preferred the silk celadon suit to my favorite, the black and white organza gown.
I know what you’re thinking. And, yes. I am turning him gay.
I also spent a glamorous Friday night watching Psycho by myself. Having never seen it, I quite frankly had nothing better to do. Call me a fag-hag but that Anthony Perkins is noticeably spectacular. His performance is flawless and wonderfully creepy, especially when he wanders around in drag preserving his mother’s body and has psychotic, shifty-eyed inner monologue in an insane asylum. I actually applauded, I was so impressed and delighted.
I think The Man Who Knew Too Much is next on my list, as any sit down with Alfred is always entertaining. Oddly, unless it’s on Bravo or having to do with forensics, I’m bored by television these days and am digging through old VHS tapes looking for something more interesting than, say, The Real World 92: Lodi.
That’s how I stumbled upon The Game, staring my close, personal friend, Sean and featuring Michael Douglas doing what he does best, playing an uptight, uber-rich, asshole businessman. He’s really got that down. Wall Street, A Perfect Murder, Fatal Attraction, Traffic…and The Game. M.Doug needs to broaden his horizons. If only Hitchcock were still around to cast him, creating masterpieces and pimping out that weirdo accent…

Sunday, August 06, 2006

ben lang...

"Oh, her lost your virginity to her? Yeah, I once had sex with her in the parking lot of the San Rafael Citybank..."
Benjamin Lucas Lang at my dinner table 5 minutes ago...

Saturday, August 05, 2006

alma, check your battery...

Mikey and I went to Whisper in the middle of the night, checking out a party Hamid promised would be "off the hook" or similar. I don't know that I've ever seen so much lipgloss and eyeliner, sweaty tube tops and pole dancers, and guys all wearing the requisite untucked striped dress shirt and sassy denim sipping $8 Jack and Cokes in my life. It really was quite something to behold, particularly when a trio of high school drop outs decided to dry hump the ATM machine. We came home in the wee hours of the morning as I marveled that after the glorious events of Thursday night, no evening will ever compare.
Today was spent doing what we usually do on a gorgeous weekend day: watching Sister Act on basic cable. God, that's an incredible film. Curled up in our jammies on our respective couches, we howled at the antics of Sister Mary Clarence and her brood of quirky no-nonsense nuns.
"God this is a spectacular movie."
"I know. It's fucking hilarious."
"You know what else I like? Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit."
"Oh yeah. With Lauren Hill."
"Yeah! In fact, I'm going to nominate that as an entry in our never-ending question."
"What's the best sequel of all time?"
"Indeed. Sister Act 2."
It's really been quite a 48 hours. I've gone from the pinnacle of my life, hobnobbing with A-listers and the love of my life right back down to where I'm doomed to spend the rest of my days: looking uncomfortable in shitty, sweaty dance clubs and delighting in religious based family films from the early 90's. I mean, I'm pretty sure Gavin didn't spend today singing along to the Sister Act Soundtrack.
Because if he did, we'd be married by now...

Friday, August 04, 2006

i, uh, can't believe, uh, oh my god...

For reasons I can't begin to explain, Lo and I were invited to party with the wildly cool kids in the back room of Tosca last night after our dinner at Bix. We sucked down that drink at Bix and headed into Tosca, right after some guy in a swank suit, with a bodyguard following him and a very predictable woman on his arm. Lo grabbed my arm. “BETH. THAT WAS GAVIN.”
Oh my god, I don’t know that I can handle typing this.
We walked into Tosca as Laura took over. “I’ll get drinks. Go scope out the back room.”
I walked to the back and peeking in the closed door.
Sean Penn. Princess Buttercup. A few cool looking people. Gavin. Ho. Me.
“Beth! Come in!”
At this point, my life is pretty much complete. But wait. Just wait.
So Lo appears with drinks and we commence speaking with our lovely new friends. I kind of break off and dive into a chat with one, sipping my wine and attempting to avoid staring at Dead Man Walking 2 feet away. Oh, oh, oh. And Buttercup keeps coming by saying hi, asking Lo questions, getting thinner, etc.
Okay. Are you with me? I’m talking to new friends in the back room of Tosca.
Then…I feel a hand touching my back.
Oh my god. I don’t know that I can handle typing this.
It was Gavin. We spoke for approximately 7 minutes. He laughed at 3 (three) things I said. Real laughs. Drunk laughs. Laughs that made my year. I don’t remember what I said. I just remember that as it exited my mouth, I thought, “That was a good one, Spots. Nice. Nice. Oh my god. What if I fall over?”
I’m telling you, people. This was a casual, back room of Tosca, Mystic River in the room, laid back, CAME UP TO ME conversation.
He appeared slightly drunk. Lo thought he was shorter than expected. I thought he was taller. What the fuck am I saying? The man rubbed my back! Oh, and no tie. Collar unbuttoned. Drinking wine with me. Laughing at my jokes.
Hold on.
I just fell off my chair. One sec.
At this point, I start talking too much. I said something about how his dad and I went to the same high school. Snooze. Or maybe his ho was passed out or bothering I Am Sam. Gavin departs to another conversation and I return to new friend, who informs me that Gavin used to date some actress.
Oh really?
Lo and I are giving each other the slightest, mini looks, desperate to scream, explode and roll around on the ground. Lovely new friends leave, and we depart to the regular bar as well, wisely thinking that when our hosts left, we should quit while we’re ahead.
And uh, that’s pretty much all I remember. Until I shot out of bed 10 minutes ago, remembering to tell you fine people.
Oh my god, I don’t think I can handle remembering this…

my night...last night...

perhaps spinning from street poles was a little much...


So, uh, I'm at a party. With 10 people. Including Spicoli. And Princess Buttercup. And uh, someone's rubbing my back. Someone, whom I just made a photo montage of...
More tomorrow. I can't process right now. I'm, uh, freaking out. I can't even begin to tell you. Oh my god...

Thursday, August 03, 2006

oh, and i'm working with one and a half eyebrows...

I once aspired to be Bridget Jones, that is until my life fell into a series of unenviable episodic humiliations. So, this is the last 21 minutes of my life, as it actually happened, written in the style of Bridget Jones. I’m not kidding:

3:59: Remember Big Meeting Scheduled for 5:30.
4:00: Look in bathroom mirror.
4:01: Gasp. Shock. Horror.
4:03: Decide wetting hair is best course of action for unruliness.
4:04: See error of ways.
4:05: Attempt to dry hair with paper towels from dispenser.
4:08: Spot vinaigrette stain left on white blouse from errant lettuce leaf.
4:09: Use paper towels, already dampened from hair, on blouse.
4:10: Create large brown stain on boob, looks similar to dog poo.
4:11: Hair still dripping on vinaigrette/poo stain. Apply make-up.
4:12: Give up on mascara application, as wax still remains on eyelid from self-eyebrow waxing fiasco previous evening.
4:13: Wet hair and dirty clothes call for distracting red lipstick.
4:14: In panic, break off lipstick. Drops on vinaigrette/poo stain. Consider calling Daniel Cleaver equivalent so as to feel even worse about self.
4:15: Re-think call. Decide to text.
4:16: Stare at phone waiting for response. Hair still dripping, now onto phone.
4:17: Consider working on presentation for meeting.
4:18: Return to bathroom. Focus on stain and hair. Ponytail! Genius!
4:19: Go outside, find newspaper, remove rubber band, affix to hair. Put on jacket in stifling heat to hide stain(s).
4:20: Stunning…

no internet? then how can they read this...

Has anyone else noticed that they’re kicking all the boring people off ProRun? Frankly, ProRun’s losing credibility with me the longer they keep Angela, Vincent and (forgive me queens) Robert around. Those people are talentless freaks and only remain on the show for sound bites and to fight with people.
Still bitter about his untimely departure, I feel the show is little without Malan Bretan from Taiwan.
I’m now far more interested in the dynamic between Laura and Michael. Unexpected and fabulous. Really, ProRunners. What is going on there?
I knew Keith Michael was getting the boot last night, although early internet buzz claimed it was because his application sketches were fakes. Apparently not. It seems Keith kept forbidden instructional sewing books strewn around his room and stormed off into the streets on Manhattan to use the internet when called on his shit by Kayne the Enforcer. All no-nos, KM. Leave it to the biggest nelly that side of the Mississippi to tattle. Eh, I never really like Keith Michael anyway, as he reminds me of my former friend, CrazyGay, who threatened to sue me after Andy, Pip and I drunkenly TP’ed his truck in a rainstorm at a Christmas cocktail party. What kind of homo has a truck? Nuff said.
Most importantly, Tim Gunn gets gayer and gayer with each episode, bordering on the wonderfully cartoonish. This, needless to say, delights me to my core. I mean, we venture in a Saturn Sky to meditate with Tim at The Cloisters. Is this a joke? Are we being had? Can Tim Gunn really be this ridiculous?
If so, then God Bless America, God Bless homosexuality and God Bless the simultaneously psychotically judgmental and wildly tolerant world of fashion…

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

i can't look away...

Psychotic, yes. But oddly wonderful...

the devil wears...old navy?

Um, guess who just got a fashion internship ay Jane Magazine???? Just guess…

i'd have given in faster than you can say 'full cavity search...'

Ah, the plight of the blogger. Often branded an attention whore, forced to entertain people for free, always pissing someone off…it’s a thankless obsession. Especially when you end up in jail. I’d heard about the arrest of 24 year old blogger Josh Wolf from Jackson yesterday, and last night, read his article here.
Oh my god. Blogger arrested. Maybe I should take down that thing about Kimberly Golddigger drinking Bartles & James and screwing hobos on her tours of shelters.
This morning I awoke to The Chronicle’s version of events, reading about poor Josh and his faux-hawk getting carted off to jail for refusing to turn over unaired videotape of some anarchist protest. Apparently, Josh marched himself down to the Mission and put together some nicely edited footage of said protest on his blog. In Josh’s film, you can clearly see a bunch of suburban kids in knit caps stopping traffic on Mission Street, denouncing capitalism and eating vegan snacks from their JanSports. You can also see a bunch of cops taking it really seriously and apparently trying to wrestle with some hippy. What you can’t see, according to The Man, is the anarchists trying to light a cruiser on fire. The Man says Josh has footage of this. Josh says he doesn’t, but no one’s looking at his tapes, even if that means he’s getting locked up.
Cue prison.
First of all, are the hippies saying they didn’t try to light anything on fire? Because I’m sure they’d be delighted to own up to that, if only Trey had remembered the matches. Second of all, can The Man demand access to everyone’s private property? Any tourist with a camcorder is subject to the whims of the establishment?
Down with the Man! Free Josh!
Finally, and this has nothing to do with Josh or the point he’s trying to make, screw those anarchists blocking traffic in MY neighborhood while they protest the very democracy that provided them with what I’m pretty sure was a lifetime filled with cable television and skateboards. Um, can you get out of the street? I’m on my way to Starbucks.
As a testament to this fine country, I spent last night and this morning getting pissed off about poor Josh huddled in some jail cell, and pissed off about a bunch of assholes with blonde dreadlocks, who, as you can see in the video, when asked a question by another journalist covering their nonsense, couldn’t really think of an articulate answer. “Uh, yeah. Fuck your Zionist… uh, what?”
But it’s time to go on with my life. I scanned the rest of The Chronicle. Oh! Yogurt: Dish of Nations...

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

is mel behind the wheel again...

Driving home from work yesterday, I found myself stopped at a red light directly in front of Gavin’s office, minding my own business and gazing at his windows.
All of a sudden, SLAM!
The car behind me crashed into Rhonda the Honda, sending everything thing in my car, including me, slamming forward and then flying into the backseat. The force of impact was so strong, my flip flip got trapped under the brake pedal. I had to cut it out. Literally.
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
A low-riding 70’s Cadillac rolled by me as I sat, shaking and stunned at the now green light.
“Damn! I saw that shit! I fucking saw that shit! You need to sue her ass!”
Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
With my one bare foot, I emerged from my car and met the assailant at the site of impact. My car actually looked fine. That is to say, there was no damage that wasn’t there before. The driver, whose celebrity equivalent is best described as Bai Ling, was profusely apologetic. “Oh, I scared too! But my bumper rubber. Absorb impact. So everything okay!”
I was still shaking, slightly dazed and nervous stopping traffic directly in front of City Hall.
“Wait. What?”
“Rubber. See? Everything okay!” She slapped her bumper, which felt like a regular bumper to me. Still, there was nothing immediately wrong with me or my car. Why she has a rubber bumper is beyond me. I won’t state the obvious.
I returned to my car, composed myself and drove home, still unconvinced that no damage was done. This did not feel like a fender bender, folks. I’m amazed I didn’t lose any teeth.
An hour later, I’d forgotten all about it as I sat having a glass of wine and watching Golden Girls with Mikey. Letting out a chuckle, I threw my head back.
I am now sitting at my desk, my right ear stuck to my shoulder, my back crooked and my heart broken that Gavin didn’t witness the entire collision and come running down the front steps of City Hall to my rescue…